Chapter Text
The stadium erupted the moment the ball struck the back of the net.
For one suspended heartbeat, everything froze, the defenders rooted to the ground, the goalkeeper staring helplessly behind him, the crowd inhaling sharply as if the entire arena shared a single pair of lungs.
Then, chaos exploded.
A deafening roar crashed through the arena as Jihoon’s long-range curler screamed into the top corner during stoppage time. The ball had bent impossibly through the air, slicing past defenders before nestling perfectly into the net.
Goallll, Chovy once again!!!!!
One second Jihoon was outside the box, chest heaving, and adrenaline burning through his veins. The next, he was sprinting across the pitch with his arms spread wide, the noise of forty-thousand screaming fans swallowing him whole. He dropped to his knees and slid across the grass toward the stands, fists clenched tightly as the supporters erupted into absolute madness.
Thousands of faces blurred together beneath the floodlights. People screaming, crying, jumping, waving banners with his codename stretched across them. And Jihoon screamed with them, raw and breathless, the thrill of victory tearing itself out of his chest.
His teammates crashed into him seconds later.
“You bastard! What a fucking goal!”
Jaehyuk’s voice rang above the noise before a rough hand ruffled Jihoon’s sweat-soaked hair. Jihoon barked out a laugh just as another body slammed into him from the side, knocking him flat onto the synthetic turf.
The pile only grew from there. Someone grabbed his shoulders. Another nearly crushed his ribs. Minkyu was yelling incoherently beside him while the rest of Gen G collapsed into the celebration like a tidal wave of black and gold jerseys.
Jihoon could barely breathe through his laughter.
Then, the whistle blew. Loud and final.
The match was over.
Gen G had won a brutal battle against HLE, 3–2. Across the field, he noticed his ex-teammate Wangho and his other opponents walking away from the field in despair. A total opposite of his euphoric team.
Jihoon had claimed a hat trick under the stadium lights. Helping his team gaining yet another 3 points tonight.
The realization hit him all at once. The roaring crowd, the flashing cameras, and the commentators practically screaming themselves hoarse somewhere in the distance.
His heart hammered violently against his ribs as his teammates slowly peeled themselves off him, still laughing and shouting. Jihoon pushed himself upright, slightly disheveled, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
The crowd was still chanting “Chovy! Chovy! Chovy!”.
A grin threatened to break through, but he forced it down out of habit. Instead, he slipped into his signature pose. He pointed toward the stands with a sharp tilt of his chin, looking every bit the arrogant star his teammates loved teasing him about. His so-called chad face.
The stadium somehow screamed even louder. It made Jihoon felt drunk on adrenaline.
I will never get tired of this, he thought as he makes his way towards the interviewer after bidding goodbyes to the fans.
“Chovy-seonsu! Your first hat-trick of the season! Congratulations for being named Player of The Match! Highly deserved!” The lady basks beside him. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I feel great.” He grinned, “The team worked hard for that win. And we will work even harder to ensure our spot at the top of the league.” He said, winking as he looked straight to the camera. He can hear the fans screaming and laughed at their excitement.
“Wow! Are you looking to claim the golden boots by the end of the season?”
“It’s early into the season, but absolutely yes. And not only that, I am going to try my best to help the team carry both domestic and international titles. For the fans.” He said, gaining more screams and oooohhh from the stands.
“Hear that, Gen G fans?” The interviewer teases, “The tigers are aiming high this season! Well, thank you so much for your time Chovy-seonsu. Now go celebrate with your team!”
“Good job, tiger.” Coach Ryu clapped his shoulder as they entered the players’ tunnel. The fluorescent lights reflected against the sheen of sweat coating Jihoon’s skin, making him glow under the harsh white lighting.
“Hyung that was Puskás-worthy. You’re insane.” Minkyu appeared beside him, throwing an arm around Jihoon’s shoulders with enough force to nearly topple him.
“That’s another goal of the month, for sure,” he continued dramatically. “Hell, maybe even a contender for goal of the season.”
Jihoon snorted. “Thanks, Minkyu-ya. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Damn right you couldn’t.” Minkyu pointed proudly at himself. “You better keep scoring. I’m trying to break T1’s right back’s assist record this season.”
“Dream on.” Jaehyuk materialized out of nowhere and punched Mingkyu lightly in the arm. “You’re still, what, nineteen assists away?” the striker deadpanned.
“Ah, hyung!” Mingkyu whined immediately. “Aren’t captains supposed to encourage their teammates? You’re terrible at your job.”
Jihoon laughed under his breath as the two continued bickering all the way toward the changing room.
His captain swung open the changing room door.
Inside stood one of the assistant coach, Coach Lyn, looking unusually animated, his grin practically splitting his face in half as he prepared to shower the team with praise.
But Jihoon barely noticed him.
His attention drifted immediately to the man standing beside the now gathered coaches.
Huh.
The stranger looked painfully out of place among the chaos of sweaty football players and discarded gear.
He wore a perfectly tailored dark grey tuxedo, not a single wrinkle visible beneath the bright locker room lights. His dark hair was neatly styled, soft strands resting on his forehead with deliberate precision, revealing only a small part of his forehead. Thin-framed glasses rested atop sharp, composed eyes that scanned the room with quiet detachment.
He looked more suited for a corporate gala than a football stadium. Yet strangely enough, he didn’t appear uncomfortable in the slightest.
While Coach Ryu and his assistants enthusiastically praised the team, the man simply stood there with one hand tucked neatly into his pocket, the other holding on an envelope, his posture calm and self-assured as though he belonged exactly where he was.
Jihoon found himself staring longer than necessary.
The man was pale, with the most poker-face to ever poker-faced Jihoon has ever seen. Jihoon then cringed a little on his non-sensical thought.
The man appears not flashy nor loud. But very refined, with the kind of face that looked expensive.
Jihoon wasn’t sure how long he had been staring before small irritation began creeping under his skin.
