Then, he moves.
He pushes himself up slowly. The sleeve of his shirt is torn. There’s a nasty, raw scrape running down his forearm, oozing blood mixed with dirt. His cheek is smeared with grass stains.
"Donghwa! Are you okay?" Two of the freshmen rush over, hovering like nervous birds. One reaches out to help him up.
Donghwa flinches. He jerks his arm away, shaking his head. He pushes himself to his feet, swaying just a little. He brushes the dirt off his thighs with a sharp, angry motion.
"I'm fine," he rasps. His voice is tighter than usual.
He spits on the grass—a glob of saliva tinged with blood from a bitten lip.
Then, he looks at me.
The boredom is gone. The "I'm too cool for this" mask has cracked. His chest is heaving, sucking in air, and his eyes—those dark, flat eyes—are blazing. It’s a cold fire, sharp and dangerous. He knows exactly what I did. He knows I wasn't playing the ball.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't complain to the ref. He just stares at me, wiping the blood from his arm, and for the first time since he arrived on campus, I feel a genuine spike of adrenaline that has nothing to do with the game.
I wanted his attention. I definitely have it now.
The referee flashes me a yellow card. Whatever. A small price to pay for dominance. I accept it with a shrug and a charming,apologetic smile that saysI’m just too passionate for my own good.
I jog back into position, chest puffed out, glancing toward the sidelines to make sure Heesung saw me assert my authority. But when I turn back to the field, I freeze.
Donghwa is standing ten yards away. He’s not rubbing his arm. He’s not limping. He’s staring at me, and the air around him has changed. That coo, unbothered air is gone. In its place is something sharp and heavy, a pressure that makes the hair on my arms stand up. His scent has spiked—not the uncontrolled spray of an amateur, but a concentrated blast of freezing cold air and bitter ink. It smells like a warning.
The whistle blows.
The ball rolls into play, and I move to intercept, expecting Donghwa to shy away after that last hit. I expect him to play the perimeter, to use his "wiry" frame to dodge.
Instead, he runs straight at me.
I brace myself, grinning.Come on then, twig. Let’s see you bou—
CRACK.
The impact is instant and brutal. He doesn't check me; he runsthroughme. His shoulder—bony and hard as a rock—slams into my chest with the force of a hydraulic press. It’s not just mass; it’s leverage. He’s taller, and he uses every centimeter of that height to drive downward, crushing my center of gravity.
My feet leave the ground. Actually leave the ground.
I land flat on my back, the air whooshing out of my lungs in a pathetic squeak. The sky spins for a second. By the time I scramble up, gasping, face burning, Donghwa is already halfway down the field with the ball.
"What the hell?" I wheeze, glaring at the ref. "Foul! That was a foul!"
The ref waves play on.
I scramble after him, rage boiling in my gut. Oh, it ison.
For the next ten minutes, my life becomes a highlight reel of humiliation. Donghwa isn't playing soccer anymore; he’s playing "Destroy Sihwan." And he’s terrifyingly good at it.
I get the ball near the sideline. I see him coming. I plant my feet, ready to shoulder-check him into the next zip code. I have twenty pounds of muscle on him. I live in the gym. I am an immovable object.
Donghwa hits me like a freight train. He drops his hip, gets under my guard, and uses my own momentum against me. I go flying—literally tumbling into the dirt like a ragdoll. My face skids against the turf. I taste grass and copper.
"Get up, Sihwan!" Seungchan yells, sounding panicked.
I push myself up, spitting dirt. My jersey is stained. My knee is throbbing.
"Lucky shot," I snarl, wiping sweat from my eyes.
