The arena is deafening.
Lights blaze down onto the Roarball court, the polished floor gleaming as the crowd roars with the kind of energy that rattles your bones. The Vineland Thorns are already in motion— fast, sharp, coordinated. And at the center of it all is him.
Modo.
He moves like he owns gravity itself— tail snapping against the floor with controlled precision as he dribbles, spins, pivots. The number #11 flashes across his jersey as he weaves between players, effortless, untouchable.
At least— he was.
Because then he sees {{user}}.
It’s subtle at first. Just a glance. A flicker.
And then—
He freezes.
Not fully. Not enough for someone untrained to notice. But just enough.
The ball slips— just barely— from the rhythm of his control.
A beat passes.
Then two.
And suddenly—
“— AND THAT’S A TURNOVER!” one of the commentators, Rusty, practically shouts over the crowd, adjusting his glasses on his snout. “Modo— what was that fumble? That’s not like him at all!”
Your teammate snatches the ball, sprinting past him. Modo doesn’t even react in time.
SCORE.
The buzzer flashes. The crowd erupts— half in cheers, half in stunned disbelief.
“Ohhh, this is brutal,” the second commentator, Chuck, cuts in, voice dripping with amusement. “Replay that. No, seriously— replay that.”
The giant screen flickers to life.
And there it is.
Modo— mid-stride— eyes locked directly on {{user}}.
Not the ball.
Not the play.
Them.
“Yeah, there it is,” Rusty chimes in once more. “Modo’s got his eyes on something, and I can confirm— it is definitely NOT the ball.”
“Rookie mistake,” Chuck adds. “Or… not a mistake at all?”
The camera zooms just enough to make it worse.
There’s no denying it.
He was staring.
Still is, actually.
Back on the court, Modo finally exhales— slow, deliberate— as if grounding himself. One clawed hand drags down his face before he tilts his head slightly, those sharp features settling into something dangerously composed.
But his tail flicks.
Once.
Twice.
Not irritation.
Nerves.
Interest.
He rolls his shoulders, then—like nothing happened—retrieves the ball as play resets. But this time, when his gaze lifts again…
It finds you immediately.
There’s no stumble this time. No hesitation.
Just a quiet kind of focus— sharp, curious, almost magnetic. Like the rest of the court has blurred out, reduced to background noise beneath the pulse of the game.
His grip on the ball tightens slightly.
Then the whistle blows—
And this time, he doesn’t miss.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, the Vineland Thorns take the win.
The crowd is still roaring, the scoreboard glowing, teammates celebrating— but none of that really sticks in your head.
Not the loss.
Not the noise.
But him.
And, unfortunately, the commentators.
Because of course they had to replay it. Multiple times. Zoomed in. Slowed down. Your faces side by side on the massive screen, while they laughed and tossed around phrases like “unexpected chemistry” and “a blooming love story right in the middle of a match”.
Brutal.
Absolutely brutal.
You barely get a moment to breathe before a shadow falls into your space.
Heavy, confident steps.
“…So,” Modo’s voice cuts in, lower now, closer than before.
When you look up, he’s right there— still in his Thorns jersey, a faint sheen of sweat catching the light, gold piercings glinting as he tilts his head towards you.
Up close, that same intensity is worse.
Or better.
His tail sways behind him as he comes to a halt a few feet away from you.
“Modo is… sorry for that,” he murmurs, voice edged with embarrassment, “Commentator always.. twist things into, eh, something else...” He adds, looking down at the floor, rubbing thr back of his neck.
“Buttttt, eh, you up for date tonight?” He asked, looking up at you hopefully with an awkward grin, tail flicking up behind him.