#because it was jungle themed! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eightmakesonebraincell · 1 month ago

Text

our leaves must fall before our flowers can bloom

genre: poly hockey team!ateez x coach fem!reader, enemies/strangers to lovers, athlete!au, slow burn, fluff, angst

length: 37.6k

c/w: sweaty and athletic ateez (warning well deserved), explicit profanity, themes of corruption and rocky family relationships, trauma, hurt/comfort, injuries, kissing, boys are in an established relationship, m x m interactions

synopsis: you become the new coach of the elite men's ice hockey team, the red devils. but with both yourself and the team carrying burdens of the past, you all find it difficult to see eye to eye. as you lead them to the championships in the korean ice hockey league, you discover that teamwork and trust is not as straightforward as it seems.

a/n: it has made me incredibly touched to see so many of my readers from the essence of youth come back to support this new oneshot. thank you from the bottom of my heart ♡ and as always, this fic would not have been possible without @sorryimananti-romantic and her undying support

if someone were to ask yunho–or anybody on the team–when he feels the most alive, his answer would be the same every single time: when he is on the ice, just like he is right now.

the air of the rink is already chilly, but with the added cold of emerging autumn, each rugged lungful he takes fills his chest with vigour. only his own heavy breathing can be heard as the rest of the players’ shouts become muffled into the background outside of his helmet. he tightens his grip on his stick, muscles locked and engaged with adrenaline. his vision narrows, an opening suddenly clearing itself through the tangle of sticks and jungle of skates–a golden opportunity for him to take.

“san!” he yells.

their usual goaltender glances upwards as he handles the puck rebounding off the boards. his jaw tightens and with a practised flick of his wrist, san chips the puck over an incoming stick’s attempt to block the pass. there’s a burst of explosive power as yunho speeds up along the opposite boards to receive the landing puck, hoping to break away from the opposing team’s offensive players before he passes it off.

the flash of a blue jersey appears in yunho’s vision with alarming momentum. they lower and widen their stance, shoulder positioned in front ready to knock him directly into the boards in an attempt to steal the puck, leaving yunho with no choice but to mirror their actions. he braces himself as the opponent rams into him with more force than a usual play, and in combination with their own towering height, yunho finds himself being pushed into the plexiglass panels as he loses possession of the puck.

involuntarily, he lets out a threatening growl of vexation. there is a teasing chuckle from the other player that still has him pinned against the wall despite the continuing game, which clearly tells him that the excessive body check was deliberate. yunho has half a mind to flip their positions, knowing he could easily overpower the other. but before he can adjust his stick out of the way to make good use of his hands, the opponent playfully knocks their helmets together.

“you’re hot when you get all competitive and riled up.”

all of the tension escapes yunho’s body, because he will never not find mingi’s attempts to flirt mid-game–with his mouthguard and resultant bumbling pronunciation–to be amusing. he endearingly rolls his eyes and sighs, “have you not heard of, ‘don’t poke the bear’?”

“you’re not a bear, though,” mingi squirms cheekily on the spot, still up in yunho’s personal space because he knows the older will never be truly annoyed by his antics. “you’re just a cute, harmless puppy.”

before mingi can blink, yunho grabs him by the shoulders and pins him against the wall. yunho smirks, “and they also say, ‘let sleeping dogs lie’.”

wooyoung tongues his cheek with mischief at the sight of the two, nice and cosy against the walls of the rink. he hands his stick off to seonghwa, who is starting to remove his helmet, and skates in their direction, ignoring the dull throb in his left ankle. wooyoung only bothers to slow himself down slightly, instead letting his trajectory be cushioned by something else.

mingi lets out a pathetic noise as the air is squeezed out of his chest from the impact of wooyoung and yunho’s added weight. the latter grunts out, a little breathless, “woo, please, you’re going to knock somebody out like this one day.”

it goes in one ear and out the other as wooyoung grins up at him to state, “seonghwa scored so we lost ‘cause you were too busy making out with mister mingles here.”

yunho pushes off the wall to free himself from the sandwich of bodies and pivots on his skates to jab wooyoung’s padded chest. “you and san were doing the exact same thing just five minutes ago.”

“we’re on the same team,” wooyoung shrugs, “whereas mingi is not, so you’re fraternising with the enemy. now come on losers, captain’s wrapping up practice.”

the three of them glide along the ice to rejoin the rest of the team, where they are stepping out of the rink to sit on the benches. they remove their helmets and start unlacing their skates as hongjoong gathers the attention of the team.