Despite Jihoon ‘looking respectfully’ so obviously, that man has not spared a single glance at him. Not once. Not even after Jihoon took small steps towards his line of sight.
Instead, the stranger’s gaze remained fixed on the large Gen G logo displayed across the locker room wall, patiently waiting for Coach Ryu to finish speaking with the rest of team.
The locker room was still buzzing from the aftermath of the match. Sweat, laughter, and the sharp scent of muscle spray lingered heavily in the air as players peeled off damp jerseys and shouted over one another.
“Ah, before I forget,” Coach Lyn called, motioning toward the man standing quietly besides him, “let me introduce you to Lee Sanghyeok. He’s a representative from SK Telecom, the league’s appointed commercial partner.”
The man stepped forward with a polite bow.
“Hello,” he greeted calmly. Then, unexpectedly, he extended a hand toward Jaehyuk.
“Captain. Ruler-seonsu,” he said.
Jaehyuk blinked once before smiling in recognition and accepting the handshake firmly.
“Sanghyeok-shi. Nice to see you again.” His brows lifted slightly. “What brings you to the arena tonight?”
“Just overseeing sponsor branding compliance on-site,” The man replied smoothly. “And watching part of the match, of course.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “It was quite intense. Congratulations on the win.”
“Thank you.” Jaehyuk laughed lightly. “Hope you enjoyed the intensity, then.”
Beside him, Jihoon rolled his eyes at the unbearably formal exchange.
Still, he waited. Waited for the man’s gaze to shift towards him. For some recognition to follow. A compliment. A comment. Anything. After all, he had just scored a hat trick less than an hour ago. It would only be fair to praise the number one reason for the win tonight, right?
Instead, the man merely turned toward the coaching staff.
“Well, I should get going now. Thank you for accompanying me, Coach Lyn.”
“No problem,” Coach Lyn replied easily. “Call anytime you need something.”
The man nodded and bid farewell to the staff.
And just like that, he left.
The locker room door clicked shut behind him.
Jihoon stared after it in disbelief. That’s it? No ‘congratulations on the hat trick Chovy-seonsu’? No ‘great performance tonight’? Heck, not even a glance?
Jihoon, the league’s top scorer. The star midfielder plastered across billboards, highlight reels, and every sports headline in the country. And the man walked past him like he was invisible.
“Hey.” Jaehyuk nudged him lightly with an elbow. “You’re unusually quiet. What’s wrong?”
Jihoon’s eyes remained fixed on the closed door. “He congratulated you but not me.”
The words came out sharper than intended.
“He didn’t even look at me. Hyung, am I invisible or is he blind?” He said as he turned towards his captain.
Everyone was quiet for a brief moment, before the room burst into laughter.
“You idiot,” Jaehyuk said, already grinning. “I’m the captain. Congratulating me means congratulating the whole team.”
“I scored a hat trick,” Jihoon emphasized flatly.
Jaehyuk snorted and replied “Which is not possible without my assist and the others,” before reaching over to ruffle his damp, unruly hair once again.
Jihoon clicked his tongue in annoyance, swatting his hand away.
“I bet he knows nothing about football,” he muttered bitterly. “Probably another corporate leech using football to make money.”
Honestly, Jihoon didn’t even understand why this bothered him so much. It shouldn’t. People praised him constantly. Fans screamed his name from the stands. Analysts dissected his performances like scripture. Every sports channel in South Korea worshipped him whenever he touched a ball.
So why did one stranger’s indifference sting kind of stings?
“Wrong,” Coach Lyn suddenly chimed in from the side, arms crossed thoughtfully. “From the conversation we had just now, he actually analyzed the game well. But now that I think about it, he never mentioned Jihoon once.”
That only made it worse.
“What?!” Jihoon whipped around so fast towards Coach Lyn, and several teammates laughed again.
Geonbu slung an arm over his shoulder, amusement obvious in his voice.
“Seriously, why are you this worked up? Can’t survive without attention for one day?”
“Of course he can’t,” Kiin cut in immediately. “This is Jeong Jihoon we’re talking about. His soul probably evaporates if people stop praising him for longer than ten minutes.”
“I do not,” Jihoon shot back. “Shut up, hyung.”
“Alright, enough,” Coach Ryu interrupted before the argument could escalate further. “Pack up. Bus leaves in ten minutes. We’re getting dinner at the finest restaurant tonight. You all deserved it for the hard-earned win.”
The team cheers and slowly dispersed, returning to their lockers amidst lingering laughter and teasing.
Jihoon didn’t pay his mind anymore on the exchange, or lack thereof, with the man as he basks in and boast about his performance to his teammates even more.
However, the little sting on his pride was thoroughly felt throughout the whole night. He just chose to ignore it.
---
The second time Jihoon crossed paths with Lee Sanghyeok happened on a busy Thursday afternoon during the promotional shoot for the upcoming tournament.
According to Coach Ryu, the filming location had been booked in Gangnam weeks ago, and every qualified team in the league had been summoned. The concept this year was another cinematic teaser trailer involving dramatic lighting, slow-motion shots, smoldering stares into the camera, the usual nonsense the fans would inevitably eat up online within minutes.
Truthfully, this was one of the few parts of being a professional player that Jihoon genuinely enjoyed.
Football was still football at the end of the day, ninety minutes of running until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out, but the media side of it? The sponsorships, the commercials, the magazine shoots, the giant LED billboards plastered across Seoul with his face on them? That part fed his ego beautifully.
Jeong Jihoon had long since become the league’s golden boy. Gen G’s star player. Korea’s pride. Every production team knew it too. In almost every promotional campaign over the past few years, Jihoon had been positioned front and centre like he belonged there naturally. And honestly? He deserved it.
Which was exactly why he was currently staring at Coach Ryu with utter disbelief after hearing today’s filming arrangement.
