Sometimes James wondered about the ideas from management.  Apparently, they were trying to do a more cultured image or something, so they hired a random artist to make sculptures of the entire team.  James had no idea what to do.  He hoped he would not have to do one of those nude things.  He doubted it, but James knew as much about art as he did about knitting.  Which was that, he knew it was supposed to look good but he had no idea how the end result would be achieved.

James hoped that all he would have to do would be sit still for half an hour to an hour or so and let the artist would be done.  Given what he knew about management and PR, he was sure that someone had either a) made it so some random fan club just happened to show up and they would be forced to an incessant Q&A with a bunch of people who would curse them if they lost or b) forgot to inform the players of a particularly important detail which would wind up offending the artist and then have the entire thing take three times longer than it would have under normal circumstances or c) tell everyone to show up, get everything right, except the time or location.  Given how they  usually ran things, James was going to go with all of the above. 

PR's competence aside, Falmouth had provided white wizarding robes and hoods emblazoned with their logo for their players, which would later be auctioned off somewhere.  Those particulars did not really bother him.  Someone else would eventually sort all of that out.  What was bothering him was he did not know what he was supposed to do.  He could sit still, and hoped that was all that would be required.  He went up to get up what he thought was a cup of tea.  He was a bit alarmed when it smelled like coffee.  Hesitant, he took a sip.

It was coffee.  Though James had eaten far more disgusting things over the course of his potions intake in order to gain an edge such as werewolf fingernails, he did not particularly care for the taste.  More importantly though, was the amount of diuretic in it.  Like most athletes James watched what he ate.  He could not afford to ingest things that would make him lose water quicker, even something as simple as a cup of coffee would force him to drink approximately one liter more of water.  And go to the restroom that much quicker.

"I wounder if they have water or tea? This brown swill only tastes slightly better than merfolk piss," James thought aloud, not really addressing anyone.  He would know, he had drank both after all.  So searching, he continued to look for some liquid refreshment he could tolerate. 

It wasn't that he wasn't glad to have the job, but agreeing to make busts of the Falmouth Falcons had unfortunately resulted in some scheduling issues. Since they were Very Important Quidditch Players, he had to arrange his schedule to fit theirs, rather than the other way around, and although that wasn’t unusual, there was a whole team of people, compared to the usual one. It had taken a lot of negotiation with Clementine before they'd come to an agreement, which in context meant that Leon had lost the will to attempt haggling any longer and had accepted the ridiculous terms she’d offered.

He was a little behind schedule, but you couldn’t rush art. Well, you could, but it wasn’t like he was going to admit that to the grumpy people who had arranged everything. It would have been interesting to pit them against Clementine, but they certainly didn’t care about how many extra shifts he had to pull, so it was unfortunately redundant.
He nudged the door open to avoid getting the mess that was on his hands onto the door knob, looking over the man – James Forrester, he recalled – stood there with professional interest. It was clear he had some muscle definition – not the best Leon had seen, but it was still of the level to be expected for a professional sports player. Not that it would feature in his bust, but it was still good practice.

“This brown swill only tastes slightly better than merfolk piss,”

Well, at least he was decided in his opinions - even if they were stupid opinions. Honestly, what kind of looney didn't like coffee? He could understand a preference for something else, or changing the flavour with bucket loads of milk and sugar, but there was something weird about someone who survived being 18 without at least drinking some, unless they were hyperactive or allergic or something. Maybe he'd been dropped on his head as a child - or more likely taken a bludger to the head during his career in Quidditch.

He smiled anyway, "how would you know that? I can get you either, or something else if you’d prefer?" It was fine if he drank early on, even if it would be irritating at first and Leon wasn’t fond of toilet breaks, because – hopefully – it would help him to relax, giving him something to focus on while Leon started work and tried to establish a conversation. “I’m Leon Faulkner.”

“While I’m getting a drink, if you’d like to take a seat?” It was phrased as a question, but it was an instruction – although of course, if the man wanted to stand around all day, he could. But his feet wouldn’t thank him for it.

When James heard a voice, he took a second to look at the man.  He noticed the young man for the first time.  It appeared the man was still in his mid-teens, with an incredible lanky build   His face also looked relatively young, and he bet that this guy would be carded at every pub he went to.  James wondered if he should ask his age, but decided not to.  There was no point in questioning an arrangement like this, though James did worry a little bit that his team was exploiting a minor.  It was not his business though, and he decided to leave well enough alone.

"Well, I am not sure if that question was sarcastic or not, but I shall reply to your query.  The short answer is I have drank merfolk piss and probably a number of other things you do not want to taste in an attempt to gain a nutritional edge over my coworkers and competitors.  Most everyone here does the same, even though they will not admit it.  They have to if they want to stay competitive.  As a matter of fact, the sports section of the Prophet once looked into doing an article or two on all the nasty things we ate, but decided that no one really wanted to read about people eating werewolf fingernails.  While there are a number of other honorable mentions in that list, I shall spare you the details.  In answer to your other question, water would be wonderful" James replied to his first question. 

Taking a seat, James wondered what he was supposed to do now.  He assumed he was supposed to sit still or something, but for all he knew he was supposed to do a chicken dance while personifying a werewolf dancing in the pale moon light.  James thought about that for a moment and shrugged it off.  It was not like they were doing an interview for the quibbler, they were trying to improve their image.  Though James sincerely doubted most of their fans cared about this, James had done and would do much more than sit still for a couple of hours for the sport he loved.

"So what does this process entail exactly?  I have never really been that much into art, and do not know that much about it - and obviously I want the finished product to look good.  Or at the very least, I want to look better than the rest of my teammates.  Because bragging rights are worth a lot in the locker-room" James asked the man, wondering what this process would entail, and if he could do anything to help the process.