ENHYEOK POV
"BAEK JIHO! FIGHTING!"
The scream cuts through everything.
My head snaps up.
Seo Jiah.
She's standing.
Front row. Dead center like she planned it. Like she picked the spot where eyes naturally land.
Her voice is sharp and unapologetic, slicing clean through chants that were meant for me.
She doesn't hesitate. Doesn't check who's watching. She wants to be seen.
And she's wearing—
My jersey.
Black. Number seven. Too big on her shoulders. Like she wanted it to look wrong.
Intentional. Disrespectful. My name stretched across her back in a way it shouldn't be on anyone who isn't on this court.
Something tightens behind my ribs.
Not confusion. Not surprise.
Anger.
Pure and immediate.
She lifts the poster.
White. Plain. No glitter. No cute fonts. No irony pretending to be humor.
Just thick, ugly letters like they were written in a hurry, like she was pissed the whole time she made it.
THIS JERSEY REPRESENTS A LOSER
The noise around us warps.
People start reacting before my brain finishes processing it. Gossip. Gasps. Someone scream . Someone else shouts something I don't catch. Phones come out. Heads turn. The poster does exactly what she wanted it to do.
It lands.
Hard.
My jaw sets. I feel it click.
That fucking girl actually did it.
She didn't back out. Didn't hesitate. Didn't soften it. She didn't even try to make it clever. She went straight for the throat and did it wearing my number like a trophy.
Then she turns.
Just enough.
I see the back of the jersey.
My name is there.
Or it was.
A thick strip of tape is slapped over it in a huge, aggressive X. Uneven edges. Ripped by hand. Like she couldn't even be bothered to cut it clean. Like erasing me wasn't enough—she needed to cross it out.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
What the actual fuck.
She looks back at me.
Our eyes meet.
And she smirks.
Not pretty. Not playful. Sharp. Mean. Satisfied. Like she just checked something off a list.
The crowd keeps buzzing but she doesn't look at them. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't care. She raises the poster again, higher this time, and screams—
"JIHO! FIGHTING!"
Cheering for him.
While Wearing my jersey.
I feel something burn low and ugly, steady instead of explosive. The kind that doesn't rush out. The kind that sits and waits.
The audacity.
Taeyoung appears at my side, disbelief written all over his face. "What the hell is that?" he mutters. "Is she insane?"
Minseok squints toward the stands. "She's got balls," he says flatly. "I'll give her that."
I don't answer right away.
My eyes stay on her.
She lifts one hand and, without breaking eye contact, flips me off.
Clean. Slow. In front of everyone.
A couple people lose their minds. Someone screams her name. Someone boos. Someone laughs like this is the best thing they've seen all year.
Taeyoung swears under his breath. "She's—"
"She's committed," I say quietly.
Jiho laughs.
Actually laughs.
I turn just in time to see him looking past me, eyes locked on her like he's watching something entertaining. "Well," he says, voice lazy, amused, "that's hot."
Something in me shifts.
Not jealousy.
Annoyance.
I angle my body toward him, mouth curving into a smile that doesn't reach anywhere useful. "Looks like you've got a number one fan," I say. "Try not to disappoint her."
His smile drops.
There it is.
Good.
He scoffs. "Worry about your own side."
"Oh, I am," I say, calm as ever. "Especially since she's wearing my number while cheering for you. Kinda makes you look secondhand."
His jaw tightens. He looks back at her, then at me, irritation flashing clean and sharp. The ref's whistle cuts in before he can respond, calling teams to line up.
I turn away first.
One last glance.
Jiah hasn't moved. Poster still up. Jersey still crossed out. Chin lifted like she's daring the world to say something.
My face hardens.
Not anger anymore.
Focus.
Wait and see, Seo fucking Jiah.
Let's see how loud you are when the scoreboard does the talking.
_______________________
JIAH POV
The whistle shrieks and the gym detonates.
"YU ENHYEOK!"
"NUMBER SEVEN!"
"ENHYEOK FIGHTING!"
The sound crashes over me like a wave and I immediately hate it. Not the noise. The name. It crawls under my skin, itchy and smug, like it knows it's winning something.
I roll my shoulders and grip the poster harder. Cardboard digs into my palms. Good. Pain keeps me grounded.
