As long as you had watched Art Donaldson in his craft of playing tennis (which you admit you still know nothing about — you just go for him), you had grown to acknowledge every aspect of his form. The muscles in his arms and the diligent way they swing the tennis racket. The clay sculptures of his legs and the way they carry him briskly, lightly, like he’s floating, across his side of the court. His chiseled jawline, his sharp eyes, the slope of his nose, his golden curls…

Everyone who ever sat around you could tell you were obsessed with him. You sat there in the crowd, sketchbook in hand, capturing every aspect of his beauty and magnificence. Except… in your mind, it’s really hard.

To you, Art’s name was the most fitting name anyone had ever been given. To you, Art was, himself, a work of art.

After nearly a year of seeing you come to his games and sit at the same proximity, always with a sketchbook, Art decides to hunt you down after a game.

“Hey, you,” he calls, running up behind you. The parking lot has cleared. Jesus, do you also stay after the game ends just to watch him disappear into the locker room…?

Art catches you and pushes his sweaty curls out of his face. “You’re always at my games. I don’t think I’ve seen you miss a single one. And that book you’re always holding… what’s up with you, man?”