Chapter Text
The arena is still shaking when Mane Attraction steps into the tunnel.
The roar of the crowd hasn’t faded — it’s just muffled now, a distant ocean of sound behind concrete walls and championship banners. Sweat darkens his mane, shoulders aching from the collision that sent him crashing to the floor in the fourth quarter.
He can still feel it.
Not the hit.
The hand.
⸻
It had happened so fast.
Mane had gone up for the block — all power, all instinct — and Will had twisted midair, smaller frame slipping past like quicksilver. Their bodies collided. The ball dropped. The whistle shrieked.
And Mane hit the hardwood harder than he had all season.
For half a second, the arena gasped.
He remembers staring at the ceiling lights.
And then—
A shadow fell over him.
“Hey,” Will had said, breathless but grinning. “You good?”
There hadn’t been mockery in his voice. No victory dance. No taunting.
Just concern.
Will’s hand had been extended.
Small compared to his own. Calloused. Steady.
Mane had hesitated — pride flickering — before taking it.
The pull upward had been firm. Balanced. Equal.
“Nice block attempt,” Will had added quietly. “Almost had me.”
Almost.
Mane had huffed a laugh despite himself.
⸻
Now, in the tunnel, Mane stops walking.
Because it won’t leave his head.
Not the play.
Not the loss.
The look in Will’s eyes.
There had been fire there all game — competitive, fearless — but when he helped Mane up, it softened. Not pity. Not superiority.
Respect.
No one helps Mane Attraction up.
They either fear him… or resent him.
But Will?
Will treated him like—
Like a rival worth standing beside.
Mane exhales slowly, leaning back against the cool cement wall.
He’s faced thousands of opponents. Been knocked down before. Gotten up alone every time.
So why does the memory of that simple gesture feel heavier than the loss?
Why does he wish it had lasted longer than a second?
Footsteps echo down the tunnel.
Mane looks up.
It’s him.
Will Harris, towel slung over his shoulders, fur still damp, talking animatedly to a staff member before peeling off toward the locker rooms. He’s still buzzing from the win — but not arrogant. Just bright.
He catches sight of Mane.
There’s a flicker of surprise.
Then that same grin.
“Hey, Lion King,” Will calls lightly. “You walking okay? That fall looked rough.”
Mane should snap back.
Should fire off something sharp and competitive.
Instead, he hears himself say, “I’ve taken worse.”
Will nods once, satisfied. “Good. Wouldn’t want our rematch ruined.”
Our rematch.
Not my next win.
Our.
Like it’s something they’ll share.
There’s a pause — small but charged.
The hallway suddenly feels narrower.
“Good game,” Will says, softer now.
Two simple words.
But they land deeper than the crowd’s roar ever did.
Mane studies him. The determination still humming beneath his easy smile. The courage it must have taken to face him all night without backing down.
He realizes something unsettling.
He hadn’t been angry when Will scored the winning play.
He’d been… proud.
Of him.
The thought hits like a late whistle.
Oh.
Will shifts, about to step away.
Mane moves without thinking.
“Will.”
The goat pauses.
“Yeah?”
Mane swallows — something unfamiliar tightening in his chest. “You didn’t have to help me up.”
Will tilts his head slightly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
It’s said so simply.
Like the answer is obvious.
Like sportsmanship isn’t weakness.
Like rivals aren’t enemies.
Mane searches for something clever to say.
Finds nothing.
Will just shrugs, smile turning softer. “See you next game, Mane.”
And then he’s gone.
Leaving Mane standing in the tunnel with a pounding heart that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
For the first time in his career, Mane Attraction doesn’t feel like the untouchable star of the league.
He feels like someone who just got seen.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
He wants to be seen like that again.
By him.
Mane Attraction’s penthouse overlooks the glittering skyline of Vineland.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Championship trophies catching city light. Signed jerseys framed like museum pieces.
It’s quiet here.
Too quiet.
The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of leather against leather fills the room as Mane drives his fists into the suspended heavy bag. Each strike is clean. Controlled. Precise.
He trains the way he plays — dominant, relentless.
But tonight, his focus keeps slipping.
Thud.
Will twisting midair.
Thud.
That grin.
Thud.
“You good?”
Mane exhales sharply and resets his stance.
This is ridiculous.
He’s replayed games before. Losses, especially. Breaking down tape in his mind until he finds the flaw, the hesitation, the miscalculation.
But this isn’t strategy looping in his head.
It’s warmth.
Another punch lands off-center.
He growls under his breath.
Focus.
He pivots, drives a knee into the bag — imagines the collision from the fourth quarter. The moment he hit the floor. The lights above him.
And then—
Will’s hand reaching down.
Not triumphant.
Not smug.
Just steady.
Mane steps back from the bag, chest rising and falling.
He drags a towel across his face and glances at his reflection in the darkened window.
Strong. Composed. The face of the league.
He’s always known who he was.
Confident. Driven.
Bisexual, sure — though if he’s honest, he’s leaned toward women most of his life. High-profile girlfriends. A few quiet flings. Nothing dramatic. Nothing lasting.
Nothing that ever lingered after the spotlight dimmed.
He’d always told himself he just hadn’t met the right person.
He thinks back.
Vineland.
The first time he saw Will Harris in person wasn’t tonight.
It was months ago — preseason exhibition game in Vineland’s smaller arena. Will wasn’t famous yet. Just some quick-footed rookie scrapping for minutes.
Mane remembers watching him from across the court during warmups.
Small frame.
Bright eyes.
Laughing at something a teammate said.
He’d felt something then — curiosity, maybe. Interest. He’d brushed it off as competitive intrigue.
Now he’s not so sure.
Because that same spark is buzzing under his skin tonight — only louder.
He moves to the weight bench, grips the bar, presses upward.
One.
Will diving for the loose ball without hesitation.
Two.
Will steadying him after the fall.
Three.
“Wouldn’t want our rematch ruined.”
Mane lowers the bar carefully.
This isn’t just admiration.
It isn’t just respect.
It’s the way his chest tightens when he thinks about Will smiling at him.
The way his pulse shifts remembering how close they stood in that hallway.
The way he didn’t feel threatened.
He felt… drawn.
Mane sits up slowly.
He’s had flings before — quick sparks that fizzled the moment things required vulnerability. He’s never chased anyone. Never needed to.
But this?
This feels different.
It isn’t about thrill.
It’s about presence.
Will doesn’t orbit him like others do. Doesn’t treat him like a trophy or a headline.
Will stands on his own.
Challenges him.
And still offered him a hand.
Mane exhales, leaning his forearms on his knees.
He’s not confused about who he is.
He knows he’s bi. Knows attraction when it hits.
But this—
This isn’t just physical.
This is his mind replaying conversations.
His body reacting to the sound of Will’s voice.
His thoughts drifting back to Vineland like it meant something more than a preseason game.
He laughs quietly at himself.
“You’re in trouble,” he mutters.
Because for the first time, it isn’t about chemistry.
It’s about connection.
And Mane Attraction — the league’s untouchable lion — is realizing he doesn’t want to just face Will Harris across the court.
He wants to stand beside him.
Maybe even closer than that.
The thought should scare him.
Instead—
It feels right.
Outside, the city hums.
Inside, Mane’s heart is beating for reasons that have nothing to do with roarball.
And everything to do with a goat who helped him up off the floor.