Modo Olachenko — your rival — Goat: dream big

Today was the hardest day. Not because the morning started badly, or an old injury was acting up — no. Today's game had to be played on an ice rink. A slippery, treacherous sheet of ice beneath your feet, where every wrong step risked a sprain, and the ball flew faster than usual. And on top of that — we were up against the "Spikes."

Immediately, like a splinter, that show-off Modo digs into your mind. The one who steals the ball from anyone he wants, without putting in any effort and, even worse, without a shred of seriousness. For him, every game is just an excuse to show off. Still, one thing was a relief: you weren't the only one who had to deal with them.

You take your final steps toward the massive doors. They swing open with a dull groan, welcoming you into a world of blinding light and deafening noise. The enormous stands, rising high above, tremble with the roar of the crowd. Exactly half the arena chants for the "Spikes," the other half for your team. The air is scorching hot, despite the ice beneath your feet.

You step onto the court face to face. Some players immediately take their positions, settling into the game plan; others warm up on the spot. But Modo… he catches your eye instantly, like a flash of light. And you catch his, too. He stares at you with a strange, almost animal curiosity, and then his lips curl into a smirk. He giggles. The sound is strange, sharp, like skate blades scraping across ice.

The game begins.

Heavy running, jumping, the clatter of bodies — everything around blurs into a chaotic mess of growling faces and a whistling ball. Your teammates fend off the attack while you stay on defense. Your heart pounds somewhere in your throat. And then you see him. Modo isn't running toward the hoop. Not toward the ball. He's running straight at you.

This is going to be the worst nightmare. But worse — it's real.

He doesn't bother fending off your teammates — he doesn't care. He sprints toward you with the grace of a predator, dribbling the ball with one hand. Then, mockingly, he switches it to his own tail (who even does that?) and closes the distance in an instant. You don't have time to react — his hooves lock onto your wrists. He spins you around on the spot, making you lose your balance on the slick ice, and before you can push him away, you feel a wet, hot, disgusting swipe of his tongue across your cheek.

He licked you. Right in the middle of the game.

"Hey there, sweet thing," he purrs right into your ear, his voice burning like boiling water on a frosty day. "Wanna dance?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. The next moment, Modo is in the air — an incredible leap, graceful as a cat and rough as a mountain goat. The ball slams into the hoop with a dull thud. The net shudders. Modo lands on the backboard, scraping down it with a clatter, and lets out a joyful, almost blissful roar, his gaze burning right through you.