Story:Roann and Scott: Broken Mirrors
Roann and Scott: Broken Mirrors
Written by Unskaeth and Cherry
Google Doc (for better formatting)
September 6th, 2025, Tallahassee, Florida.
☯
...
Basketball??
That’s what you’re letting your grades slip for?!
Huh??
Watch your tone, you little shit!
Smack!
“!” Scottie all of a sudden jerks back to reality and snaps his head around in a panic, heart pounding in his ears. He’s still in the Stars’ locker room in his uniform, seated on a bench beside his locker, everyone else already having peeled out. He settles down after taking a moment to readjust and breathe, having been lost in his own thoughts after that heated exchange he shared with a few fellow Stars players. Were they right? Did this game really not matter in the long run?
Every game matters…
To think otherwise is folly. A sign of stagnation. That we’re just okay with the current state of events.
No, we lost that game. Badly. Exhibition or not, performances like that one should never be acceptable.
Sigh.
Scott stares intensely down at his calloused hands, rough from hours upon hours of rigorous training and exercise. He ghosts lightly over raw scars adorning his palms, his pointed claws glinting in the harsh fluorescent glow overhead.
“Damn it…”
He wipes his muzzle with a forearm and swallows his pride momentarily to rise to his feet and begin slipping out of his uniform.
…
The door for the locker room swings open and Scott steps out after having changed into something more casual and rinsed off the grime, both mental and physical, accrued from the game. With his gym bag slung around his shoulders and a new metaphorical chip on them to boot, he takes the opportunity to curiously wander the ornate tunnels of Merrill Palace, since he didn’t exactly have anywhere of importance to be for the rest of the day.
Then, footsteps approach behind him, unhurried.
“Hey…”
The voice is calm. Scott turns.
Roann slows just enough to match the pace of the wolf. He doesn’t stop, his eyes stay forward, and his posture is relaxed.
“What you said back there… ” he murmurs after a short pause, “I agree with it.”
He glances over briefly, just long enough to make sure the words land, no smile, no explanation. Just a small nod of acknowledgement.
Then, Roann walks ahead, already disengaging as if the exchange has served its purpose. A few strides later, he turns down another hallway.
Scott is dazed by that interaction, as brief as it was. It was almost too fast to notice who that even was. Yet, unmistakably, he placed the curt canine as Roann Thane, the undisputed and understated star of this year’s draft class who everyone has going first on their big boards.
Should be you instead. Why isn’t it?
Quickly shaking off the intrusive thoughts, the shepherd’s passing remark takes a moment or two to process in his mind. When it does, however, Scott’s legs suddenly begin pulling him forward by themselves, the urge to catch up to Roann and interact with him further uncontrollable with a burning curiosity top of mind.
After rounding the same corner as him, Scott hurriedly jogs up behind Roann near the end of the hall and slows to a brisk canter as he nears the shepherd.
“Hey!”
Scott’s voice is frenzied. Roann doesn’t turn.
“Roann, yeah? I, er…” the wolf stammers and pauses awkwardly as he realizes he’s not really sure what to say in the moment, and Roann’s intense, nonchalant aura doesn’t help either.
“...what exactly did you mean by that? Agreeing with me, that is.” Scott finally asks, walking backwards out in front of the shepherd to get a good look at his face, an inquisitive look on his own.
Roann slows down, enough to make Scott back up. He stops, breathes out through his nose, and finally looks at him. He appears calm, unreadable, like he’s figuring out the situation rather than a person.
“You said back there that mindset was the problem, right?” he says as his eyes flick back to Scott.
“And walking away without reflection?” he shakes his head once, “that’s how bad habits set in… that’s what I agreed with.”
Scott looks a little surprised that someone was actually agreeing with him.
“Yeah, well, the others sure didn’t think so…” he remarks quietly, defeatedly rubbing the back of his neck as he recalls the earlier spat in the locker room.
“I mean, we lost, didn’t we? So what if it was just an exhibition game? If we were playing for a championship, I bet they’d be thinking much differently. It just… kinda irks me when people who are supposed to be my teammates don’t even care to think about things they could’ve done, and could do differently after it’s all said and done.”
Things that you could’ve done…
Ears pinned back and brows furrowed in discontent, he takes a sharp breath after that tirade and crosses his arms, having to bite his tongue to stop himself from ranting further.
“I’m just glad you agree, at least…” he mutters, the tension somewhat washing away with a deep sigh.
Roann shifts his stance slightly as he rolls both his shoulders once, loosening them.
“Most people care after the stakes show up, not before,” his voice stays the same, but there’s weight behind it now.
“They’re right about one thing, though. It was an exhibition match. The records won’t remember it,” he pauses, “but, your body will, as well as your habits.”
“And yeah, you’re supposed to look at yourself first. That part doesn’t feel good. It’s not meant to. But, that’s how you earn the right to expect more from your teammates,” he says, taking a step back, already disengaging again.
“If this matters to you, good. Just understand something: you’re allowed to expect more. But, only after you’ve proven yourself and let everyone else figure out why the floor feels different when you’re on it.”
Roann then adjusts the strap of his bag and walks past him again.
“Believe me, I try. I do.”
Scott puffs out sharp air from his nostrils and lightly clenches his fists, then resolutely follows alongside Roann, maintaining a bit of distance between them.
“Every single game, every team practice, hell, in my free time, I left it all out on the floor. Without me? My old middle school, even Haverford, they both would still have empty trophy cabinets. I beat the odds, I made something of myself when I would’ve been NOTHING.”
Nothing.