“great work from everybody today, especially you, jongho. your backhand wrist shots are improving–keep it up. now just a reminder to everyone that our regular games start next week so i want you all to make sure you are stretching and cooling down properly,” he emphasises. he pointedly looks at yeosang, who has already begun to wander his way off to the changerooms, at the same time that seonghwa scruffs him by the back of his jersey and gently tugs him back to the team.

jongho peels off his blue practice jersey as he scans the arena and absentmindedly asks, “is coach still not here? it’s already the end of practice.”

“he said he had something to sort out today, but would come round if everything went well,” seonghwa answers, also craning his neck to look for signs of their coach.

from where you and coach cho are watching from the designated scouting area in the arena, the team is unable to spot you two. you had come from the final negotiations of your contract with coach cho and had watched their team, the red devils, play the last period of their game. despite it only being a friendly match amongst the team’s players, you have already grasped a sense of their playing style–it is heavy on the offensive at the expense of defence, just like how you used to play. it is fast-paced, aggressive and…prone to injury.

“let’s go meet the team,” coach cho voices, making his way out of the viewing area as you follow beside him. all the players look up from their skates that they are still unlacing or from their stretches on the floor when you two near the arrangement of benches surrounding the rink. they greet coach cho enthusiastically and you can see why from the way the older man smiles at them like they are his own sons.

“y/n, this is the team, the red devils–my pride and joy. boys, this is y/n,” he introduces. “i had to miss practice to meet up with y/n and make sure she was happy to sign on as part of the red devils.”

said team gives you disinterested glances, a complete change from the receptivity with which they respond to coach cho. one of the red-jerseyed boys, who you recognise as wooyoung, utters sarcastically, “cute, but we don’t need a mascot or cheerleader.”

coach cho chuckles lightly, “she’s your new coach.”

“hold on, you were serious about–” “–are you coaching a different team–” “–you don’t want us anymore?”

some of the boys erupt into a barrage of questions, trying to make sense of the sudden announcement, whereas the others stay quiet, flickers of flashbacks stirring up from within the depths of their memories. their coach raises his hands to settle them as he apologises, “i didn’t want to say anything before i was one hundred percent sure that things would go ahead, and i wasn’t sure whether y/n would accept the offer.”

“is it because your wife is due soon?” san interrupts.

coach cho nods, “with twins, and i want to be present to help–as a husband and a father. but that just isn’t feasible as your coach, as much as i love you boys.”

training as professional athletes takes incredible perseverance, discipline and commitment. there are early mornings, late nights, weekends and public holidays. it takes sacrifices in the form of time and relationships, especially when they must travel away from home for up to weeks on end to compete in matches. and with the start of the regular season, the intensity is only going to ramp up. as hard as the athletes train, the coach works twice as hard to make it all possible.

the team needs somebody to be there for them to ensure they make it into the playoffs, and it just won’t be fair for anybody–the players and his own family–if coach cho were to keep his position. and the team gets it, they really do, but–

“she’s the new coach?” yunho frowns in confusion. “no offence, but we’re not a bunch of kids for her to practise being a soccer mum to.”

“she was the assistant coach for the grey eagles,” coach cho discloses.

“the grey eagles? the under-21 men’s championship team?” yeosang looks incredulous.

mingi sceptically comments, “the fact that we’ve never seen or heard of her before probably tells us enough.”

hongjoong’s lips purse sourly as he tries his hardest to analyse the situation with the professionalism of the team’s captain. but with the sudden change in coaches and the same critiquing doubts as mingi, hongjoong cannot help but feel his personal judgement webbing over his mind. over the team’s entire career as an elite ice hockey team thus far–five years, now well into their sixth–the red devils have only ever had two coaches. coach cho has been with them for the longest and whilst it took the team a while to eventually warm up to him, he has been with them for almost quadruple the amount of time it took to trust him.

the team’s alternate captain, seonghwa, speaks to you directly, “if you don’t mind me asking, why are you not playing as an athlete yourself? you’re clearly our age–nowhere near retiring.”

you knew from the very start that your age would make your credibility as a coach much lower, and your answer to seonghwa will not help your case either. “i stopped playing.”

“how come?”

the trigger of memories fills your nose with a sharp stinging smell. you blankly reveal, “i chose to stop playing.” you know exactly how it sounds like to somebody else, even more so to professional athletes. coach cho has also told you of the team’s hardheadedness and strong will when it comes to the passions of their career, so you are expecting the cold receptiveness that you are met with.

your response strikes the wrong chord within wooyoung. there was a point in his career not too long ago when the choice of continuing to play or not was at risk of becoming a forced decision. the way you answer so callously with those very words that had threatened to tear his world apart has his jaw grinding and eyes darkening, and he is not the only athlete in the arena who feels similarly.

