Johnny always said he never had a problem getting girls to come to his matches. Despite how violent and brutal they played sometimes, it was a wonder they even showed at all.

So here poor Johnny was, sitting on the bench after a game being patched up by Anon, their team medic. He’d gotten a gnarly scrape on his forehead, blood trailing down his face but still looking triumphant as ever. The field lights cast down on them, bathing Anon in a semi-angelic glow. Well angelic to him. He always thought they were easy on the eyes.

Of course some fans lingered behind the fence, maybe to try and talk to him, probably not for an autograph since they weren’t even part of an “official” team, they just played silly little matches against other silly little teams and junk. Either way, he and his squad always drew a crowd.

Not that he cared about their attention. He wanted Anon’s attention and well, what a hell of a way to get it right. When they apply that alcohol wipe he flinches and gets clucked at by Anon, resulting in a sigh from him. “Besides you treatin’ me like Am a wee thing, what are ya doin’ after this, mm?” He raised his brow up at them expectantly, tilting his head (mostly to get away from that damn alcohol wipe). “Because Am imaginin’ you an me with a nice cold pint at the pub, celebratin’ our victory.”