Ian's breathing calmed considerably and he reached up with a free hand to brush his hair  off his brow, glancing over and down at her with a rueful smile. "I'm not used to that kind of workout," he protested lightly. His blue eyes twinkled and he then responded to her question about the Harpies. "Well, if you played for them, you'd be my favorite by far." He knew it was a cheap attempt to distract her with a compliment to keep her from teasing him further about his training. If she didn't keep on that subject, he wouldn't have to use the feeble excuse that it was early in the season and he wasn't in his best shape yet.

With a light laugh, he added, "Have you seen some of those ladies? They're not timid by any means." Ian didn't know first hand the extent of their roughness, but he had seen some of the hits his teammates hat received at their hand. The Harpie ladies are not to be trifled with lightly, even if the likes of Ripley had no qualms about doing so.

Ian slipped an arm around Ellie's back, giving her a gentle hug-like squeeze. "After a run like that, I am a little famished," he admitted. "But I'm not exactly hankering for being in public now that you've roused the masses, missy." He sent her a feigned scolding look. Glancing cautiously around to see if maybe they were fine to head out of their little alley-way hideaway, he suggested, "Perhaps we can stop by my flat....if you have no place to run off to anytime soon. I can cook you something if you like..."

“Of course you aren’t. Coaches today...” Ellie shook her head, frowning, though smugly so. “They’re far too motherly.” She was, of course, kidding. Coaches seemed to become more intense as each year passed and each team manager invested more money in an International win. She’d glimpsed a bit of Ian’s schedule over the summer, and knew how disciplined the players had to be. It was nothing like Hogwarts-- which in itself had been quite the cardio workout.

As talk shifted to the Harpies, Ellie couldn’t help feeling a tiny prickle down her spine. The compliment was a good one, and for more reasons than one. “Your favorite?” She quizzed. “Would you even have my poster over your mantle? Framed?”

Rather enjoying the hug more than a friend should, the young woman didn’t protest. She had, indeed, made a bit of a hurtle for the both of them. But all in good fun... Ellie put her camera into her bag and looked pensively at Ian. Grabbing his arm to Apparate together, she clearly approved of his offer. “Cheese toasties with tomato,” she announced, not pausing to wonder whether he was up to making the grilled and gooey melts. They were a staple! And rather easy for the young and single. Besides, Ellie wasn’t in the mood for fancy food. Just Ian’s smile and good conversation. And delicious carbs.

Ian chuckled lightly at the implication that his coaches were motherly towards him and the rest of his teammates. Maybe on another team, they might be. But with the Tornados a yearly contender for the Quidditch Cup, the coaches had to answer to the higher ups if they weren't playing winning ball on a regular basis.

The Harpies were a decent opponent and Ian respected the lot of ladies for what they did. But then, Ian was respectful of a tangent of women who could play anyway given that his mother and aunt had been notable players together and some of his distant cousins also did the same. So the Tornados seeker had a healthy amount of reverence for his female opponents. Maybe moreso than some of his teammates who still might consider them to be the weaker sex.

With a lopsided grin, Ian nodded when Ellie mentioned him having a poster of her over his mantle.  "I'm a very loyal fan, Ms. St. James. I'd probably have a poster of you in every room of my  flat. And they would all be gold framed at that."

Ian hugged her closer to him, enjoying the way that she seemed to fit naturally into his embrace.  He reluctantly  loosened the hold and allowed her to get her gear together and then they were readying to Apparate. "Cheese toasties with tomato it is," he said with a laugh. He just hoped his bachelor pad had the required provisions to make the quickie meal.

Mere moments later, the two were standing in his fairly simply decorated abode. The space was lofty and surprisingly clean for a single man living on his own, but it spoke to the quietly serious person that Ian tended to be. He liked everything in his home life to be in order since his professional life seemed to be in a perpetual state of chaos.

Even though they had reached their destination, Ian didn't let go of Ellie. Instead, he gave her another half hug as he smiled down at her and quietly shared, "I'm glad I ran into you today. I've missed your smiling face...."

---

OOC: Hope you don't mind that I moved us ahead, hon. If you want to have this be the wrap, that's cool. If not, I'm cool with keeping it going.

Ellie pretended to bat her lashes. Really, though? It wasn’t all pretend. Something about Ian, his voice, his adorable honesty, and the sincerity that superseded his star power made Ellie more humble than usual. (Though not without that ever-playful edge.)

“Throw in a platinum and I’ll sign the contract tomorrow. We can start on the posters right away...” Perhaps Ian would have her over for a private viewing. Unveiling? What was the word that meant exclusive party for two people?

Apparating away from the quaint, mountainside village and ending up in Ian’s empty, well-kept flat would have made any girl weak in the knees, be the young man a quidditch pro or not. The idea of him making dinner? And a one-course meal of childhood nostalgia, nonetheless? Ellie was beginning to feel warm in a funny way. Perhaps it was all that running.

Grinning up at him-- a sort of smirky, but obviously pleased grin-- she tried to determine the exact color of his eyes. “I’m glad I ran with you today,” she murmured, mocking him sweetly. She winked, and shook her head in disagreement. “I think I missed you and your schoolgirl fan club more. Oh, and your hair...” What an uncanny ability to look good in any style. Had she noticed before? Of course. It was simply more obvious now.

Maybe the game was getting to her. (No, not quidditch. The game they were playing, the hook they were sinking into the tabloid machine.)

She leaned upward, her toes pressing into the soles of her shoes. Planting a perfectly friendly (ahem) kiss on his cheek. Falling back, she swung her arms hips like a rag doll. “Ok, chef, toastie time. I’m famished.”