“i would rather choose to die before i choose to stop playing. ice hockey is my entire life and without it, i am not living either,” hongjoong jabs and you cannot help but clench your fists because you know exactly what he means. still, you stay quiet as he continues, “sorry, but i can’t respect a ‘coach’ who chose to stop playing.”

at the captain’s words and subsequent move to leave for the changerooms, the rest of the team also gather their equipment and follow his steps. san’s feet falter in front of you, expression hesitant until he decides to voice, “our team needs a bit of time. it’s hard for us to warm up to…outsiders, and i know it might not mean much to say this but we have our reasons. don’t expect us to blindly trust you just because you’re a coach.”

the use of the word ‘outsider’ does not go unnoticed as you nod, “of course.”

san jogs off to rejoin the others and coach cho hums, “guess some things haven’t changed. they were just as prickly to me when i first became their coach.”

you raise an eyebrow, “prickly? to you?”

“yes, believe it or not,” he chuckles nostalgically. “we’ve come a long way because i’ve been their coach for years now. but it took me a while before i was able to break down their walls.”

you briefly mull over the information, then ask out of curiosity, “what would you have done if i didn’t sign the contract?”

“begged you to rethink your decision,” he jokes with a pleased chortle. “i would have to start looking for a different coach, i suppose. you were my only pick.”

“but why me, of all people? there are so many other experienced coaches that you can choose from.”

he looks at you, eyes glinting with intuition and confidence as he simply says, “you’re familiar with their playing style. they play just like you used to.” at your silent processing, coach cho probes, “why didn’t you tell them the real reason?”

you smile wistfully, “i didn't tell them because i’m not here to gain their pity.”

some of the boys’ voices grow louder as they emerge from the changerooms, changed into fresh clothes and their kit bags slung over their shoulders. you hear one of them ask, “captain, is she really going to be our new coach?”

they step out from the facility’s corridor and you accidentally make eye contact with hongjoong, yet neither of you look away. maintaining a steady gaze directly at you, he responds with a slight glower, “maybe, but she’s only the coach by title. i’m still the captain of the team, so let’s see who everyone listens to.”

as they exit the rink’s arena, you feel a fire of determination growing inside of you. you have won over your own demons and you have won the championships before–this is nothing in comparison. whether your next words are for coach cho or for yourself to hear, it does not matter.

“i may not play anymore but i was still once an athlete, and no athlete has ever, in their career, wanted pity. i’m here to earn the team’s respect and i will win over them, especially their captain.”

you watch the swing of the glass door as it shuts behind the players, catching a brief glimpse of the trees lining the arena’s perimeter. it is the first day of autumn when you meet the red devils for the first time and outside, the leaves are beginning to change their colours.

autumn, 2018: pre-season

hongjoong believes all coaches are to be respected. it does not matter what kind of team they coach, how many years of experience they have, or whether they have built up a reputation for themselves. to hongjoong, respect for coaches is not something earned nor negotiable–it is something well-deserved and expected, as is for anybody in a position that is higher in the chain of command.

he may be the captain of their unofficial team, but hongjoong knows that the way a team can place their blind trust in the coach is irreplaceable, regardless of how much the other players rely on him too.

hongjoong watches as his boys carry out the practice drill he has set up for them. yeosang handles the puck around the cones before passing it to wooyoung, primed offensively near the goal to make a quick shot, who groans when his shot rebounds off the post. as he retrieves the disc, yeosang takes over wooyoung’s position near the goal ready to receive yunho’s pass as he starts to work his way through the cones next.

they are limited in the type of drills they can practise because hongjoong was only able to rent half of the community rink for a measly two hours. the boys are not even in proper uniform, wearing only their shin guards under their sweatpants and gloves on their hands to prevent any injuries when the centre had stated very firmly they would not be allowed in with their bulky equipment.

and yet, none of this has dampened the boys’ spirits. san teasingly brags that it is his chance to show off his skills other than goaltending, and jongho thanks hongjoong quietly for renting the rink in the first place. their understanding nods and comforting hugs make hongjoong’s heart clench, even more so as the team eagerly and diligently practise the drills in mediocre conditions but with fiery determination to prove their worth as newly-signed athletes under the kq blue birds.

this is exactly why hongjoong is driven to find them a coach–any coach: to give his boys a solid pillar they can rely on, because he himself lacks the resources and strings to pull in order to fulfil their shared dreams. he needs to keep his boys as one team, instead of scattered into other teams as extra players like a gracious opportunity for the leftovers, since kq does not yet have a coach available for the eight of them.

“captain!”

the excitement in seonghwa’s voice startles hongjoong more than the speed at which the alternate captain skates towards him. seonghwa digs his skates into the ice at the last second, stopping himself just shy of knocking the other over as he exclaims, “he emailed back!”

