It’s not luck.
He’s faster than me. Annoyingly, impossibly faster. Every time I think I have an angle, he’s just… gone. He cuts with a fluidity that makes me look like I’m running in cement. And when he steals the ball, he doesn't just take it. He rips it away.
He catches me in the midfield. I’m shielding the ball, elbows out. Donghwa doesn't dance around. He steps into my space, his chest pressing against my back, his pheromones so thick and cold they make my eyes water. He reaches a long leg around, hooks the ball, and in one fluid motion, spins me around.
His elbow "accidentally" catches me in the jaw. It hurts. A lot.
I stumble back, clutching my face, while he takes off up the field again.
"You little shit!" I roar, abandoning all strategy.
I chase him. I’m not playing defense anymore; I’m hunting. He’s near the goal box, surrounded by two of my defenders. He should pass. Any sane player would pass.
Donghwa doesn't pass. He slows down, waiting. He’s waiting forme.
I take the bait. I sprint full tilt, head down, ready to tackle him so hard his ancestors feel it. I’m going to bury him.
At the last possible second—when I’m committed, when I can’t stop—he moves.
It’s a feint. A simple, elegant drop of the shoulder. I bite on it hard. I lunge left. He goes right.
My cleats lose traction. I flail, arms windmilling, looking like a drunk giraffe on ice. I crash into the dirtagain, sliding face-first past him.
From my vantage point on the ground, I have a front-row seat.
Donghwa steps calmly over my sprawling legs. He doesn't rush. He looks at the goalie, feints a shot to the left, and then effortlessly chips the ball into the top right corner.
Swish.
The net ripples.
The whistle blows three times. Game over.
Silence hangs over the field for a heartbeat, and then the freshmen erupt. They’re screaming, jumping, hugging each other.
I lie there in the dirt, chest heaving, my body one giant bruise. My expensive compression shirt is torn at the shoulder. My hair—my perfectly styled hair—is matted with sweat and grass. I look like I just wrestled a bear and lost.
The cheers of the freshmen sound like static in my ears. White noise. Annoying, buzzing, meaningless noise.
I push myself up off the ground, my arms shaking with the effort. My knees are stained green, my lucky orange shirt is ripped, and I can feel a trickle of blood running down my shin where his cleats caught me. I probably look like a disaster. I definitely feel like one.
But I am Oh Sihwan. I don't stay down.
I wipe the sweat and dirt from my forehead with the back of my hand, spitting a glob of bloody saliva onto the grass. I need to regain control of the narrative. I need to look like I let them win. Like I was going easy on the kids.
I turn, ready to stalk off the field and hit the showers, but a shadow falls over me.
Donghwa is standing there.
He looks rough. I’ll give myself that credit—I didn't make it easy for him. His black shirt is dusted with dry earth, his hair is a damp, messy wreck plastered to his forehead, and there’s a nasty bruise blooming on his cheekbone where my elbow connected earlier. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, sweat tracking through the dirt on his neck.
For a second, just a split second, the sight of him—ruined and panting—sends a weird jolt through my gut.
Then he ruins it.
He extends a hand.
It’s a large hand, fingers long and scarred, palm dirty. It’s the universal gesture of sportsmanship.Good game. No hard feelings.
