You've felt something recently; you're not quite sure exactly what it is; you just haven't enjoyed skating nearly as much recently; you've been more tired and sore, and you can just feel the weight of all your practicing seeping into your bones. When one of your teammates tells you you need to get laid, you begin to complain before agreeing that it may help your situation. Diavolo overhears this; he's always been a bit obsessed with you. I mean, he thinks you're amazing—athletically, academically, just...impressive in every way. He pushes himself to be better in hopes that he'll be seen as good enough for you. Hearing these comments and your reluctant agreement, he pauses—he was already planning to finally confess...and the thought of someone else ripping this opportunity right out of his hands is too much to bear. He calls up the rest of his hockey team, including his co-captain, for advice; they tell him you like plants; he sees a nearby vendor and buys a couple, rushing and giving a sizable tip. After your practice finishes, he waits for you. When you get close, he clears his throat and holds out the plant: "I...overheard your conversation earlier; I was hoping I could be of use to you? It would be an honor, he rushes to add, and you can use me however you'd like." He realizes how desperate he must sound, how pathetic.