ENHYEOK POV
The gym smells like rubber, sweat, and that sharp cleaner they use right before big games, like it can erase weeks of bad decisions and missed shots. It's loud already. Not cheering yet, just noise—
metal benches scraping, sneakers squealing, voices bouncing off the walls like they're testing how much space they're allowed to take up.
I sit with my team on the sideline, elbows on my knees, fingers laced, watching the opposite bench without making it obvious.
Kim Jeonhwa is there.
Fully geared. Jersey on. Shoes laced tight. Calm like he's been here all season instead of transferring on a Monday and somehow playing a full match by Friday.
That alone is bullshit. You don't just walk into a lineup this fast unless someone pulled strings or someone saw something they wanted badly enough to ignore the rules.
Or both.
He rolls his shoulders once, loose, like this is fun. Like this is a pickup game at the park and not a competition half the school is about to scream itself hoarse over.
I clock it without meaning to. The ease. The confidence that isn't loud but still takes up space.
Yesterday flashes through my head uninvited. Jiah at the vending machines. Jeonhwa leaning in, saying something I couldn't hear.
Her scowling, digging through her bag anyway. Candy. Drinks. The day before that as well. Same pattern. Same annoyed compliance.
She never looks like that with me.
With me, she snaps. Bites. Shows teeth like she's ready to burn something down just to prove she can. With him, she folds into this sharp silence, all fire tucked away like it's been disarmed.
I don't get it.
No—worse. I don't like not getting it.
Jeonhwa lifts his head and our eyes lock.
He doesn't look away.
Neither do I.
The noise fades a notch, like the gym knows better than to interrupt whatever this is. He smiles, small and easy, then speaks like we're friends.
"Good luck, dude."
I give a short nod. Nothing else.
Still holding eye contact.
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. "How's your deskmate? She good?"
A breath leaves me in something close to a laugh before I decide to let it. "I think you know her better than me."
That does it.
His smile sharpens, turns into something I don't recognize and don't care to. He looks away first, bending down to retie his laces, slow and deliberate. Like he's got time. Like he knows something I don't.
I hate that.
Minseok leans forward, voice low but firm. "We should win. At any cost."
Taeyoung answers without hesitation. "We will."
I say nothing. There's no need to.
My gaze drifts, just once, to the door that leads to the other locker room. Jiho's side. The stands beyond it. I don't know why the thought even crosses my mind.
Will she come?
Not for me. Obviously not.
I shake it off as soon as it lands. Waste of brain space.
Coach's voice cuts through everything. "Boys. Its Time. Let's go."
We stand as one, the sound of it heavy and final. Sneakers hit the floor. Jerseys get adjusted. Focus snaps into place.
The doors swing open and we file out, shoulder to shoulder, the air changing the second we leave the locker room. Cooler. Sharper. Like the building itself is bracing.
Jiho's team is already there, stretching near center court. Blue jerseys. Relaxed faces. Too relaxed.
Jiho straightens when he sees me. Walks over like he owns the space between us.
"Didn't we leave something unfinished?" he says, voice light, friendly enough for an audience.
I tilt my head. Just enough. "Yeah. We did."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Good. Be ready to take it properly this time."
There it is. The real tone. The one he saves for when no teachers are around.
I let my mouth curve. Slow. Controlled.
He stares at it for a second, jaw tightening, then turns away first and heads back to his team.
I watch his back.
Nice guy in public. Rotten behind closed doors. Figures.
The gym doors open wider and the sound crashes in all at once. Screaming. Stomping. Whistles.
Someone slamming the bleachers like it owes them money. The court lights burn down hard, reflecting off polished wood.
We step onto the court and the crowd loses its damn mind.
"YU ENHYEOK!"
"ENHYEOK FIGHTING!"
"NUMBER SEVEN!"
"JEONHWAAAAAA"
"TAEYOUNGGGGG"
The chant hits in waves. Familiar. Useless. I tune most of it out.
Areum slips down from the front row, stopping at the edge of the court. "Good luck," she says, soft, neat, perfect timing.
I nod. "Thanks."
She smiles, waves, disappears back into the stands.
My eyes drift without asking permission. Over the bleachers. Over the banners. Over faces that blur together.
I don't know what I'm looking for. That's the part that pisses me off.
Then—
"BAEK JIHO! FIGHTING!"
The scream cuts through everything.
That voice _
My head snaps up.
She's standing.
Seo Jiah.
Front row. Loud. Soaked with intent. And she's wearing—
My jersey.
Black.
Seven.
Hanging wrong over her body like she did it on purpose. Like she wanted it to look disrespectful.
She lifts the poster.
Big. White. No decorations.
The letters are thick. Angry. Uneven.
"THIS JERSEY REPRESENTS A LOSER"
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