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Martin was a really good boyfriend---fiance. Sure, he probably hadn't seen Nick in like, twenty-five minutes or something, but that was because he was spending all the time talking to journalists, answering questions he didn't want them to bother her with, and posing for pictures and making snide remarks about how glad he was to be so far off the United. Which wasn't really true, but Martin wasn't at all bitter about being traded last year. Or this year. It was fun! He got to face new teams, make new friends, piss off new captains, really---when quidditch became a business like it had with Nicole and the United, Martin was pretty sure he'd have to hang up his broomstick.

Maybe he really would form his own team and just play for like---beer. That'd be awesome.

Anyway. Pushing his dreams of a Beer League to the side, Martin picked up a plate and accosted each of the waltzing waiters that had itty bits of food on their trays for a double sampling of each. With the reasoning that his fiancée was super tired and probably super hungry, he was able to snatch some more and approached Nick at their table with a flourish, bending down onto one knee to present the tray,

"Your snacks," he said in his snottiest tone.