“Five seconds?” Jihoon repeated slowly, as if the number physically offended him.
Coach Ryu sighed.
“Five,” Jihoon echoed again, voice rising this time. “Seconds.”
Five fucking seconds.
It had to be some kind of joke. His irritation only exploded further the moment he found out who had approved the final screentime distribution.
Lee fucking Sanghyeok.
Of course it was him.
Jihoon scoffed under his breath, jaw tightening.
“Relax,” Coach Ryu said, already sounding exhausted. “You’ve had the spotlight for years. One short appearance isn’t going to kill you.”
“That’s not the point.” Jihoon lowered his voice instinctively, careful not to attract attention from the dozens of players and staff roaming the set outside. “Why does he suddenly get to decide this kind of thing anyway? He was never involved in previous shoots.”
“He was,” Coach Ryu corrected calmly. “Just behind the scenes. Junsik-shi simply assisted the on-site management for him.”
Jihoon frowned. “Wait. Junsik hyung and that asshole work together?”
Coach Ryu nodded once, though Jihoon could see his disapproval for the name Jihoon used to describe the man.
“Junsik’s taking a long vacation with Jeesun-shi, apparently. So Sanghyeok-shi had to take over temporarily.”
“That’s unbelievable.” Jihoon let out a humorless laugh. “Junsik hyung’s cool. That guy is just—”
Coach Ryu shot him a warning glare before he could finish.
“Jeong Jihoon.” The single word was enough to make him click his tongue in annoyance.
“You seriously need to get your ego under control,” the coach continued. “It’s only a promotional video, not the Ballon d'Or ceremony. Less screentime doesn’t magically erase your talent.”
Jihoon folded his arms and huffed in annoyance.
“Now stop whining and go get changed before he walks in here himself and smacks you. If he does that, I will let him.”
Jihoon rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, but he obeyed anyway, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he headed toward the dressing room.
The moment he stepped inside, the familiar chaos greeted him instantly.
Hair stylists darted around with clips between their teeth. Makeup artists hovered under bright vanity lights. Clothing racks crowded the walls. The smell of hairspray and expensive cologne lingered heavily in the air.
Jaehyuk was currently trapped in a makeup chair while two different stylists worked on him simultaneously, one fixing his hair while another dabbed concealer beneath his eyes. Beside him, Kiin sat equally motionless, looking half-asleep beneath the bright lights.
Meanwhile, Geonbu lounged comfortably on a small sofa in the corner, eyes closed and head against the backrest like he had absolutely no responsibilities in life. Minkyu and the others were nowhere to be seen.
Geonbu glanced up first.
“What’s with your face?”
At that, everyone else turned toward Jihoon too.
“Nothing,” Jihoon muttered flatly before dropping himself onto the sofa beside Geonbu. “Just saw the script.”
Jaehyuk snorted immediately.
“I’m not gonna lie, Jihoon-ah, I thought you’d be the center again.” He tilted his head sympathetically. “Guess they have other plans this year.”
“That Lee Sanghyeok and his ideas can fuck off,” Jihoon grumbled. “Five seconds. He cut me down to five fucking seconds.”
Every single person in the room blinked. Then Kiin started laughing first.
“Wait,” Jaehyuk said slowly, visibly confused. “Didn’t you literally say yesterday that you hoped your part would be short because you were tired of filming promotional content?”
Jihoon grimaced.
“That’s not the point.”
“So, you were just blabbering when you said you want shorter shooting time. And now you’re sulking because you actually get what you asked for.”
“Hyung,” Jihoon groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop saying it out loud. It hurts my pride.”
The room erupted into laughter, and Jihoon only looked more offended.
“First he ignores me completely that day,” he continued bitterly, “and now he cuts my screentime down to five seconds? The audacity this man has, seriously.” He raised both hands suddenly, fingers curling violently like he was crushing an invisible object. “I want to wring his neck.”
“Wow,” Geonbu muttered, clearly entertained. “This might actually be the first person I’ve ever seen successfully get under Jihoon’s skin. Such tension.”
“What tension are we talking about?”
The dressing room door swung open unexpectedly. Wangho walked in carrying four canned drinks balanced carefully in his arms, with Minkyu trailing behind him looking thoroughly unimpressed about being dragged around again.
Despite HLE losing to Gen G just last week, Wangho looked annoyingly cheerful as always. Jihoon supposed some things never changed. Even after transferring teams earlier this season, the older player still floated between clubs like he belonged everywhere.
“Jihoon’s mad because he only gets five seconds in the teaser,” Kiin explained immediately, still laughing.
“Oh.” Wangho blinked once. “That.”
Jihoon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You know about it?”
“Yeah, Sanghyeok hyung showed me the full script, and I asked him about it earlier.”
The nickname made Jihoon’s expression twitch instantly. Hyung? Also, what business does he have showing Gen G’s script to others club’s player?
Wangho continued casually, completely oblivious to the sudden hostility radiating from Jihoon’s direction.
“He said,” Wangho takes a sip of his drink, “‘He already dominates every promotional video anyway. It’s only fair to let other players shine too.’”
Jihoon rolled his eyes for what had to be the hundredth time today.
Still, something about hearing Wangho call him hyung irritated him more than it reasonably should have. Are they close? Why is he calling that man hyung, and why is that man sharing scripts to him?
“He’s right though,” Wangho added with a grin while handing out the drinks. “We’d appreciate a chance to exist too, superstar.”
Before Jihoon could fire back a response, a staff member appeared at the open doorway. “Peanut-seonsu? Sanghyeok-nim is looking for you.”
“Oh, coming!” Wangho waved lazily before disappearing down the hallway with the staff member.
The room quieted again.
“Chovy-seonsu?” One of the makeup artists gestured toward the now-empty chair Kiin had vacated.
“Your turn.”
Jihoon exhaled heavily before standing. Geonbu too has made his way towards the seat Jaehyuk was previously on.
