Chapter Fifteen
Another Friday and another inter-department soccer game means a new chance at redeeming myself in an area I thrive in. Physical superiority.
I stand on the sideline, rolling my neck until it cracks, listening to the satisfying pop of my joints.
This is my turf. The classroom might be a disaster zone of awkward glances and suppressed panic attacks every time a random omega walks by, but out here?
I’m the king. I’ve got twenty pounds of muscle on most of these guys, and I know how to use it.
"You look like you're ready to murder someone," Seungchan says, tossing a water bottle in my direction.
I catch it one-handed, not even looking. "Just focused. We lost last time because of a fluke. Not happening today."
"Right. A fluke," Seungchan snorts, adjusting his shin guards. "Or maybe it was because the freshman bulldozed you."
"Watch your mouth," I snap, though there's no heat in it. My eyes are already scanning the field, hunting.
And there he is.
Kang Donghwa strolls onto the pitch like he’s walking to a funeral he doesn’t want to attend.
He’s wearing the standard-issue department jersey, but somehow he makes the cheap polyester look like high-end streetwear.
He’s got the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, exposing those long, corded arms and a flash of dark ink curling over his biceps.
My stomach does a traitorous little flip.
Not because he’s hot—which is an objective fact I am currently ignoring—but because I know what’s under that shirt now.
I know about the ink sprawling across his chest, the tiger that ripples when he moves, the way those tattoos look when they’re slick with sweat and hovering over me.
I shake the thought away violently. Focus, Sihwan. You are an Alpha. You are a predator. You do not get flustered by a freshman who looks like a K-pop idol going through a goth phase.
Then the wind shifts.
It hits me with a wallop—that scent. Heavy musk of a dominant alpha.
Before the bond, it just smelled arrogant.
Now? It smells like... mine. It smells like safety and sex and a headache all wrapped into one.
My mouth waters before I can stop it, a biological reflex that makes me want to punch myself in the throat.
Donghwa spots me. He doesn’t glare. He doesn’t posture. He just lifts his chin in a barely-there nod, his expression bored, his eyes dark and knowing. It’s the look of someone who knows exactly what I sound like when I’m whining into a pillow.
Rage, hot and familiar, floods my chest. Oh, he thinks he’s got me leashed? He thinks because he got lucky during a heat-haze accident that he owns me?
"I'm going to crush him," I mutter.
Seungchan steps away from me. "Okay, psycho. Save it for the whistle."
The whistle screams, and I launch myself forward.
My strategy is simple: brute force. I’m a tank with a turbo engine, and usually, once I get momentum, people get out of the way because they value their ribcages.
I tear down the sideline, signaling for Seungchan to pass.
The ball comes flying in a perfect arc. I trap it with my chest, feeling the solid thud of impact, and drop it to my feet.
Perfect. Now I just need to—
A wall of black fabric slams into my peripheral vision.
I don't even have time to turn before a shoulder checks me, hard. It’s not a clumsy bump; it’s calculated. It hits my center of gravity with annoying accuracy, knocking me off balance just enough to make me stumble.
I recover, snarling, and pivot to shield the ball. "Back off, freshman!"
Donghwa doesn't back off. He sticks to me like a second skin.
So much for avoiding contact. My plan to keep a safe, non-hormonal distance evaporates instantly. He’s right there, pressing into my personal space, his long legs tangling with mine as he jabs at the ball.
And goddammit, he smells incredible.
The exertion has spiked his body heat, and that crisp, wintry scent of ginseng and ink hits me in a concentrated wave. My brain screams threat, but my blood screams mate. My heart does a stupid, stuttering double-beat, and the hair on my arms stands up. It’s Pavlovian. It’s humiliating.
I try to use my bulk to box him out, shoving my back into his chest to create space. It’s a mistake.
The moment my back hits his solid chest, a jolt of electricity zips right down my spine to my tailbone. It feels exactly like it did when he had me pinned to the mattress, heavy and dominant. My knees actually go weak for a microsecond.
Focus, you horny idiot!
I grit my teeth and drive my elbow back—legal, mostly—trying to pry him off. "Get your own ball, you leech!"
Donghwa absorbs the blow without even grunting. He’s not as heavy as me, but he’s got this irritating, wiry strength. He leans into me, using my own weight against me, his breath hot against the back of my neck.
"You're slow today, Hyung," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the shouting of the other players.