“the coach you reached out to?” hongjoong clarifies, eyes growing wide.

having caught wind of his signed contract as a professional athlete, an acquaintance of seonghwa’s had reached out offering to pass on the contact of their acquaintance, who apparently knew somebody with coaching experience. it was rare for a coach to take on a rookie team unless there were incredible benefits, so he and hongjoong had drafted and sent an email with little to no expectations for a reply. but seonghwa’s furious nodding is telling otherwise, and his eyes sparkle as he shoves his phone in hongjoong’s face to show him the email.

dear mr park, thank you for your interest and for reaching out with your proposal. i have looked at your athlete profiles and it appears that you all have big dreams and extremely promising futures. it would be my utmost pleasure to help you all reach your true potential by coaching your team. if you would like to arrange a meeting in person to discuss expectations and conditions regarding training, competitions and future championships prior to finalising the contracts with your company, please let me know what times and dates best suit yourself and your team captain, mr kim. i look forward to working with you all. kind regards, coach yeon

“holy shit,” hongjoong steadies seonghwa’s giddy hand to read the email again. when he reaches the last line, he starts once more from the beginning to make sure his eyes are not lying to him. then he breathes out with finality, “holy shit. am i reading this right?”

“yeah, joong. you’re reading it right.”

hongjoong is not often one to be affectionate with the others, but yanking seonghwa into a bone-crushing hug as he repeats holy shit like a mantra is the only response he is able to muster. the older laughs wetly, throat constricting with overwhelming joy and he holds onto his captain until the other pulls back.

“you tell them, okay?” seonghwa does not wait for a response before he is raising his voice to gather the others, “boys! hongjoong has good news for us!”

like puppies responding to the call of food, their heads immediately perk up and they abandon the puck and the drill to speed towards their two captains. there is a clamour of questions as they enthusiastically predict what is going to be said.

“are they letting us use the rink for longer?”

wooyoung squeezes himself in between yunho and mingi to ask, “are we getting the whole rink?!”

“no way,” san gasps, “or did our practice jerseys arrive?”

hongjoong’s eyes soften at their guesses. his boys demand so little from him when he wants to give them everything they could never even think of asking for. he glances at seonghwa, who looks just about ready to burst from his own excitement, then reveals, “we’ve found a coach willing to take on our team.”

dead silence. yeosang blinks and wooyoung’s jaw drops. jongho, who had been lazily circling around the group, comically slows to a stop, joining the rest of the boys in frozen stupor. it is only broken when yunho dares to confirm, “does this mean we won’t be rostered as extras for other teams?”

everyone’s hopeful eyes look at hongjoong. he nods, “we’re staying together and playing as our own team.”

it is obvious the moment the information registers in their minds and the implications of what it means for the team’s future starts to sink in. they explode into a flurry of movement and hongjoong and seonghwa find themselves swept up into the middle of a clumsy group huddle as shouts are exchanged, uncaring of who is listening or talking.

“are we finally playing in championships with the big dogs?”

“we’re going to play interstate?”

“oh my god, what if we get into nationals?”

“nah, fuck that boys, let’s go international! we’re going to represent korea one day and become the best team in the world.”

the amount of voices overlapping one another are overwhelming, but it is overwhelming in the way that it makes hongjoong soar up into the clouds, wings stretched to their full span and carried by the hollers and cheers surrounding him in every direction. his cheeks hurt from smiling because these are the boys that he knows and loves.

they may only be a small team of eight, but they have dreams that are big enough to fill the entire universe.

“what’s the coaches name–” “–know if they’re a good coach–” “–teams have they coached before–”

seonghwa chuckles as the boys hound them with question after question and hongjoong appeases their curiosity dotingly, “we’ll find out when we meet him–coach yeon.”

but it does not matter what qualifications coach yeon has or does not have, and it does not matter what teams he has coached or has not coached before. what matters is that he is a coach and he is willing to be their coach, because it means that hongjoong and his boys are finally taking the next step towards their big dreams.

and most importantly, they will be in this together…as the red devils.

autumn, present: regular season

“again.”

hongjoong grits his teeth, taking up his position as centre again in the marked circle for the practice drill. even during defensive faceoff plays, he and the team are accustomed to taking on an aggressive approach. when he wins possession of the puck, the wingers–usually yeosang and wooyoung, or jongho when substituted on–quickly breakaway and move forward with him into the offensive zone.

obviously, they have other strategic plays too to switch up the predictability of their tactics, such as moving the puck towards the board whilst yeosang covers him, or by passing the puck back to the mingi in defence. but overall, their team is capable of rapidly flipping from defensive to offensive play using the aggressive setup.

the practice drill you are currently running emphasises heavily on the defence–the reverse setup play. hongjoong is to pass backwards but in the direction of the boards whilst yeosang supports and wooyoung covers the area directly between the circle and san. mingi moves towards the boards to receive the puck, and their other defenceman, yunho, assists with covering the goal.

