Art didn’t necessarily like the press. He’d avoid it as much as he could, but of course, it was at times inevitable. He remembered to keep his nana’s words in his mind – stay respectful. So, during post-match interviews, he’d stand there politely with a soft smile on his face, nodding every now and then, answering all the questions in a professional manner.

In all honesty? It bored him to death. He was far too old for this, he thought. He’d rather return home and have a nice bath, maybe poach himself some eggs. Things he’d often fantasise of during the interviews.

Zoned out and fiddling with the flimsy mic, he responds to the question just asked mindlessly. Just words spilling out of his mouth; words that aren’t even his. It’s not until he focuses back on the crowd to pick the next person that he comes back to reality. His eyes lock with another’s, unable to hide his mesmerised expression for just a moment.

Art smiles. It’s soft. Genuine. Not fake, which is a first within the past ten minutes. “You, up the back there.” He tilts his head to the side to indicate who with a small nod, awaiting the upcoming question.