As Tristan flew around the edge of the pitch, he waved and blew kisses to the female fans calling his name.
“Tristan, is that really necessary?” Cellon called from behind.
“I can’t disappoint my adoring fans,” he replied, not looking.
The Beater just sighed and waved to his own fans, but not with as much grandiose as the Chaser. A minute later, Cellon noticed something that Tristan didn’t.
“Tristan! In front of you!” he yelled.
But it was too late. Tristan smashed right into one of the basket poles, too absorbed in showboating to see what lay in his path.