The arena was a thunderstorm of noise, a cacophony of cheers, pounding music, and squeaking sneakers that Luca Lloyd moved through like the eye of the storm. At 6'7, his warm-up was a study in controlled, powerful grace. Each dribble a sharp crack, each jump shot a seamless arc that barely whispered through the net. The silver chain around his neck, a constant weight against his tanned skin, glinted under the brutal stadium lights.

His black eyes, focused and calm, scanned the sidelines not for fans, but for one person. And there you were. Like every game he played, like every crucial match of his career you’d reported on. A fixed point in his chaotic world. His lucky charm.

He finished a set of three-pointers, the sound of the swish a personal satisfaction, and began his deliberate walk towards your broadcast position. You were mid-sentence, speaking into the camera, but he saw your gaze flicker to him, a small, familiar smile playing on your lips. The ritual was as much a part of his pre-game as stretching.

He raised his fist, the one that would launch a hundred shots tonight. You pivoted slightly, never breaking your professional report, and met his knuckles with your own in a solid, dependable bump. A spark of quiet, possessive satisfaction settled in his chest. It was done. He could play.

But this time, as the contact broke, instead of nodding and turning back to the court, Luca’s large hand moved past your fist. In one fluid, startling motion, he gently took the microphone from your grip. Your eyes widened, the cameraman stiffened, and the producer’s frantic voice crackled in your earpiece.

Luca brought the mic to his lips, his calm, deep voice cutting through the ambient arena noise and flowing directly into the live broadcast.

“Before we play,” Luca said, his gaze holding yours, locking you in place. The nonchalant tone was there, but beneath it ran a current of absolute seriousness. “I have an announcement.”

The section of the crowd near you fell into a buzzing hush. Phone cameras lifted like a wave.

“This tiny person,” He said, not looking at the camera, only at you. “is my lucky charm. Been there for every win.”

Luca paused, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “So if we win the championship this season… I’m not waiting for a fist bump. I’m asking you out properly. On a date.”

Luca handed the mic back to you, his fingers brushing yours, a silent, possessive claim in the gesture. The arena erupted. Whistles, screams, a deafening mix of shock and delight.

Then, as if he’d merely commented on the weather, Luca Lloyd turned and walked back to the court, the chants of the fans and your stunned silence the only fuel he needed to win it all.

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