hongjoong does admit that this play is much safer and stabler, but it is also much slower and…cowardly. his team is called the red devils for a reason and their reputation as demons on ice is not something that he is going to throw away–not following years of blood, sweat and tears to stand back up after falling during their rookie year.

when he assumes his stance once again inside the faceoff circle opposite seonghwa, who is playing the centre position as the mock opponent, you drop the puck onto the centre dot. the moment it hits the ice, hongjoong clears it with his stick towards the right boards. it doesn’t go back far enough for mingi to receive though, so yeosang makes the split decision to burst sideways to retrieve the puck, all three forwards moving aggressively in synchronisation to advance offensively once he gains possession.

you stop them, shaking your head. “again.”

it has been a week since your first meeting with the team, and with the start of the regular season, training has focused on refining their strategies. the red devils are playing in the korean ice hockey league for the second time, an annual national championship with a singular men’s division.

teams from all over korea gather in seoul to compete in regular-season games at the gangneung ice arena against the other teams in rotation. depending on the number of participants, the red devils will need to play an average of three games a week for the next five to six months. then based on the outcome of the games, if your team scores within the top thirty two, they will be able to enter the playoffs.

last year, the red devils were only able to make it to the quarterfinals before they were knocked out. but considering it was their first time competing in a proper championship–as opposed to the rookie leagues and interstate competitions they competed in during the first four years of their career–making it into the top eight teams out of over a hundred or so teams was already impressive enough.

your team’s first regular-season game starts tomorrow, so it does not matter that this is the sixth time in a row that you have stopped them during this drill. you will make them restart until they perfect the play. with that in mind, you release the puck onto the centre dot of the circle once more, but this time seonghwa wins the faceoff, clearing it to the side where jongho is waiting as his left wing. seonghwa looks at you guiltily and anticipates the word that will come out of your mouth.

you bite your tongue, having sensed the rising tension amongst the team an hour ago, but now they are almost at their boiling point. closing your eyes briefly, you try reminding yourself to think about the situation from your players’ perspectives.

their career progression rides on this championship, and with their grit and determination, they will not settle for simply beating their own record in ranking. no, they vie for first place. only the top team secures a position in the international ice hockey league, the most coveted opportunity to represent korea in the championship between the world’s best teams.

and it is during this vital time–when the stress levels and stakes are as high as they can get–that the boys have suddenly had to change coaches. not only have they lost their most trusted support and guide, they have only had one week to adjust to their new one–you. in the grand scheme of things, one week is nowhere near enough time to develop any sort of meaningful relationship where they are able to listen to and rely on you.

taking a breath, you explain, “being so focused on offence leaves your team vulnerable if the opposing team also has aggressive forwards that you can’t break through. the faceoff play needs to be adjusted for those situations, otherwise it’ll be too difficult to control the puck and it will more than likely end up in chaos. it won’t be a game of professional skill anymore, but a circus of dirty play.”

your defence-focused coaching style has worked well for all the past teams you have taught, both men’s and women’s teams. you know that the boys play an offence-focused style; you are reminded too closely of your past self every time they rush head-on into every situation. and it is exactly because of that–because you know the dangers that come with their aggressive style–that you are making them adjust their play. their career comes first and if they suffer an injury, there may not be a career left.

so you will play the bad cop if you have to. they will come to understand you one day.

san bites down on his mouthguard as he listens from his position in the goal. he is able to see each and every play unfold, better than any other of his teammates, so he knows where you are coming from. whilst he has become used to the pressures that come with goaltending, no amount of training or competitions will ever fully eliminate the sudden spike in fear and anticipation the moment the opposing team’s forwards break past yunho and mingi.

san is the team’s last line of defence and the best outcome is that a game never comes down to just him, the opponent’s stick, and his goal. it is true that his team needs to work on their defensive plays, so when the others huff in defiance and reluctantly reset their positions, san simply lowers his centre of gravity in wait for your cue to restart the drill.