For the next twenty minutes, he sat in silence while brushes swept across his skin and stylists fussed endlessly with his hair. He scrolled through his phone absentmindedly, pretending he wasn’t irritated anymore. Pretending he wasn’t waiting to see if Lee Sanghyeok would walk into the room. Pretending the thought alone didn’t annoy him even more.
Gen G was finally called to get ready on set.
Like always, Jaehyuk had been given the speaking role. He was the captain after all, the steady voice of the team, the reliable captain meant to deliver dramatic lines about glory, ambition, and victory while cinematic music swelled in the background.
Usually, though, the visuals belonged to Jihoon.
Jaehyuk’s narration would play over slow-motion shots of Jihoon walking through smoke, adjusting his gloves, lifting his chin toward the camera like the protagonist of the entire league. The production teams loved using him that way. Fans loved it even more.
This time, however, things were painfully different.
Jihoon’s entire role consisted of standing still for five seconds while the camera slowly panned from his feet to his face.
That was it.
No dramatic close-ups. No center sequence. No ending shot.
Five miserable seconds.
Before Gen G’s turn, Jihoon had watched T1 film their segment on the neighboring set, surrounded by towering black-and-red backdrops lit with sharp crimson lights. Staff bustled around adjusting cameras while smoke machines hissed softly near the stage floor.
And there he was again.
Lee Sanghyeok.
At first, Sanghyeok had been actively involved in the shoot, speaking quietly with the production crew while monitoring camera angles and directing certain scenes himself. Jihoon watched him gesture toward a monitor once, discussing something with the director in a calm, low voice before eventually stepping away and leaving the rest to the filming team.
Then, to Jihoon’s disbelief, the man sat down alone in the corner of the room and pulled out a fucking book.
A real book.
Not a phone. Not a tablet.
A book.
Jihoon genuinely could not comprehend this man.
As the hours passed, Sanghyeok would occasionally glance up from the pages to observe the filming process before lowering his eyes once more, entirely absorbed in whatever world existed between those covers.
And no, Jihoon absolutely was not staring.
His gaze merely… drifted there sometimes.
Repeatedly.
Against his will.
It was infuriating.
Eventually, T1 wrapped up their shoot. Jihoon exchanged fist bumps with Oner, Doran, Keria, and Peyz as they passed by, while the remaining players offered casual farewells on their way out.
Then Jihoon noticed Oner lingering beside Sanghyeok.
The two exchanged a few quiet words. Something soft crossed Sanghyeok’s face then, a small smile, subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it. But Jihoon did.
Oner laughed at something before waving goodbye and leaving after the others.
Jihoon frowned unconsciously. Does he get along with anyone outside Gen G?
The thought surfaced before he could stop it.
“Chovy-seonsu!”
The director’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Your turn!”
Jihoon clicked his tongue softly and stepped toward the filming platform.
Around him, staff hurried to finalize the set. Gold-and-black decorations framed the stage beneath harsh studio lights while towering faux marble statues stood near the backdrop to create the illusion of grandeur. Someone adjusted the fog machine. Another fixed the angle of the camera positioned low against the floor.
Jihoon inhaled deeply.
Oddly enough, he felt more nervous filming this pathetic five-second scene than he ever had during full-day commercial shoots.
And he knew exactly why.
Because only a few feet away, Lee Sanghyeok remained seated quietly in the corner with his legs crossed, flipping another page without sparing Jihoon a single glance.
Still ignoring him.
Still completely uninterested.
Tch.
“Starting in three!”
A staff member raised their hand.
Jihoon positioned himself carefully, body angled slightly toward the camera stationed near the floor.
“Two…”
He lowered his gaze toward his feet, mentally preparing the same cold expression that had intimidated countless opponents across the field.
“One!”
The camera began rolling.
Slowly, it travelled upward from his legs. To his waist. To his shoulders. And the moment the lens reached his face, Jihoon lifted his eyes directly toward Lee Sanghyeok.
Toward the man still sitting in that corner. Still reading. Still utterly oblivious.
Jihoon stared at him with sharp, piercing intensity, the same look reporters often described as predatory before important matches. The same gaze that unsettled defenders and made rookies avoid eye contact during interviews.
Yet none of it affected Sanghyeok. Not even slightly.
What is so interesting about that damn book?
Why won’t he look at me?
“And cut!”
The director’s delighted voice rang through the studio. “That was perfect, Chovy-seonsu! Exactly the expression we wanted.”
Jihoon barely heard him.
His attention lingered stubbornly on Sanghyeok for another second longer before he finally looked away. Then, without another word, he turned and headed back toward the dressing room. Leaving his teammates on the set who are still waiting for their turns.
Take your fucking five seconds.
As Jihoon prepares his things to go back home after the shooting is wrapped up, he stayed quieter than usual. Even after they boarded the bus, even after the city lights blurred past the windows, his thoughts remained stuck on one person.
Lee Sanghyeok.
Pale skin. Calm eyes. Polite voice. A man Jihoon had never met before. Or at least, someone he should not care about. Yet somehow, the man’s complete lack of interest kept replaying in his mind more vividly than any of the cheers from the last match.
It was ridiculous.
Jihoon knew exactly who he was. The best midfielder in South Korea. His trophies, his statistics, and his oceans of fans proved it.
On any other night, he would already be scrolling through clips of his goals online, grinning at edits and praise flooding social media. He would be basking in it as he deserved to.
So why did it feel like his recent performance suddenly meant less? Why did one man’s indifference weigh heavier than an entire stadium chanting his name? Was it because Lee Sanghyeok represented the league itself? Did some irrational part of Jihoon feel as though the league had failed to acknowledge him?
Nonsense.
The league practically built marketing campaigns around him. They uploaded endless highlight compilations, promotional posters, congratulatory posts whenever he broke another record.
