Chapter Text
The midfield looks crowded from where Jisung hovers on the right wing, cleats biting into the grass as he bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting. The ball skids from Seungmin to Chan, a sharp pass that slices through the press, and Jisung tracks it with hungry eyes, already glancing to the defenders for open space. Chan takes a touch to settle, another to pivot, and Jisung sees it—a shift in the center back line, just the lane he needs.
“Here!” Jisung calls, hand snapping up.
Chan’s head lifts, and the pass comes a moment later, a solid ball that floats across the turf toward the right side. Jisung steps into it, and with a careful touch, he pushes the ball forward, accelerating down the line.
The field opens up in front of him. The wind rushes past his ears, his teammates’ voices fading into a blur as he cuts inside, dragging the ball with him. One defender lunges in, going for the tackle, but Jisung shifts his weight at the last second, popping the ball just out of reach.
He doesn’t slow down.
The goal is bigger now, framed by Changbin’s broad shoulders and outstretched arms. The keeper’s stance widens, eyes locked on the ball.
Jisung takes one last touch toward the top of the box, sights set on the far post, low, just out of Changbin’s reach. He swings through, connecting cleanly, feeling the familiar jolt travel up his leg as the ball leaves his foot.
Changbin explodes into motion, diving low and sideways, one hand snapping out. His glove meets the ball with a dull smack, fingers just strong enough to push it away. A defender follows up, sending it wide and out of bounds.
“Fuck.” Jisung skids to a stop inside the box, chest heaving.
“Nice try, Ji!” Chan calls from the midfield, already jogging back into position.
Before Jisung can answer, Minho’s voice cuts in from his left, also breathing heavily. “You should’ve done the other corner.” His tone is flat, matter-of-fact, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. “He was already leaning left.”
“Right, because clearly you’re the expert on where to shoot,” Jisung snaps. All of Minho’s shots had been blocked too—Changbin is just on fire today.
Hyunjin snorts somewhere behind them and quickly disguises it as a cough when Minho’s eyes flick his way.
“You’re telegraphing your shots,” he continues. “Any half-decent keeper can read you.”
Jisung scoffs, wiping the sweat on his forehead. “Yeah, how ‘bout you read my fist going up your ass.”
But Minho is already jogging back into position, not even bothering to look at him.
The scrimmage kicks back into motion, and the practice field hums with noise—Coach’s whistle, calls for the ball, the thump of cleats against turf.
Jisung drifts back to the right, jaw tight, watching Minho tear up the left side like it belongs to him. Minho takes a pass in stride, turns, and glides past a defender with a smooth drop of his shoulder that’s irritatingly clean. He swings in a cross that bends perfectly into the run of a freshman outside, who just barely mistimes his jump and sends the header over the bar.
“Unlucky!” Minho shouts, expression calm, already pedaling back with that infuriating confidence.
Transferring in, Jisung expected that to be him. The guy everyone watched. The one the coach trusted with the big moments. Back at his old school, he was the star—fast, flashy, the kid whose highlights got passed around in group chats and who heard “you’re the future of this program” at least once a week. When the new coach here called, when he said they needed someone hungry at the top of their formation, Jisung saw it all in his head: the stadium lights, his name on everyone’s lips, his goals deciding games.
Then he walked into his first training and met Minho.
Minho Lee: junior, co-captain, left forward. The guy who moves like the ball is an extension of his body, whose first touch kills passes no one should be able to control, whose shots make the net sound different when they hit. The kind of player who changes how a field feels just by stepping onto it.
And from day one, Minho never really accepts him.
Everyone else does. Chan claps him on the back, calling him “Ji” like they’ve known each other for years. Hyunjin cracks jokes and complains about conditioning drills with him. Felix, his new roommate, basically beams sunshine and welcome the moment Jisung drops his bag in their dorm. The rest of the team offers smiles, names, inside jokes he’s quickly folded into.
Minho nods once during introductions, eyes skimming over him like he’s scouting an enemy, not meeting a teammate. After that, it’s all clipped comments and pointed instructions. “Press earlier.” “Track back harder.” “You were late on that run.” When Jisung curls a beautiful shot into the top corner during a finishing drill, Minho doesn’t even give him a nod.