“again.”

outside the arena, the echo of sticks and scraping of skates sound faintly as the first leaf of autumn begins to fall to the ground. as time passes, the rest of the leaves will also succumb to a similar fate, only differing in how. some will fall in a slow and graceful descent, whilst others…

…a rapid and spiralling whirlwind downwards.

counting the heads and finding all eight of your players seated in the bus, you nod to the driver to close the door and start driving. most of the boys have chosen to sit on a two-seater by themselves, only yunho and mingi choosing to sit together. they share a set of wired earphones, eyebrows furrowed in concentration at one of their phones, likely monitoring one of their own matches or one of another team’s.

the rest of the boys sit alone, faces grim and tight as they stare out the window. they look exactly like you used to and it hits you with a wave of bittersweet nostalgia.

the ride to the competition venue–much less for the very first game of the season–is always the quietest, air strung tight with nerves as everyone prepares themselves psychologically for the inevitable pressures that the game will bring. being able to compose and centre one’s mindset is already half the battle won, and whilst nobody says it out loud, you all know that today’s results, despite it only being day one, will set the tone for the next four to five months as they fight to qualify for the playoffs.

as you make one final sweep from the back of the bus to the front whilst it pulls away from the curb, you accidentally make eye contact with yeosang. you give him a polite smile and he opens his mouth, closes it on second thought, then decides to ask anyway, “do you want to sit here?”

it is a lie to say that you are not surprised by the question, so you stumble over your response as you stammer, “oh, okay. thanks.”

yeosang reciprocates your noise of disorientation and when he fumbles to move his bag aside that had been occupying the space beside him, you belatedly realise he was only asking out of courtesy. but backtracking now and rejecting his offer would be a million times worse and you can only try to hide the flaming heat behind your cheeks as best as you can as you sit down in the seat.

he fiddles with the straps of his bag and you can feel his discomfort reeking off his hands. in an attempt to break the ice, you glance at him, “are you nervous for the game?”

he nods, “don’t think it gets any less nerve-wracking no matter how many games you play.”

“well this is a pretty big championship. you have every reason to feel nervous,” you hum.

yeosang levels you with a look. “are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

you do not know him well enough to be able to discern whether he is joking with you or not. opting to clear your throat instead, you point out, “you have your teammates who you can trust.”

“yeah…teammates.”

and you have me, too, as your coach, you want to say.

the hopeful glimpse in the dark of your eyes is enough for yeosang to pick up on your thoughts. he swallows uncomfortably and looks away.

we don’t know that yet.

you bite the inside of your cheek, trying once more to extend the conversation after a pregnant pause. “did you guys have a coach before cho?” either you have a shitty sense of appropriate conversation starters or yeosang wants absolutely nothing to do with you (it is likely both, but one can be optimistic), because his shoulders tense almost immediately.

“we did…just one,” he starts off carefully. you think that that is going to be the end of it, but then he adds on, “we don’t really talk about him though.”

and there it is–the end of the conversation. it is his nice way of telling you that there is no more to be said, so you sit the rest of the ride in silence next to yeosang, pretending not to let the sheer awkwardness suffocate you.

when the bus arrives at the gangneung ice arena, you hurry to alight and only then do you feel like you are able to breathe again. you plaster on a smile and notify the boys, “your first game is in two hours against the panthers. you’ve been allocated locker room 3B.”

they make their way into the centre and you trail behind in wait as they find their designated space. warm-ups will be first so they will not be needing their full gear just yet, which means it should not take long for them to change.

inside the locker room, the red devils shrug off their bulky duffle bags and change into their game jerseys, lacing and relacing their skates to ensure the snuggest fits. hongjoong alerts, “boys, time to go out and start warming up,” receiving a chorus of acknowledgement as everyone grabs the rest of the gear that they need.

before jongho places his phone into his assigned locker, he habitually taps on the screen one last time to check for any notifications and finds a single text from his younger brother, jonghyuk. he knows he should not read it, much less right before his first game, but the smaller part inside him that yearns for his family’s recognition dares to hope for something. dragging the preview down to avoid opening it, jongho reads the text.

are you just going to keep pretending you haven’t read our messages?

jongho clenches his jaw and swipes the notification away as if that will also erase it from his mind. tossing his phone into the locker, he shuts it with a harsh swing, resting his forehead against the cool metal as he closes his eyes and breathes out shakily. this game–this championship–jongho has to win; he cannot afford to lose.

“captain.”

hongjoong turns around to see jongho striding up towards him, brows furrowed and voice troubled as he questions, “are we really not going to tell coach what our game plan is? shouldn’t we work together with her?”

“jongho,” the captain sighs, “we got lucky with coach cho, but we know better than anyone else that not all coaches are like him.”

from where he has been listening in on the conversation at the doors leading out of the locker room, seonghwa��s shoulders stiffen. there is a moment of silence; the rest of the team have already made their way to the ice rink.

“what if we lose?”

it is the way that his voice grows small and timid that hongjoong realises it is not his captain that jongho needs right now. hongjoong’s gaze softens as he searches the younger’s eyes, “did your family say something again?”

he receives no answer but it tells him more than enough. “you trust me?”

jongho’s almost imperceptible nod does not escape hongjoong’s observations, so he continues to reassure, “we’ll win. my boys are the best players, you included, and we already have experience playing in this competition.” he ducks down slightly to meet jongho’s gaze, “and even if we do lose? we lose because of our own skills–not because of anybody else.”

his words tug a small smile out of the corner of the youngest’s lips, and hongjoong returns it with a relieved smile. with a nudge, he sends jongho in the direction of the door, where seonghwa pretends to ruffle his hair affectionately knowing that it will be dodged. seonghwa chuckles lightly and watches him walk off, unbeknownst to his captain watching him.

