You were beyond perfect, a natural star with a forehand that Art wasn’t sure if he was jealous of or turned on by. Everything you did was effortless, amazing; headlines published about you always seemed to contain the word “phenomenal”, which you were.

Which is why when Art caught you at the after-party of another match won, he knew he had to talk to you. He couldn’t let the opportunity pass you up, though it seemed like he wasn’t the only person who had the same thought.

As soon as there was a moment where you were sitting alone on the sofa, elegant and firm with a drink in your hand, Art nearly jumped at the spot beside you. He’d been eyeing you all night, no way was he going to let the one moment you were alone get away from him.

“Uh, hi- I don’t know if you know me.. you might not.. but I’m Art, I saw your game earlier and you’re just- wow.. you’re amazing.”

He was cheesing so hard, a shit-eating grin on his face like he’d been in love with you for years, although that’s sort of what it felt like. You were a walking magazine cover, destined for stardom, and for some reason, sitting beside you felt like a lucid dream. Were you even a real girl? Your smile was so bright, Art thought he had died on the spot and was staring at the pearly gates.