Or, as I like to call it, "Operation: Crush the Twig."
I don't even look at the ball. I let Seungchan chase the leather; that’s what lieutenants are for. My eyes are locked on the black blur moving down the left flank. Donghwa runs with this annoying, effortless grace, his long legs eating up the turf, his expression as placid as a monk on a Sunday stroll.
He thinks he’s fast. Cute.
I cut across the field, my cleats tearing up clods of dirt. I’m not going for an intercept; I’m going for a collision course. I time it perfectly. Just as he slows to receive a pass, I accelerate. I drop my shoulder, brace my core, and slam into him with the force of a runaway semi-truck.
Thud.
It’s a solid hit. The kind that should send a guy flying into next week. I grin, waiting for the satisfying sound of air leaving lungs.
But Donghwa doesn't fly. He stumbles, sure. He takes a step back, his black shirt rippling, but he absorbs the impact like a willow branch bending in a gale. He regains his balance in a split second, traps the ball with his foot, and passes it off to a teammate before I can even turn around.
He doesn't even look at me.
"Watch your step, hyung," he murmurs as he jogs past, his voice barely audible over the shouting of the other players.
My grin twitches.Okay. Tough guy. Let’s see how much shock absorption you really have.
For the next twenty minutes, I become his shadow. A very heavy, very aggressive shadow. Every time he gets near the ball, I’m there. I check him into the sidelines. I step on the heels of his expensive cleats. When we go up for a header, I make sure my elbow finds the soft spot between his ribs.
"Whoops, my bad," I pant, grinning as I land heavy on his foot.
"Crowded field," he replies, monotone. He doesn't shove back. He doesn't snarl. He just shifts his weight, spins away, and keeps playing.
It’s infuriating. It’s like trying to fight smoke. The more I hit him, the more he just... exists. He’s sweating now, his hair sticking to his forehead, but he hasn't lost that infuriating composure. He’s playingaroundme, using my own momentum to make me look clumsy.
I glance at the sidelines. Heesung is watching. He’s lowered his sunglasses, his eyes tracking the game. But he’s not looking at me. He’s watching Donghwa weave through the midfield.
That tears it.
The ball comes loose near the center line. Donghwa sees the opening. He bursts forward, a sudden explosion of speed that catches everyone off guard. He’s fast—actually, genuinely fast. He taps the ball ahead, sprinting past Seungchan like he’s standing still.
He’s got a clear line to the goal. He’s going to score. He’s going to look cool, and capable, andalpha.
Not on my watch.
I abandon my position. I sprint, pumping my arms, my lungs burning. I’m not going to catch him—not fairly. But I don’t need to catch him. I just need to stop him.
I come in from his blind side. As he plants his left foot to shoot, I don't go for the ball. I don't even pretend to go for the ball.
I slide.
My leg sweeps out, low and hard, aiming directly for his ankle.
Crack.
I catch him mid-stride. It’s ugly. His legs tangle, momentum betraying him instantly. He goes down hard—not a graceful tumble, but a brutal, jarring slam into the dry earth. He skids, dirt spraying up, his body rolling violently before coming to a stop in a heap of black fabric and tangled limbs.
The whistle screams.
"Foul! Hey, what the hell!" someone shouts.
I scramble up, dusting off my knees, putting on my best innocent face. "He cut right in front of me! I couldn't stop!"
The game halts. A hush falls over the field. Even my own team looks a little uncomfortable. That wasn't a tackle; that was an assault.
Donghwa is on the ground. He stays there for a second longer than comfortable, face pressed into the grass. My stomach gives a little lurch—did I break him? I wanted to humiliate him, not send him to the hospital.