“hey,” hongjoong calls out gently, “i know what you’re thinking, but that wasn’t what i meant.”

seonghwa looks back and winces, “i can’t help it.”

“and that’s why i will keep telling you no matter how many times you need to hear it. it is not your fault–never was, and never will be,” hongjoong cocks his head playfully as he raises an eyebrow.

“same goes to you then, captain,” seonghwa returns the banter, shoulders relaxing and head shaking, “not your fault either.”

“you’re right, so let’s get the fuck out there and smash our game, yeah?” hongjoong slings his arm around the other and leads them both out of the locker room to join the rest of the boys.

what he does not say, though, is that seonghwa is wrong. seonghwa may have been the one to reach out to coach yeon, but hongjoong was the one who made the executive decision to accept and trust coach yeon.

he is not going to make the same mistake twice this time, because it is not just about protecting his dreams, his career, or those of his teammates–it is about protecting the people he loves.

hongjoong will not let them fall…not again.

winter, 2018: regular season

jongho twirls his phone in his hand, intermittently turning the screen on and off. he sits in the corner of the locker room, away from the rest of the boys as they wait for coach yeon to return from checking in and filling out their required paperwork. only several competitions later will they realise that their locker room is small, cramped and dim, but to their fresh, bright-eyed excitement at competing in a professional league for the first time, they hardly have time to critique the assigned space.

the phone comes to a stop. making up his mind, jongho taps on the screen and navigates to the keypad. dialling his mother’s number, he brings the phone up to his ear and waits with bated breath as it is left to ring.

“what do you want,” comes her curt response when she finally picks up.

jongho’s words falter, “oh, nothing…i just wanted to tell you that we’re playing our first game today.”

“game? your little team doesn’t even have a coach,” his mother patronises.

shoulders curling in on themselves, jongho hesitantly voices, “i told you last month that we got a coach.”

“i forgot,” she brushes him off, “and it must not be a very important competition then, seeing as it isn’t worth remembering.”

“there’s prize money,” he reveals. maybe if he can bring some of it home for his parents, they will recognise his efforts.

she sceptically probes, “is it national? international?”

“no…regionals.”

“is it ranked at least?”

“it’s just an entry-level competition for rookie teams,” jongho trails off, discouraged and confidence in shambles.

his mother scoffs at his answers, none of which are the ones she wants to hear. “you have no excuse not to win this competition, then. this is child’s play. just look at jonghyuk. he’s two years younger than you, yet already has his eyes on the olympics. if you lose, i don’t want to hear about it–don’t bring shame to our family.”

“okay,” jongho mumbles, but his answer is only heard by the beeping dial of the ended call…and the rest of the boys it seems, if not apparent by the sombre hush that has settled over the room and the worried lips that he sees when he looks up.

yeosang’s mouth parts, the younger’s name on the tip of his tongue, but then coach yeon enters the locker room and calls for their attention. jongho gives them a reassuring smile before setting his phone beside him on the bench and directing his gaze to their coach, grateful for the distraction. it leaves yeosang and the others with no choice but to drop it for now.

coach yeon erases the old scribbles on the room’s whiteboard and replaces it with rough markings of the hockey rink. he drags the magnets into the different zones, each one representative of a player, as he goes over the final lineup and their respective positions based on the opposing team they have been pooled against.

“stay strong on the offensive and maintain a 2-1-2 formation where possible–yeosang, i want you up there with hongjoong and put pressure on the other team. if they gain puck possession, both of you fall back to where wooyoung is and maintain 3-2.”

the three forwards nod and coach yeon touches one of the magnets positioned on the player’s bench. “jongho, you’ll come on for your shift during the second period. whoever you replace will come back in later to sub the other wing. yeosang and wooyoung, you should both be playing again during the third period.”