If anything, they shoved his name into every corner of Korean football until even overseas fans recognized him.
So why—
From the corner of his eye, Jihoon caught Jaehyuk stealing worried glances towards him. He must’ve noticed Jihoon’s sour mood. But thankfully, the captain said nothing. Jihoon appreciated that. Because he didn’t know how to explain this strange irritation himself.
With a frustrated sigh, he shoved his earphones in and turned the volume up high enough to drown out his thoughts.
---
For two weeks straight, Jihoon hadn’t seen the man he had decided to dislike.
Two weeks of peace, of roaring crowds and flashing cameras, of headlines singing his praises in oversized fonts. Two weeks of being exactly who the world believed him to be: untouchable.
And then today, the bane of his existence decided to show up again.
The stadium lights burned white against the evening sky as Gen G dismantled BNK FearX with ruthless ease. Chovy curled a free kick from well outside the penalty box, the ball slicing through the air before burying itself into the top-right corner right before half time.
The net rippled, and the stadium exploded.
That marks his seventh goal of the season.
For an attacking midfielder, the numbers were absurd. Six goals in four matches, including the hat trick from three weeks ago, and now another screamer to add to the growing collection clips flooding social media every weekend. Analysts called him the most dangerous player in the league right now. Fans called him a playmaking genius, a goalscoring machine. Reporters had already started comparing his stats to strikers.
Even T1’s striker Peyz had only matched his tally with an extra game played.
Jihoon, no, Chovy intended to surpass him soon enough.
The chants started almost immediately.
“Chovy! Chovy! Chovy!”
His codename echoed across the stadium in waves, deafening and triumphant. He should’ve felt satisfied. Should’ve soaked in the attention the way he always did, chin tilted slightly upward, basking in the certainty that every pair of eyes in the arena belonged to him.
Instead, his own gaze drifted elsewhere, toward the broadcasting section.
Toward him.
Sanghyeok stood near the cameras with a headset around his neck, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows despite the cold. The moment the crowd erupted, Sanghyeok has taken a second to glance at the crowd, before returning his attention to speak to a staff as if nothing has happened.
Not watching the game.
Not watching Chovy.
Ridiculous.
There were forty thousand people screaming his name, and yet this one man refused to give it to him.
The smile on his face remained for the cameras, practiced and sharp, but it no longer reached his eyes.
The second half became a personal act of violence.
Jihoon tore through midfield lines like they were paper, his movements sharp and effortless. Long passes curved perfectly into space. Crosses landed exactly where they needed to. By the seventieth minute, he’d collected three assists on top of his goal, orchestrating Gen G’s attack with cruel precision.
Yet whenever the referee blew the whistle, whenever the game stalled for a few seconds, Jihoon’s eyes wandered instinctively back to the broadcasting area.
Sanghyeok remained infuriatingly composed.
One moment he spoke quietly with a production staff member. The next, he scribbled something into his notebook without even glancing toward the pitch. Under the harsh stadium lights, his expression stayed calm, detached, professional, and indifferent.
Jihoon hated it.
He hated the way Sanghyeok never reacted the way everyone else did. Never looked impressed. Never looked awed. As though Jihoon’s brilliance was merely another scheduled part of the evening program.
When Gen G scored their eighth goal, the stadium erupted once more. Jihoon sprinted toward the stands on instinct, arms spread wide as the crowd screamed themselves hoarse. The game ended with the final whistle five minutes after that.
Gen G won 8–0.
The headlines tomorrow would call him extraordinary. Untouchable. The star of the league.
Yet all Jihoon could think about, standing beneath the thunder of thousands chanting his name, was how one man could make him feel unbearably small.
---
The weight of defeat sat heavy on Jihoon’s shoulders as he walked off the pitch.
Gen G had lost. Not just lost, they were out.
The giant screens above the stadium still flashed G2’s victory graphics in blinding colours while the Brazilian crowd roared loud enough to shake the stands. The opposing team’s flags waved wildly in celebration, the noise following Jihoon all the way down the entrance tunnel like a cruel echo he couldn’t escape.
His chest burned.
Sweat clung cold against his skin beneath his jersey, exhaustion settling deep into his bones now that the adrenaline had nowhere left to go. Around him, his teammates trudged silently toward the changing room, heads lowered, shoulders slumped with the same disbelief and frustration weighing Jihoon down.
They had been favourites coming into the international tournament. And G2 had dismantled them completely.
From the first whistle, Gen G had looked unstable, passes intercepted too easily, their midfield pressured relentlessly, every weakness exposed with humiliating precision. Jihoon had tried to hold the game together by force, dropping deeper, creating chances from impossible angles, running until his lungs burned raw.
It hadn’t mattered. Nothing he did mattered.
The final whistle had sounded with brutal finality, and suddenly it was over.
Jihoon swallowed hard. He hated losing more than anything.
He can already picture the headlines that would come soon, he knows that those would be merciless. He knows that analysts are already working to dissect every mistake he made frame by frame.
CHOVY FALLS SHORT AGAIN.
GEN G ELIMINATED IN DISAPPOINTING SEMIFINAL.
People would call him overrated. Choker. Fraud. They always did after losses like this. His social media would already be flooded with criticism by now, strangers picking apart every missed pass and failed chance with vicious delight.
Jihoon slowed slightly when he noticed movement to his right.
A familiar figure stood near the tunnel entrance, only a few meters away.
He looked up, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
It was Sanghyeok.
Dressed neatly as always despite the chaos around them, dark coat untouched, event credentials hanging from his neck. Unlike everyone else rushing around backstage, he stood perfectly still, gaze directed toward the stadium behind them where the celebration still thundered on.
Jihoon’s jaw tightened instinctively.
Even now, after one of the worst losses of his career, Sanghyeok looked infuriatingly calm.
“You played well.”
The words hit Jihoon harder than the defeat itself.
His hands curled immediately into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.
You played well?
