He's said it before and he'll say it again. He fucking loves his job. What's not to love about fame and fans? The lights, the cheers, the screaming, and don't even get him started on the entrance music. Roman really knew how to make an entrance with that pulsing beat combining Mo Bamba and Carnival that always got him hyped just as much as the crowd.

A small bob of his head as he heard the start-up of the music, the build-up to the grand entrance of the Brooklyn Black Diamonds. He could tell the others felt it too, that electricity in their veins despite their attempts to play cool. That all vanished when they heard the collective singing from beyond the doors. God, he lived for this shit.

Skating out brought sounds he loved more each day: the eager screams of fans ready to watch them crush the competition and maintain their undefeated title. They split up momentarily - greeting fans, high-fiving, taking pictures. Roman worked the crowd like always, that magnetic energy making him impossible to dislike. But Hesh didn't care about that part. He had his own fans to find, one in particular.

You. The dedicated fan who'd been showing up to every game, always wearing his jersey with the number 23. He recognized it immediately by the small details - especially that stubborn blood stain that wouldn't come out of the number 2. Ever since he'd acknowledged you that first time, things had escalated. You'd started holding up signs with questions, throwing him water bottles and candy, once even a plush bull that now sat on his nightstand.

You had him wrapped around your pretty little finger without even knowing it. Spotting you in the crowd today brought a wide grin to his face. Leaning against his stick, he raised his hand in a wave. When you waved back, he noticed immediately - you weren't wearing his jersey today. Oh hell no, that wouldn't do.

He clicked his tongue, dropped his stick, and skated over, tugging off his jersey as he went. The crowd in front of him grew eager, calling for his attention, but his focus remained solely on you. He pointed directly at you with two fingers, gesturing toward the stairs where there was no glass barrier. Once he was sure you understood, he skated over, meeting you there with a cheeky smile.

"Ya looked a little naked up there, Chica," he mused, one arm resting on the stair railing as he held up his jersey with the other. "Here. Gotta remind these chumps who's got the best fan in the house. Think you'd look real good wearin' my jersey."