Bora elbows me in the ribs, hard enough that I almost drop the thing. "What is wrong with you?" she hisses, eyes wide, half furious, half impressed.
"The other day you literally bought Yu Enhyeok's jersey saying you were 'supporting your fucking seatmate.' And this—" she gestures wildly at my entire existence, "—this is your idea of support?"
I don't look at her. I keep my eyes on the court. On him.
"Yes," I say. Calm. Pleasant. "Is there a problem?"
Bora stares at me like I just told her I eat glue recreationally.
Haerin leans in from my other side, voice small but urgent. "Jiah… people are recording. Like. A lot."
I shrug. Lift the poster higher. "Let them. I don't care."
That part is true. The rest spills out before I can stop it. "I don't like Enhyeok playing with a normal headspace. I want him distracted. I want him pissed. I want him to have a fucking headache. And I definitely don't want him to win."
Bora's mouth drops open. "What is this sudden hate?"
I don't answer.
Because suddenly I'm not here. I'm back under that shelter. Rain slamming down. Him standing there, dry, looking at me like I'm a bad decision he doesn't regret. That calm voice. That look. Like I was noise. Like I'm predictable.
My jaw tightens.
"Nothing," I say, shrugging it off like it didn't punch straight through my chest. "Drop it."
The game starts properly then. Sneakers squeal. The ball thumps against the floor. The crowd locks in.
Jiho gets the ball first.
Of course he does.
He moves clean. Confident. Like the court belongs to him. I feel something ugly and loyal flare in my chest anyway. Habit is a disease.
He shoots.
Score.
The board flips to 1–0 and I lose my damn mind.
"JIHO!" I scream, fingers already at my mouth, whistling so loud my head buzzes. "LET'S GO!"
I jump. I don't even pretend not to. I wave the poster like a weapon. People turn. I don't care. I see Enhyeok look up.
I stick my tongue out at him.
Petty? Yes.
Worth it? Absolutely.
His face isn't his usual unreadable nothing. It's darker. Sharper. Like something just snapped into place.
I feel a shiver crawl up my spine.
Satisfying.
Then Enhyeok scores.
The gym explodes again and my smile drops instantly. My arms fall. My mouth twists like I just bit something sour.
Ugh. No. Hate that.
I catch someone staring at me from the opposite side.
Jeonhwa.
He's not smiling. Not blinking either. Just looking at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm a problem or a challenge. His mouth moves with a smirk.
Stalker
I narrow my eyes. My fingers twitch.
I want to go over there and smack his head just once. For science. For closure. For my soul.
I don't.
Because reasons. Annoying, responsible reasons.
Jiho's team scores again and I'm back on my feet, screaming like I'm being paid for it. I whistle. I chant. I raise the poster again even though my arms are starting to ache.
People around us start whispering.
"Is she crazy?"
"Who does that?"
"She's cheering for her crush while wearing another guy's jersey."
"Pick me behavior."
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Cry about it," I mutter, lifting the poster higher just to spite them.
Enhyeok scores again.
Then Taeyoung.
Then—fuck—Jeonhwa.
The scoreboard flips and suddenly Jiho's team is behind.
My stomach sinks.
Enhyeok looks at me across the court, sweat darkening his hair, chest rising steady like he's not even tired. I scoff and turn my head away on purpose.
Don't look at me like that.
The game slows near the end. Tension thickens. The score ties.
I clasp my hands together without realizing it. Nails digging into skin. Please. Just this once. Please let Jiho win.
Enhyeok gets the ball.
He's far. Too far from the net.
He stops.
And then he looks at me.
Not a glance. Not accidental. Full-on eye contact. Like he chose this. Like I'm part of the equation.
My breath stutters.
Don't.
He doesn't look away.
He shoots without turning his head away.
The ball arcs through the air, slow and cruel.
Swish.
It drops through the net.
Fuck.
The gym loses its mind.
I don't move. I can't. My skin prickles. Cold slides down my spine. He's still looking at me. Still holding my gaze like he just said something without opening his mouth.
The final whistle screams.
His team wins.
Chaos erupts. People jump. Scream. Hug. Cry. The usual.
Enhyeok doesn't celebrate.
He turns.
And starts walking toward me.
Not smiling. Not blank.
Rage.
Pure, focused, coming straight for me.
My grip tightens on the poster.
Oh.
Shit.