Is he serious?
Something ugly twisted violently in Jihoon’s chest.
For months, Sanghyeok had barely acknowledged him. Jihoon had scored impossible goals, carried matches on his back, listened to entire stadiums chant his name, and Sanghyeok had remained indifferent through all of it. As though Jihoon’s brilliance wasn’t worth a second glance.
But now?
Now, after Jihoon had failed on a big stage, after the entire world had just watched Gen G collapse, suddenly Sanghyeok wanted to speak to him?
A bitter laugh nearly escaped him.
Jihoon had learned long ago how to survive public disappointment. How to smile through criticism and bury humiliation beneath arrogance before anyone noticed it hurt. But hearing praise now, especially from Sanghyeok, felt more piercing than the insults that he knew would fill his social medias.
Because it sounded like pity.
And Jihoon would rather be hated than pitied.
His pride, already cracked open by defeat, twisted painfully at Sanghyeok’s words.
The idea of being pitied made heat flare behind his ribs.
Who the fuck does he thinks he is?
“I don’t need your pity.”
The words came out harsher than intended, low and biting. Jihoon didn’t stay long enough to wait for his reaction. He knows Sanghyeok will just put on his default face anyway. He tore his gaze away immediately and walked past him, quickening his pace as though putting physical distance between them could smother the humiliating tightness in his chest.
The cheers from the stadium still echoed behind him.
---
A month had passed since Gen G’s crushing elimination at the hands of the European side.
In that month, the league moved on as if nothing had happened.
Gen G kept winning. Stadiums still roared with every matchday, cameras still followed Jihoon wherever he went, and headlines continued to sing his praises. He scored goal after goal with almost arrogant consistency, stacked assists beside his name as though it were effortless, and climbed to the top of the scoring charts before anyone else could even catch up. By the end of the month, the league crowned him Player of the Month, another reminder that Jeong Jihoon was still untouchable on the pitch.
And somehow, Lee Sanghyeok kept appearing in the middle of it all.
Not constantly. Never enough to become familiar. Sanghyeok simply drifted around the edges of his life like a ghost, present at sponsorship events, lingering near training grounds, exchanging quiet conversations with club executives before disappearing again. He never went out of his way to approach Jihoon, never interrupted him.
Jihoon normally had no trouble ignoring people like that. Men in suits, corporate representatives, sponsors, they blurred together eventually. None of them mattered enough to hold his attention for long.
But Lee Sanghyeok was different. And annoyingly so.
Jihoon’s gaze kept finding him across crowded rooms without permission. During media days, his eyes would wander instinctively toward the figure standing at the side of the stage. At post-match interviews, he would notice Sanghyeok standing several foot away. Even during training, Jihoon would sometimes catch sight of him from afar, expression unreadable, hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets.
And every single time, Sanghyeok never looked back.
That was the part Jihoon hated most.
Not the indifference itself, he had dealt with plenty of cold people before, but the fact that Lee Sanghyeok could crawl under his skin so effortlessly without even trying. Without saying anything. Without doing anything at all.
His teammates, naturally, found the entire thing hilarious.
“You’re obsessed,” Kiin had declared one evening after catching Jihoon staring across the lounge for the third time in an hour.
“It’s like watching someone experience their first unrequited crush,” Jaehyuk added between fits of laughter.
Jihoon nearly kicked both of them off the couch for that.
Jeong Jihoon had spent most of his life with people gravitating toward him first. Fans adored him, reporters chased after him, strangers fell over themselves just to earn a fraction of his attention. He was used to being wanted. Used to people looking at him first.
So why was Lee Sanghyeok the only person who seemed entirely unaffected by his existence?
Why did Jihoon care so much?
It irritated him to no end.
So, once again Jihoon decided to simply ignore him.
Unfortunately, he failed at that miserably.
---
The Gen G team bus rolled to a smooth stop in front of the grand hotel entrance earlier than scheduled.
Outside, camera flashes burst endlessly beneath the night sky, reporters crowding behind barricades while fans screamed at the sight of the players stepping out one by one.
Tonight, Gen G looked nothing like the chaotic group usually shoving each other before matches.
Every player was dressed in tailored black tuxedos, polished leather shoes gleaming beneath the golden lights lining the red carpet. Their hair had actually been styled for once, expensive cologne replacing the usual scent of sports drinks and sweat.
Jihoon nearly laughed the moment he stepped off the bus. Because despite how elegant they looked, half the team were trying so hard to appear cool that their movements had become painfully unnatural.
Minkyu walked with his shoulders absurdly stiff, clearly attempting to imitate runway models he’d probably watched online five minutes earlier. Kiin kept adjusting his cuffs every few seconds like he was attending a royal wedding instead of a corporate gala. Even Jaehyuk, usually relaxed, was wearing an expression so serious it bordered on comedic.
Jihoon bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too obviously.
As he walked down the carpet with one hand tucked casually into his pocket, his muffled smile only made him appear smug and devastatingly handsome. Reporters immediately called his name louder, camera shutters clicking rapidly as Jihoon gave effortless nods toward the crowd.
Beside him, Geonbu muttered under his breath, “God, they’re trying too hard. They look so unnatural.”
Jihoon snorted softly. “Tell me about it.”
Ahead of them, Jaehyuk immediately turned around with narrowed eyes.
“I can hear you, you know.”
“Good,” Geonbu replied flatly. “Now stop acting like that. You’re embarrassing our club.”
“Hey,” Jaehyuk protested, offended instantly. “How dare you talk to your captain like that?”
Their bickering continued all the way up the carpet, earning laughs from nearby reporters who caught snippets of the exchange. Jihoon simply shook his head fondly, waving once more toward the cameras before following the others toward the ballroom entrance.
The gala tonight was enormous.
SK Telecom was celebrating one of the biggest years in the company’s history, a record-breaking expansion into global markets that had become national news in South Korea. Alongside that success came another announcement that had shaken the esports industry entirely.
