Chapter Five #2
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.
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 for me.
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 dirt again, 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.
It is the most insulting thing anyone has ever done to me.
He thinks he can humiliate me, run circles around me, make me look like a clumsy amateur in front of the entire department, and then offer me a handshake? He thinks he can play the bigger man? The benevolent winner patting the loser on the head?
The audacity is suffocating. It chokes me worse than the dust.
I stare at his hand. Then I look up at his face. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are bright, alive in a way they haven’t been since he stepped foot on this campus. He looks… satisfied.
My vision tints red.
Smack.
I slap his hand away. Hard.
The sound is sharp, cutting through the ambient chatter of the post-game celebration. The impact stings my palm, but the satisfaction is immediate.
Donghwa’s hand drops to his side. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look surprised. He just watches me, his head tilting slightly to the side like a bird studying a worm.
"Don't touch me," I snarl, stepping into his space. I flare my pheromones, pushing out a heavy, aggressive wave of spiced rum and musk, trying to drown out his irritatingly crisp scent. "You think this is funny? You think you're cute?"
"I think I won," Donghwa says. His voice is raspy, dry from the exertion. It grates on my nerves.
"You got lucky," I spit, jabbing a finger toward his chest, stopping just short of touching him. "You think because you can kick a ball you run this place? You're nothing. You're a tourist."
The chatter around us has died down. People are watching. Fine, whatever. they can watch then. Let them see that the King hasn't been dethroned.
"This isn't over," I hiss, my voice dropping low, vibrating with genuine menace. "You wanted my attention? You got it. This is war, Kang Donghwa. I’m going to make your life here a living hell. I’m going to break you."
I expect him to blink. I expect him to step back, to look uncomfortable, to realize he’s pushed the hierarchy too far.
Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks up.
It’s not a nice smile. It’s not the polite, bored smile he gives the omegas. It’s sharp. It’s jagged. It’s the smile of a tiger
"You started this, Hyung," he says softly.
He takes a step closer to me. He’s taller, and he uses it now, looming over me, blocking out the sun. His scent spikes, and it doesn't clash with mine. It cuts right through it. It’s potent. Dominant.
He drops his hand, his dark eyes narrowing. The boredom is completely gone. In its place is something dangerous. Something that looks a hell of a lot like excitement.
"But fine," he says, his voice low, intimate, like a secret just for me. "If that's how you want to play… let's play."
He leans in, his lips inches from my ear. I freeze, my muscles locking up, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"I'm going to give you the fight you want, Sihwan," he whispers. "Don't cry when it gets too rough."
He pulls back, flashing that terrifying, sharp smirk one last time. Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd of cheering freshmen, leaving me standing there in the dirt, chest heaving, blood boiling, and absolutely, furiously awake.