Chapter Five
The soccer field is exactly the cure I need for this building madness.
If the lecture hall is a prison of boredom and the cafeteria is a minefield of social etiquette, the pitch is where the hierarchy is stripped down to its rawest form. Sweat, muscle, speed. No textbooks, no "Dadaism," just physics. And in terms of physics, I am a freight train.
I jog onto the grass, my cleats crunching satisfyingly into the earth.
I’m wearing my lucky neon-orange compression shirt—the one that highlights the cut of my pectorals and the terrifying width of my shoulders.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the locker room windows before I hit the field. Magnificent.
"Looking huge, Sihwan!" Seungchan bellows, jogging up beside me and slapping my ass.
"Eyes on the prize, Seungchan," I say, rolling my neck until it cracks. "Today isn't just a game. It's an education."
The sidelines are already filling up. It’s a departmental mixer, Juniors versus Freshmen, which means half the Visual Design student body is here to watch.
I spot a cluster of omegas spreading out picnic blankets near the midfield line.
And there, sitting on a cooler like a prince on a throne, is Yoon Heesung.
He’s wearing oversized sunglasses and sipping an iced americano, looking bored and beautiful.
Perfect. The stage is set.
I scan the opposition. The freshmen look nervous, huddled together like sheep waiting for the slaughter. Except for one.
Kang Donghwa is stretching near the goal post.
He’s not wearing the standard-issue pinnie like the rest of the scrubs.
He’s in a sleek, all-black athletic kit that looks more like a wetsuit than a soccer uniform.
He’s bent at the waist, palms flat on the grass, hamstrings stretching with an easy flexibility that makes my own stiff muscles twinge in sympathy.
"Look at him," I sneer, nudging Seungchan. "Skinny legs. No mass. One solid tackle and he’s going to fold like a lawn chair."
Seungchan squints. "I dunno, bro. He looks kinda… wiry. Like a whip."
"Whips don't stop boulders, Seungchan," I say. "I’m going to run right through him. By the time the whistle blows, he’s going to be crying for his mommy’s lawyer."
This is a chance, an opportunity to finally put the little punk in his place. One I will happily snag.
The whistle blows, shrill and piercing, and the game is on.
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 playing around me, 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, and alpha.
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.
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 says I’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 runs through me. 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 is on.
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.