The LCK had officially reached its highest viewership numbers ever recorded.
Twenty percent higher than the previous record. Ironically, both records belonged to matches between Gen.G and T1.
The rivalry had become something far bigger than domestic competition now. It was entertainment at a global scale.
Every LCK organization had been invited tonight to celebrate the milestone.
Mid-season tension lingered heavily beneath the glamorous atmosphere, however. MSI qualifications were approaching fast, and the race for the top four spots had become brutally competitive this year. Even Gen.G, despite remaining one of the strongest teams in the league, had suffered enough losses recently to lose their place at the top of the standings.
Surprisingly, Jihoon wasn’t as frustrated by it as he thought he would be.
If anything, the fierce competition only reinforced how terrifyingly good the LCK truly was. The fact that analysts and fans still unanimously called him the best midfielder in the league despite Gen.G no longer leading the table said enough on its own.
Jihoon liked that. He liked earning recognition in a league where mediocrity couldn’t survive.
The ballroom they entered was breathtaking.
Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their golden reflections scattering across polished marble floors. Round banquet tables filled the hall, each marked neatly with player names and organization logos. Soft classical music drifted through the air beneath the steady hum of conversation from celebrities, executives, athletes, and league officials.
Jihoon spotted familiar faces almost immediately, players from DK, HLE, KT, T1 and the rest.
Some nodded toward him respectfully. Others stared.
A waiter guided Gen.G toward their assigned table, each seat labelled carefully with their tag names in elegant gold lettering.
The official event wouldn’t begin for another thirty minutes.
Naturally, half the team scattered immediately. Some went to greet players from other clubs. Others headed straight toward the alcohol section despite the coaches’ disapproving looks.
Jihoon exchanged a glance with Kiin before both silently making the same decision.
Desserts first.
“You’re unbelievable,” Kiin muttered as they approached the absurdly expensive-looking dessert table.
Jihoon picked up a macaron casually. “Says the one already holding two plates.”
Kiin laughed softly.
As he reached for another dessert, movement near the stage caught his attention.
Sanghyeok.
The man stood near one of the main sponsor banners, dressed impeccably in a black suit that fit him almost unfairly well. Under the warm ballroom lighting, he looked sharper somehow, composed and elegant in a way that drew attention without trying.
He was speaking to an older man Jihoon assumed was one of the company directors. Executives surrounded them, listening attentively while Sanghyeok spoke with calm professionalism.
Jihoon looked away.
Coach Ryu had mentioned earlier this week that Sanghyeok had practically been living at the venue preparing for tonight’s event. Sponsorship galas like this were exactly the kind of thing people in his position handled.
A small part of Jihoon was glad.
Glad Sanghyeok had been too busy to attend Gen G’s recent match against T1. The 2–1 loss still irritated him enough already.
He never wanted to hear pity in Sanghyeok’s voice again.
Jihoon grabbed another plate from the dessert table, balancing far too many sweets onto it when suddenly, someone bumped into him.
“Ah! I’m so sorry!”
A girl stumbled back immediately, eyes widening in horror as Jihoon barely managed to steady the desserts before they crashed onto the floor.
“God, I almost made you drop everything,” she laughed nervously.
Jihoon looked up properly, and instinctively slipped into the polished charm he wore like second skin. The flirtatious persona fans adored. The one reporters constantly labeled playboy.
“It’s okay,” he replied smoothly, smiling easily. “Looking for desserts too?”
The girl blinked, visibly flustered by the attention. “Ah—yes.”
Jihoon grabbed another plate with his free hand and handed it toward her naturally. “Here.”
“Thank you.”
She accepted it shyly before picking out pastries while sneaking obvious glances at him every few seconds.
Cute.
“I’m a big fan,” the girl admitted quietly, as Jihoon leaned casually against one of the marble pillars nearby, posture relaxed and attractive without effort.
Jihoon’s lips curved immediately, amused and warm at the same time.
“Oh?” He tilted his head slightly, eyes glimmering beneath the ballroom lights. “Then I should probably thank you properly for supporting me.”
The girl blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Y-you don’t have to—”
“But I want to.” Jihoon leaned closer to her, lowering his head to gaze entirely on her. “Fans are the reason I survive all those exhausting matches, you know.”
The girl’s cheeks flushed pink almost instantly.
He smiled wider, voice lowering just slightly. “Though honestly, I think this is the first time I’ve met a fan prettier than the actresses displayed on the banners outside.”
Her eyes widened. “W-what?”
“Mhm.” Jihoon nodded thoughtfully, pretending to consider it seriously. “It’s unfair actually. You almost made me drop my desserts earlier, and now you’re distracting me again.”
Predictably, she blushed harder.
He was just about to continue, perhaps tease her a little more for fun, when something shifted suddenly in the air around him.
A presence.
His eyes lifted automatically, and then, his smile faltered.
He frozed.
Sanghyeok was walking toward them. For a brief second, Jihoon genuinely wondered if he was imagining things, because Sanghyeok’s gaze was fixed directly on him.
Those dark, jet black, piercing eyes.
Directly. On. Him.
The ballroom noise seemed to blur strangely around him. The girl must have noticed Jihoon’s sudden silence, which prompted her to turn around to face the man.
“Oh, oppa!”
Sanghyeok stopped beside her immediately. Up close, he looked even more unfairly composed than before. His expression softened slightly as he removed his coat and draped it carefully over the girl’s shoulders before resting a gentle hand against her waist.
“Ari-ya,” he said quietly, “are you done taking desserts?”
She smiled brightly and lifted her plate. “Yes, here.”
“Good,” Sanghyeok replied. “Let’s head back to our table.”
“Okay, oppa.”
But Jihoon barely processed the conversation.
Because throughout the entire exchange, Sanghyeok’s eyes were entirely fixated on him.
