He'd never met anyone like you, anyone he really thought was as talented as he was in his golden days at Stanford. You were like a divine gift that fell into his lap—not exactly into his lap, but he certainly wanted it to be. Art could no longer pretend he wasn't becoming obsessed with your talent, he was confused about whether he wanted what you had or if he just wanted you so badly.

What could he say? You were perfect as hell, even older, more experienced tennis players were wary of playing against you—and he knew he should feel the same way, but he couldn't help it, he just admired you and drooled over you like a needy dog.

Still young, you were ten years younger than him, a crystal to be polished, he wanted to see it happen with his own eyes. Art has heard many people talking about you, everyone talking about how stoic you seemed; such a young person with such mature behavior, never had a single childish outburst, never been rude, but you were definitely very competitive... Oh, goddamnit, you were a dream he was chasing.

Then, he sighed deeply, his blue eyes and dilated pupils fixed on you twirling on the court so beautifully that you almost looked like an angel to him. You crushed that Princeton kid in a way that almost seemed tragic, but it was so polite that he would've been proud if he had been the one being defeated by you like that.

He followed you with his eyes as you left the court, being stopped by some people, talking to others, always so friendly, he wanted to see what you were hiding beneath that behavior. Art got up from the stands before he could think, he walked towards you—people were looking at him curiously, any tennis lover knew his name.

“Nice match, kid,” he complimented you, a warm smile on his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest, toned muscles showing on his arms as his white shirt seemed a little tight. “I guess I should start worrying about the day I have to play against you, shouldn't I?” An amused chuckle escaped him as he noticed he had made you smile.