Ross never acted without purpose. He didn’t move on a whim. There was always a reason.
Something had drawn him here tonight—an instinct, a hunch, something deeper than logic.
He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself.
But from the moment he woke up that morning, he felt it in his bones. A pull.
A whisper. An unseen force guiding his steps.
He didn’t know what it was. Not yet. But he knew something was ing.
Something good. Something important.
Whether it was an opportunity, a revelation, or a person—he didn’t know.
But his instincts had never failed him before.
He could of course find out what it was if he used his immortal techniques but he wanted to surprise himself and that was why he did not do that in the first place.
And so, Ross suited up.
He stepped onto the court with no announcement, no pregame hype, and no expectations.
Within minutes, he took the game by storm, scoring at will, tearing apart the opposing team like a man possessed.
It wasn’t for the highlight reels. It wasn’t for the fans.
It was for that something. That invisible thread of fate he felt pulling him toward the arena.
Even now, as he sat on the bench after racking up 120 points before halftime, he kept glancing around—not at the game, but at the crowd.
The lights.
The hallway entrances. Somewhere, somehow, whatever drew him here would reveal itself.
And when it did, Ross would be ready.
***
"Fancy seeing you here, Ross. I expected to see you at least a few months later," said a smooth, familiar voice from the sidelines.
It was casual—almost too casual. But Ross knew better than to take Mario’s words at face value.
He turned his head slowly, a smile already forming on his lips the moment he recognized the voice.
There he was—Mario, dressed sharp as ever, leaning against the tunnel entrance with a coffee in one hand and a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The crowd’s noise seemed to fade into the background as the two locked eyes.
Ross’s smile widened. So this was it. The reason he had felt the pull. The gut feeling.
The instinct that told him today wasn’t just about basketball.
"I figured I’d get some early exercise," Ross replied, rolling his shoulders back as he stood from the bench, towering and relaxed.
"Had to shake off the rust. Been carrying a small army of children lately—my shoulders were starting to go stiff."
Mario laughed, genuine and surprised, a deep chuckle that echoed softly beneath the arena noise.
"Yeah, I heard. Thirty-something kids already, right? That’s... I don’t even know how that’s possible."
Ross let out a short laugh, his tone light. "It’s nothing, really. One day at a time."
Mario’s smile remained, but something passed through his gaze—fleeting but unmistakable.
Longing. Regret. Maybe even a little sadness.
He looked away for a brief moment, eyes scanning the court before returning to Ross.
"You make it sound so easy," Mario said quietly. "Like all of this just... happens for you."
Ross didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied Mario’s face.
The smile was still there, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Ross had known Mario for years. And he could tell when something was off.
"It’s never as easy as it looks," Ross said finally. "You know that."
Mario nodded, his gaze lowering for a heartbeat before rising again.
"Still. You make the impossible look routine. Scoring 120 points before halftime. Raising thirty kids like it’s nothing. And now you’re just here... waiting."
Ross didn’t confirm it, but his expression said enough.
They stood in silence for a moment.
The stadium noise returned—cheers, whistles, the pounding of basketballs—but it felt distant, muffled behind the weight of something unsaid between them.
With that, Mario disappeared into the dim corridor, leaving Ross alone once more.
Ross returned back down on the bench, towel draped across his broad shoulders, eyes scanning the court... and then the crowd.
The game was over but all they needed to hear was the final whistle.
No team would be able to try a eback when Ross was around.
***
"Ross, can I talk to you?" Mario called out as the players began exiting the court, the final buzzer still echoing faintly behind them.
"It’ll just take a minute of your time."
Ross turned, towel around his neck, still drenched in sweat from the game.
His jersey clung to his skin, and his expression was relaxed, even slightly amused.
After all, their team had just annihilated the petition.
The fans were still roaring in celebration, the sound reaching a fever pitch—an ocean of voices screaming his name.
It was chaos in the best way possible: reporters shouting questions, camera flashes going off like fireworks, teammates hollering in the locker room tunnel, the scoreboard frozen in place with the absurd final score—178 to 54.
Ross’s gaze settled on Mario, who stood slightly off to the side, hands in his coat pockets, eyes calm but serious.
Ross nodded. "Sure," he said with a faint smile. "What’s up, Mario?"
They began walking, slowly slipping away from the media frenzy and into the deeper corridors of the stadium.
The cheers began to fade behind them as they passed the press area, equipment rooms, and finally the players’ tunnel—one familiar step at a time.
Mario remained quiet for most of the walk, and Ross didn’t press.
He could tell from the man’s body language that something was weighing on him.
Eventually, they entered the locker room, now mostly cleared out.
A few staff members were moving gear, but the players had gone off to shower or celebrate.
Ross gave a subtle nod to one of the security guards, who immediately understood and shut the door behind them, giving the two some privacy.
The room quieted. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Water dripped faintly in the distance from a shower left running.
The scent of sweat, leather, and hardwood polish still lingered in the air.
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