A gaze that is not cold nor warm. Just intensely focused in a way Jihoon had never experienced before.
For months, Jihoon had craved acknowledgment from this man like something shameful. Every match, every goal, every impossible performance, part of him had always searched instinctively for Sanghyeok’s reaction.
Now he finally had his attention.
As Sanghyeok turned away with the girl beside him, Jihoon remained frozen near the dessert table, fingers tightening unconsciously around the edge of his plate. Only after they disappeared into the crowd did he finally exhale. Trying desperately to calm the sudden, violent pounding of his heart.
Jihoon found out the truth from the ever-adventurous Wangho who had spawned himself from table to table throughout the night.
If there was one thing Wangho loved more than football, it was gathering information nobody asked for and delivering it with the enthusiasm of a breaking news reporter. At some point during the gala, he had abandoned HLE’s table entirely and started drifting from group to group, somehow returning each time with fresh gossip.
By the end of the night, Wangho knew who had secretly switched agencies, which rookie had been caught clubbing before a match week, and apparently—
“Jo Ari?” Wangho said casually while sipping champagne. “She is Sanghyeok hyung’s girlfriend.”
Jihoon nearly choked on his drink.
Wangho blinked at him. “Why?”
“No reason,” Jihoon replied immediately. Everything from earlier finally made sense.
The coat draped over her shoulders. The hand resting lightly against her waist. The way Sanghyeok had stared at him while talking to her.
Jihoon lowered his gaze toward his glass to hide the dangerous curl threatening his lips.
Ah.
So that was it.
That tiny, controlled gesture from Sanghyeok earlier been a territorial. A gesture that tells him to stay away.
The realization sent a sharp thrill through Jihoon’s chest so unexpectedly that it almost embarrassed him.
Because after months of being ignored, months of chasing acknowledgment like some pathetic addiction, Jihoon had finally gotten a reaction.
So he could look at him after all.
Sanghyeok must’ve felt threatened enough to have such reaction.
The thought bloomed hot and satisfying somewhere deep inside Jihoon, ugly in the way only wounded pride could be. He spent the rest of the evening hiding his amusement behind elegant smiles and half-lidded eyes, but internally, he felt almost unbearably light.
It shouldn’t have pleased him this much.
Hours passed slowly beneath the gold glow of chandeliers and the soft hum of orchestral music. The official speeches had long since ended, but nobody seemed eager to leave. Expensive wine continued flowing endlessly, waiters carrying silver trays through clusters of athletes and executives still deep in conversation.
At Gen G’s table, the atmosphere had deteriorated into predictable chaos.
Kiin and Geonbu were arguing over the significance of each roles. Jaehyuk was passionately defending himself against accusations of flirting too much during interviews. Wangho, naturally, continued fueling gossip like his life depended on it.
“Did you hear about-”
“No,” Jihoon interrupted flatly.
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“Still no.”
Wangho pouted.
Coach Ryu eventually approached the table with visible exhaustion. “Alright. We’re leaving in ten minutes, so wrap up whatever nonsense you’re doing.”
A chorus of complaints followed immediately.
Jihoon stood from his chair with a quiet sigh, adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo absentmindedly. His social battery had long since died hours ago. Until he noticed someone approaching.
Jo Ari.
The moment their eyes met, Jihoon felt something shift instinctively inside him.
Yes.
The girl walked toward him with clear determination despite the visible nervousness in her expression. Her hands were clasped carefully in front of her dress, cheeks slightly flushed as she stopped in front of him.
“Chovy-seonsu,” she called softly.
Jihoon smiled automatically.
“I haven’t properly introduced myself yet,” she continued. “I’m Jo Ari. I’m really happy to finally meet you in person.” She extended her hand politely for a handshake.
And suddenly, a thought entered Jihoon’s mind.
Simple.
Petty.
And cruel.
The kind of thought that should’ve disgusted him, yet it thrilled him.
For months, Jihoon had felt small beneath Sanghyeok’s indifference. He had chased the man’s attention without understanding why, growing more frustrated each time Sanghyeok looked through him like he was ordinary.
But tonight changed everything.
Because now Jihoon knew exactly how to make Sanghyeok look at him.
And if the only thing capable of pulling emotion from that infuriatingly composed man was his girlfriend, then maybe Jihoon should take her away from him. Purely out of spite.
The realization settled into his chest with frightening ease.
Jihoon lowered his head briefly, pretending to adjust his sleeve just to hide the grin threatening to break across his face.
Yes.
When he looked back up, his expression had transformed completely into something devastatingly charming.
“Jo Ari-ssi,” he said smoothly, voice warm enough to melt through nervousness instantly. “I’ve heard your name already.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
Jihoon stepped closer before gently taking her hand into his own. His fingers curled carefully around hers. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted her hand toward his lips and pressed a slow kiss against her knuckles.
The gesture was old-fashioned enough to feel intimate. Jo Ari froze entirely.
A blush spread rapidly across her face as Jihoon smiled against her skin, elegant and effortless like he’d performed this exact move a thousand times before. And perhaps he had.
But Jihoon wasn’t paying attention to her reaction.
The moment he straightened again, his gaze shifted immediately past her shoulder, toward the stage. Toward him.
Lee Sanghyeok stood several meters away beside a group of executives, one older man still speaking beside him about something Jihoon doubted he was listening to anymore.
Because Sanghyeok was once again staring directly at him.
Yes.
No distraction.
No indifference.
Just a long, unwavering gaze sharp enough to pin Jihoon in place from across the ballroom.
Unreadable. But undeniably focused.
The air between them suddenly felt strange. Heavy. Jihoon felt his pulse quicken violently beneath his ribs.
Yes.
There it is.
That attention he’d wanted so desperately.
Keep your eyes on me.
Jihoon smiled slowly, still holding Jo Ari’s hand lightly in his own.
And for the first time in months, victory tasted unbearably sweet.