To everyone else, Minho can be encouraging. A “good touch” here, a “nice run” there. He even cracks a smile when someone nails a drill. Jisung watches it all from the edge of his vision and wonders what it would take to get even one of those from him.
Instead, everything between them becomes a competition. If Jisung scores, Minho tries to score twice. If Minho beats a defender clean, Jisung nutmegs the same guy on the next rep just to prove a point.
Coach’s whistle finally cuts through the scrimmage. “And that’s time!” he calls, voice carrying across the field. “Bring it in!”
The players drift to the edge of the field, some guys bending to grab cones, others collecting stray balls. The sky is starting to soften to orange, the late-afternoon sun painting the whole field in warm light.
Coach waits until the circle tightens around him. “Good intensity today,” he says, clapping once. “That’s what we need this week.” He scans their faces, lingering half a second longer on Minho and Jisung at the front of the group. “We’ve got an important one Friday. Conference match, away, under the lights. They’re physical, organized, and they press high.” He ticks the plan off on his fingers. “Tomorrow is film and recovery. I want everyone at the athletic center by four. Ice, stretch, roll out, do what you need to get your legs in good shape.”
A few guys groan quietly at the mention of ice baths. Felix makes a face and mutters something about losing feeling in his toes for three hours last time.
“You all need to be locked in,” Coach continues. “That means eating like athletes, not like college kids. Hydrate, sleep, and if I hear about anyone going out drinking, you’re running stadiums with me at six a.m. Clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach” rolls through the circle.
“Good. Grab your gear and get out of here. See you tomorrow.”
The group breaks. Conversations bubble up—someone complaining about an exam, someone else asking about dinner plans. Felix immediately drifts to Jisung’s side, slinging his arm around his shoulders.
“You played good today,” Felix says as they walk off the field together. “Apart from Binnie deciding you’re not allowed to score.”
Jisung kicks at a stray ball, sending it rolling toward the bag. “Yeah, well, I’d look even better if Minho would get off my back about every tiny thing,” he mutters. “He acts like I’m his personal project from hell.”
Felix huffs a laugh. “He’s just intense.” He shifts the ball bag onto his shoulder. “He’s like that with everyone.”
“He literally smacked Hyunjin’s ass and said ‘good shot’ after he missed,” Jisung says flatly. “I hit the cleanest volley of my life and got nothing.”
“Okay, he’s like that with everyone who threatens his spot as the top scorer,” Felix amends, grinning. “Don’t let him get to you. You’re good, Jisung. He knows that too. That’s probably why he pushes you so hard.”
They cut across campus, leaving the field behind. The air cools as the sun sinks lower, the smell of grass replaced by fried food and coffee from the student union. Students sprawl on the lawn, music plays faintly from someone’s speaker, scooters whir past.
Jisung listens, but his mind keeps pulling back to the turf. To the way Minho never seems satisfied with anything Jisung does.
As much as he hates to admit it, the pressure works. Minho’s comments replay in his head when he’s running sprints, when he’s working on his weaker foot, when he’s juggling alone in the open gym. Each criticism becomes something to aim at, something to fix. It’s annoying as hell—and it makes him better.
Friday comes.
Under the stadium lights, the field feels smaller and bigger at the same time. The stands are louder, the chants from the student section rumbling over the pitch as warm-ups blur together. The other team is exactly what Coach promised: physical, organized, always a step away from turning a clean touch into a wrestling match.
The game grinds. Changbin makes two huge saves to keep the score level. Felix runs himself into the ground at outside back. Chan directs traffic, pointing, shouting, plugging holes before they open. Minho keeps getting into good positions but seems just slightly off–the timing on his runs, the weight of his passes, the direction of his shots. They go wide, go straight at the keeper, or just sail a little too high.
By late in the second half, the score is 2–2. The tension is thick enough to chew.
A corner for them turns chaotic in the box. Jisung rises for the header, gets shoved squarely in the back, and hits the ground hard. The ref’s whistle splits the air, and when he points to the spot, the whole stadium erupts.
Penalty.
“Minho,” Coach calls from the sideline, already knowing the answer.
Minho steps forward, face set. He places the ball carefully on the spot, and backs up three steps.
Jisung hangs near the edge of the box with the others, sweat dripping into his eyes. He’s seen Minho bury these in practice over and over, casual and ruthless, sending keepers the wrong way like it’s nothing.
