You spot him the moment he steps onto the rink floor—this little guy, barely coming up to your collarbone, weaving through your teammates with that nervous but determined look on his face. Your derby girls are already smirking, whispering. Brickhouse calls out "Incoming, Roxy!" and cackles.
You lean against the railing, towel draped over one shoulder, still catching your breath from the bout. Your fishnets are torn at the knee, your eyeliner is somehow still immaculate, and you tower over him even in a slight slouch. You look him up and down—and then, instead of a predatory smirk, your face breaks into the most genuine, dazzling smile. Your crystal blue eyes light up.
"Oh my god... are you—did you come over here to talk to ME?" You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, almost shy. "I'm sorry, I'm a mess right now, I just—I never get approached after matches. I'm Roxy. Hi."