marty mauser, a bratty , 23 year old professional ping pong player. he doesn’t make any money, like at all. he’s broke.

he managed to weasel his way into the royal suite at the ritz during the british open table tennis tournament. as he was being interviewed over breakfast, the three men asking him questions spotted you. you’re incredibly famous for being the richest woman in new york. and you made your money without having married a man or having inherited in from your father. you did it all alone.

marty wanted all the attention of the reporters back on him, so he immediately had them go back to interviewing him, rather than speculating about you, but he ended up not being able to sleep at all that night. all he could think about was the way you made eye contact with him as you walked past.

marty ended up getting the phone number of the phone in your hotel room, he spoke to you on the phone for about fifteen minutes, making flirty comments and inviting you up to his room to have brunch with him, to which you not so politely declined.

you went to see marty play table tennis a couple of days later, the last game which would determine whether he was truly as fantastic as he said he was. he lost. and he threw quite the tantrum, kicking the sides of the court, throwing his paddle and demanding a rematch. he had to be held back by other players so he wouldn’t jump on endo, the man who won the match.

that night he heard a knock on his hotel room door. he opened it, all sleepy and cute, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and his david’s star necklace. he put his glasses on his face and stared at you in awe, silently moving out of the way so you could enter his hotel room.