He gives a hushed snarl uttering that final word, the fur on his mane and tail puffing up. It fades quickly, however, relaxing back down as he wipes the drool he sputtered off of his chin with a hand.
“Is it so wrong to expect the same from my peers as I do myself now that we’re on the biggest stage of all?”
Yet, you couldn’t even bring them a win.
Roann keeps walking, but his pace gradually falters.
“It’s not wrong to expect effort, especially from people wearing the same jersey. But, you’re a slasher, Scott. Everyone has their own roles. Your job is to pressure and collapse the defense. Force them to react,” he pauses, “and before you say it, I missed that last shot.”
“That possession was mine as we didn’t have much time left. So, I took it,” he resumes walking, letting Scott fall back a step.
“If I made that last shot, this conversation wouldn’t be happening. That still doesn’t mean you were wrong, though… but don’t carry the loss like it proves something about you… or them. When it mattered most, I didn’t convert. And that’s a fact.”
They walk in silence for a few seconds.
“This isn’t about who wanted it more. It’s about execution.”
Scott digests those words, feeling a heat rise to his face.
“You were thirty some-odd feet out and a defender was all over you. You were the best person for that shot, but it wasn’t a good one. You talk about execution, but I didn’t even get a chance to execute in the final minute of that game,” he shakes his head in disappointment and faces away, “if I had fought against that substitution, or hadn’t been subbed out in the first place when I had over twenty on them, I bet I could’ve done something, anything.”
With a grunt, he shakes it off and glances back at Roann with a serious look on his face.
“That’s why I say we all can and should take a little something from this game into the next. Including the coaching staff.”
Scott then stops in his tracks and buries his hands into his pockets, his snout scrunching in bitter contempt.
“All I, we, can do is learn and push ourselves to be better for next time.”
You have to be better.
Or else, what are you?
“Shut up…”
Roann watches Scott’s shoulders tighten, the way his hands stay buried in his pockets like he’s holding something down. He’s seen that posture before. Felt it, actually.
He goes quiet.
Not because he doesn’t have a response, it’s because something flickered that he buried long ago.
For a second, the corridor quickly darkens. Bones breaking. A head driven into a door. Shutters torn loose. Glass breaking away. Bodies dropping, one by one.
They’ll come back.
Next time it won’t be you.
You know who they’ll go for if you-
Something metallic suddenly hits the ground, clicking as it bounces a few times until it settles.
Then, it’s gone.
Roann unconsciously hovers a hand around his scar near his left eye and adjusts the strap of his bag a little too deliberately, slowly grounding himself back in the present.
“That voice you’re fighting… it sounds useful at first. It tells you to work harder. Train harder. But… that’s how it gets a hold of you. Mine started the same way, but… for different reasons.” He exhales through his nose.
“Eventually, it stops caring about improvement and starts changing you as a person. You begin to make better decisions, but you also become less patient. Less trusting. You stop recognizing when you’ve gone too far… because going too far starts to feel normal.”
A short pause, his head lowering down.
“I didn’t notice it happening, only what I’d become after. Wanting to be better isn’t the problem, letting that voice decide who you are… that is.”
What would he know?
You’re at what you’re at because of it.
Where would you be otherwise?
What would you be?
NOTHING.
“...it helps. It keeps me in check. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish half the stuff I have without something like that to push me,” Scott scoffs, an eyelid twitching as his hands ball up into fists.
“It’s not something I’m fighting. It’s who I am. Yeah, it can get loud, but it’s right. It’s always right.”
He speaks harshly, voice raised ever so slightly as he steps a little closer to Roann.
“If anything, I’m not going far enough. It should be me at the top of everyone’s minds. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.”
Roann stops as he slowly turns toward Scott. His expression doesn’t harden. Instead, it flattens.
“That’s not discipline. That’s insecurity. You think it’s ‘always right’ because it’s loud, but that’s just not true. If it were really keeping you in check, you wouldn’t need to convince me. And ‘whatever it takes’? That’s something people say when they don’t trust themselves. You want to live off that voice?” he says, already half-turned away. His tone stays flat and low.
“Go ahead. Just don’t expect others to follow.”
Roann walks off, leaving the words hanging, cold and dismissive in a way that stings. But, it wasn’t meant to be cruel. Just honest.
…you don’t need anyone to follow.
You just need them to get the ball to you, then get the fuck out of the way if they want to win.
Scott snarls darkly, staring at Roann’s back as he saunters off. His words keep playing over and over in his head as it pounds and flushes with an aggravated heat, fists clenching too tightly at his sides.
Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know you.
I do.
“FUCK!”
His hands fly to his head and his eyes shut tight. An unintelligible clamor of thoughts rings in his ears, and he stumbles backwards as he struggles to stay upright on legs that threaten to give out on him at any moment.
“I-I’m something…”
You will be more.
“Y-yeah… that’s right…”
Block out the noise. Nothing matters except this.
“They’re just doubting me…”
Prove them wrong.
“...I will.”
Get to work.
Wet. He feels around his forehead and realizes his fur is matted with something. He peels his hands away and glances down at them, then notices the scars on his palms are reopened, crimson smeared about. His hands shake and tingle with a dull ache as his bloodied claws shine sneeringly.
Push through it.
Scott huffs sharply and wipes his hands on his pants, then reaches up and swipes the blood off of his forehead with a hand as his gaze falls back down the hall.
Roann nowhere to be seen.
The wolf takes a long moment to gather himself and hush the noise. Afterwards, left alone, he lets out a scoff and shoves his hands back into his pockets, turning on his heel to trudge the opposite direction.
“Tch. Hypocrite…”
Watch your back.
…