The whistle blows.
Minho runs up. Strikes.
The ball curves just a little too far and skims past the outside of the post.
The opposing crowd roars, their own section groans, and Jisung can hear Chan exhale heavily next to him. Minho’s shoulders go rigid.
The game finishes as a tie. No last-minute miracle, no redemption arc. Just a deadlocked score and a team walking off the field feeling unsatisfied as hell.
In the post-game huddle, Coach talks about composure, about learning from moments like this, about how one kick doesn’t decide an entire match. His voice is steady, trying to pull them forward instead of letting them sink into disappointment.
“Sorry,” Minho says quietly when Coach is done. His voice is raw around the edges. “That’s on me.”
A chorus of disagreement hits him immediately. Chan shakes his head. “We shouldn’t have let them get that second goal,” he says. “It’s on all of us.”
“Yeah, we had chances we didn’t finish,” Hyunjin adds. “We don’t even tie without your first goal, man.”
No one blames him. They won’t let him blame himself, at least not out loud. But Minho doesn’t lift his head. His eyes stay fixed somewhere on the grass between his shoes and Jisung’s. He doesn’t look at Jisung once–not in the huddle, not in the locker room, not on the way to the bus.
Normally, Jisung would fire something off. A jab, a snarky comment, something to poke at the invincible image Minho walks around with. But tonight, the usual script feels wrong in his throat.
The look on Minho’s face doesn’t match his typical demeanor—the confident, controlled striker who would put any defender on edge. It’s something smaller and heavier: disappointment, embarrassment, this quiet kind of sadness that sticks to Jisung’s ribs long after the lights are off and the bus is rolling back to campus.
Back in his dorm bed that night, Jisung stares at the ceiling and rewinds the moment over and over. The run-up. The shot. The way Minho’s face dropped after the miss. And no matter how many times he tells himself it’s just a penalty, just one bad kick, it keeps bothering him. More than it should.
By the time the next practice day comes around, the restlessness in his chest is too much to ignore. So he shows up early.
The field is almost empty when he arrives, the lights humming as they warm up, the sky still a pale blue. From the edge of the track, he spots a cluster of balls near the penalty spot—and Minho, alone, his shirt already damp with sweat.
Minho sets a ball down, steps back, and shoots. The ball rockets into the top-left corner of the net with a vicious thump. He doesn’t react. He just grabs another ball.
Set. Step. Strike.
This time he misses, and Minho’s shoulders tighten.
Jisung walks closer, his cleats crunching softly on the grass. “You know it won’t do much without a keeper, right?” he calls.
Minho startles, just barely, before his expression slides back into something blank. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Nice to see you too,” Jisung says, dropping his bag near the goal. “You want me to be goalie?”
“I’m fine,” Minho replies, glancing toward the PK spot.
“I used to play volleyball,” Jisung says, already moving toward the goal. “I can dive.”
Minho hesitates, jaw working. Then he sighs. “Whatever,” he mutters.
Jisung grins, jogging backward into the net. “Try not to cry when I block all your shots.”
The first one tears past him so fast he barely even reacts before it slams into the back of the net.
Turns out being a keeper is hard. Every time he does manage to read the shot and get a hand in the way, the ball stings, fingers buzzing, forearms smarting. When he dives, the ground rushes up to meet him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. But each save sends a new thrill through him, an echo of the satisfaction he gets from scoring.
They fall into a rhythm. Minho shoots, Jisung dives. Balls thump into the net, glance off his limbs, skid wide. Jisung notices things he usually doesn’t: the way Minho’s run-up changes depending on where he’s aiming, the slight drop in his shoulder when he goes left, the flick of his eyes toward the corner he wants.
By the time the rest of the team starts trickling in for practice, they’ve already been at it long enough that Jisung’s shirt clings to his back and Minho’s bangs are plastered to his forehead. When voices start carrying across the field, they drift apart without saying anything, both acting like they just arrived.
The next day, Jisung decides to come early again, fairly certain that Minho will have the same plan. Jisung walks up to the field, imagining how delightfully surprised Minho will be to see his devoted teammate, back and ready to help.
“Why are you here?” Minho asks with a blank face.
Jerk. “Well you need more shooting practice.”
Minho scoffs. “It’s not like you’re much of an obstacle.”