The honorific sounds like a dirty joke coming from him.
"Shut up!" I roar, trying to dribble out of the trap.
I cut left. He’s there. I feint right. He’s there.
He’s shadowing my every step, mirroring my movements with an infuriating fluidity.
He’s not even looking at the ball half the time; he’s looking at me.
His dark eyes are locked on my face, tracking my frustration, a small, smug quirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
He’s enjoying this. He remembers the last game where I tripped him, and he’s decided to make my life a living hell for ninety minutes.
I try to power through, driving my shoulder into him again, harder this time. I want to knock him down. I want to see him in the dirt.
Instead, he anticipates the hit. He shifts his weight at the last second, letting me slam into empty air, then steps in close, his hip checking mine. He steals the ball with an effortless flick of his foot while I’m busy trying to regain my balance.
"Too easy," he taunts, turning on his heel and taking off down the field with my ball.
I stand there for a second, chest heaving, hands clenched into fists. My skin is buzzing where we touched, my scent glands throbbing in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with soccer.
"I hate him," I gasp out, staring at his retreating back. "I actually hate him."
I take off sprinting after him.
I pump my legs, tearing up the turf, closing the distance between us. He’s fast, but I’m running on pure, unadulterated spite. I catch up to him just as he reaches the penalty box, and I don't hesitate. I throw my weight into a shoulder charge—legal, clean, but hard enough to rattle his teeth.
I expect the impact. I brace for the satisfying grunt of him losing the ball.
Instead, just as our bodies collide, the air around me thickens.
It’s not a gradual shift. It’s an explosion. A concentrated blast of cold winter air and heavy, dark ink floods my senses, so potent it makes my eyes water. It’s a command, silent and biological, slamming directly into the primitive part of my brain that I’ve been trying to ignore all week.
Down.
My knees buckle.
It’s humiliating. One second I’m a freight train of muscle, and the next, my legs turn to water.
My breath hitches in a pathetic, strangled gasp, my lungs seizing up like I’ve just been dunked in ice water.
The aggression bleeds out of me instantly, replaced by a terrifying, instinctual urge to bare my neck.
I stumble, my cleats catching in the grass as my body tries to obey a command my brain didn't authorize.
Donghwa doesn't stumble. He rides the contact, using my sudden weakness to pivot around me with insulting ease. He taps the ball once, twice, and then fires it into the bottom corner of the net while I’m still trying to remember how to stand upright.
"Goal!" someone shouts.
I stand there, chest heaving, face burning hot. I stare at the back of Donghwa’s head as he jogs back toward the center line. He didn't even look at me. He just... turned it on. Like a light switch.
"You cheating bastard," I wheeze, the words tasting like bile.
He’s weaponizing it. He’s actually using our bond to cheat at intramural soccer.
"You okay, Sihwan?" Seungchan jogs past, clapping me on the shoulder. "You looked like you tripped over your own feet there."
"I slipped," I snarl, shaking him off. "Just give me the ball."
I’m furious now. The embarrassment burns hotter than the exertion. I’m going to end him. I don’t care about the bond. I don’t care about the pheromones. I am an Alpha, and I am not going to be housebroken on a soccer field.
Ten minutes later, I get my chance.
Donghwa has the ball again, dribbling near the sideline. I come at him from an angle, cutting off his route. I stay low, center of gravity dropped, eyes locked on the ball. Don't breathe, I tell myself. Just don't breathe in.
I lunge for the steal, my foot hooking around the ball. I have him. I’m stronger, I’m heavier, and I have the leverage.
Then he leans in.
He presses his chest against my shoulder, locking us together for a split second of friction. And he does it again. He flares his scent, pushing it out in a thick, suffocating wave that wraps around me like a chokehold.
It’s worse this time because we’re touching. The scent of ginseng and musk hits me, and a jolt of electricity zings straight to my groin. My hips twitch, an involuntary, shameful reaction to the proximity of my mate. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges, the roar of the game fading into a dull buzz.
Submit.
The word isn't spoken, but I feel it vibrate through my bones. My muscles go slack. My foot, which was seconds away from stealing the ball, falters. I freeze, paralyzed by the sudden, overwhelming need to let him take what he wants.
Donghwa chuckles. It’s a low, dark sound right in my ear.
"Good boy," he whispers.
The shame hits me harder than a fist.