“Until now,” Jisung sings as he rummages through his bag. “Check out what I found—they’re my brother’s old gloves.”
Last night, Jisung had wracked his brain on how to get better at keeping. It wasn’t just about the satisfaction of stopping Minho’s shots (though that did feel good). Minho was clearly in a funk, and as much as Jisung used to want to wipe that smug look right off his face, Minho’s confidence was a weapon on the field they couldn’t afford to lose.
He had called his brother who gave him some pointers and told him to go rummage in their parents basement for gloves. They were pretty tattered and stank like crazy, but they were definitely going to be the help Jisung needed.
Minho blinks. “You’re taking this pretty seriously, huh?”
“You should be thanking me. It’ll be like the real thing now.”
Jisung slips a glove on his left hand, fastening the velcro around his wrist. The glove is stiff and awkward, and he struggles to get the other one on just right. He’s about to use his teeth when Minho grabs his arm.
“Don’t put that in your mouth.” He quickly fastens the velcro before grabbing the ball bag and heading towards the field. “Let’s see what you got, Han.”
Jisung feels his heart beat quicken. Finally this guy is acknowledging him, even just a little. If he had any less pride he’d dance around in celebration, but Jisung is a grown man, and grown men don’t get giddy over other grown men.
The two spend the next thirty minutes running through drills, and although Jisung is still not the best keeper, the gloves definitely help. Once they get into a groove, he even stops a good amount of Minho’s shots. Does Changbin always get to have this much fun?
After a while, Jisung notices that Minho’s aim is weaker on the right side. “I think you use the top of your foot too much there,” he calls out when another ball goes wide. “You’ve got enough power with the inside—just pass it in.”
He waits for some kind of retort or eye roll, but Minho just nods and begins making the correction.
Once Minho is able to get the shot in just the right spot, Jisung can’t help but smile. “Nice man,” he says, and watches Minho’s ears turn bright red. Weak to compliments—noted.
“Let’s get some water. We should rest before the guys start showing up.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
The two sit in the grass together in silence. Not awkward though—it’s that pleasant kind of quiet. Comfortable.
Minho unwraps a granola bar and holds it out to Jisung, who leans down and delightfully takes a bite, making a mental note to pack snacks next time.
Minho just stares for a moment. “You were supposed to grab it.”
Oh. “Well,” Jisung stumbles, “maybe you should feed me. As compensation.” Ah, yes. What a normal thing to say. Thank you, brain.
“You’re twenty years old, feed yourself.”
“Come on, I drove thirty minutes to get these gloves. I’m tired, my hands stink, I’m covered in dirt. This is labor! Unpaid labor—”
“Fine,” Minho groans. He lifts the granola bar back up to Jisung’s mouth. “Your compensation.”
“Thank you.” Jisung takes another bite, relishing in his victory. Sure, admitting how far he went just to help Minho out wasn’t exactly a part of the plan, but he’s knocked his superstar captain down a peg, and now he’s feeding him like a servant to a king.
While he’s got him like this, Jisung thinks maybe he should tease Minho even further. He looks him straight in the eye, moving like a sloth as he leans towards the last piece. He slowly opens his mouth, and just to gross him out, he lets his teeth just barely scrape the tips of Minho’s fingers as he bites.
Surprisingly, Minho’s eyes remain locked on his, gleaming with something Jisung can’t quite read. Whatever it is, it makes his stomach flip, and he quickly pulls away, taking the last bit of granola bar with him.
Whatever, Jisung still has the upper hand. He waits a few seconds before looking towards Minho again, who’s already unwrapping another granola bar for himself. He wonders if Minho packed two just in case he showed up, then shakes his head to erase the thought. Stupid.
“Can we keep doing this? Practicing together, I mean.”
Minho tilts his head. “You want to?”
“I mean, I don’t mind being a goalie if you ever want to take shots. And maybe we can run through some other drills too. I’ve been wanting to get some extra touches on the ball.”
“You sure you want to do all that?” Minho says with a devilish smirk. “Sounded like all the ‘unpaid labor’ was taking a toll on you.”
Jisung rolls his eyes. “Do you want to or not?”
Minho looks to the sky and smiles. “Sure.”
Jisung follows Minho’s gaze, watching the clouds as a matching smile creeps onto his face.