“yes, coach,” jongho acknowledges.

coach yeon continues on to review their game plan and hongjoong steps up to assist with detailing their different strategic plays. to jongho though, their words sound like he is listening from underwater as his mind involuntary drifts off. it is a small saving grace that his parents do not care for his match, because it means that they will not see that he is not part of the starting lineup.

for seven of the people in the locker room, winning the competition is an aspiration, but for one of them it is an expectation. and for the remaining individual, the competition in itself is an opportunity, but for an entirely different reason.

winter, present: regular season

inevitably, you find out. when discrepancies start to occur between training, pre-game meetings and the actual games, it is only a matter of time before you start to notice them.

it starts off with the uncommon plays that are simply a response to the game situation–ones that are dire and not often brought up prior to them actually occurring. during their fourth regular game of the season, the red devils are behind by two goals. the last period is almost over when they miraculously gain the power advantage after two of the opposing players are sent to the penalty box in quick succession.

before you realise what is happening, hongjoong gives his team a signal and both yunho and mingi on defence and san in the goal all rush forward to attack with the wings. you can only watch with wide eyes as they risk an empty net in the hopes of scoring two much-needed goals to even the playing field.

wooyoung manages to score one with a quick shot, but with the release of the opponents from the penalty box, their advantage is put to an end and they ultimately finish the match with a loss. you do not dwell too much on their sudden change in tactics despite the lack of communication with you, because you understand that every single game requires a different approach. sometimes, there is no time to strategise, only time to act.

but one occurrence turns into two, and two turns into several. and when, during one of their matches the week prior, jongho and wooyoung swap positions on the left and right sides of the rink as soon as the youngest replaces yeosang’s shift, it becomes quite conclusive that they are deliberately withholding information from you.

the boys are not brainless. it is not a coincidence for you and the team to discuss one game plan in the locker room only for it to completely change the moment they step onto the hockey rink.

you silently watch as the boys prepare for a faceoff in their defensive zone. they are currently playing against the incheon bears and the timing of the penalty puts you all on edge; the score is currently tied four to four and only twelve seconds are left on the clock. you had requested a time-out right as the referee made the call in hopes of stopping the momentum of the opposing team and to tell the boys to play defensively for this faceoff.

“play it safe. stall for the last twelve seconds and drag the game into overtime,” you had ordered.

the incheon bears have made a shift change with their player number four coming on for the faceoff, their right wing who has low stamina but terrifyingly accurate shots. he is responsible for most of his team’s goals and several other scoring attempts that san had only just managed to block. you are also almost certain that they will be aggressively body checking your players to make this faceoff count for them. your forwards have to play safely–not just for the sake of the game’s score.

at your defensive suggestion, san had nodded in agreement with you, “forwards need to make passes with sure lanes–nothing that can risk getting intercepted. go for the reverse setup play if you guys can.”

“we don’t need to take this into overtime,” hongjoong had started to argue, “other than number four, the rest of their offence is weak. as long as we break past him, we have an opportunity to score.”

“captain–”

the whistle blows before mingi can give his two cents, the mere thirty seconds for the time-out far too short, and the boys hurry to enter the rink again. hongjoong leans in quickly to say something to them before they disperse into their positions and mingi glances at you, almost guiltily.

you do not have the confidence that your team will listen. san may have seen the advantages in favouring a defensive play, but he is not the one who will decide which direction the puck will go when the referee drops it onto the ice. hongjoong is.

the hand of the referee raises to signal the start of the faceoff and both team’s centre forwards lower their stance. then the puck hits the ice. hongjoong’s nimble reflexes help him to snap his wrist and twist the puck away from the incheon bear’s player, wooyoung already surging ahead with explosive strides towards the other end of the rink. but just as you fear, the opponent’s left wing thunders at hongjoong with horrifying speed, intention solely to bowl him over onto the ice–not to steal the puck.

“fuck, captain!” you yell, heart leaping up into your throat as it cuts off your breath.

hongjoong’s eyes snap upwards and darken, jaws aching from the force with which he grinds his teeth together despite his mouthguard. he suddenly pivots on the edges of his skates and shifts his weight to only just narrowly miss the body check, then flicks the puck away before another player can knock him down.

he does not need to look before passing to where he knows wooyoung will be, years of synergy allowing their plays to connect seamlessly. except incheon bear’s number four has predicted their exact play, having been watching from the benches and noting your forwards’ preference for aggressive attacks.

“shit,” yunho curses under his breath, ice shaving under his skates from the accelerating force of his strides towards the puck. he is not going to make it in time. “mingi!”

seonghwa jolts up to his feet from the player’s bench, chest mid-inhale with apprehension at the captain’s pass. the puck is intercepted within the blink of an eye and with a well-timed punch turn around yunho’s attempt to regain possession, the rival team’s number four makes a shot for the goal.

it is too fast for mingi’s stick to block–arm still stretching out with desperation–and although san drops down to his knees in hopes of barricading the goal with his leg pads, the trajectory of the puck arcs higher than he had predicted.

as the puck soars past san and hits the netting of the goal, the buzzer sounds in tandem with the eruption of cheers around the rink. all around, the incheon bears swarm towards their number four in joyous celebration. mingi leans over to rest his hands on his knees from both exhaustion and defeat, and the other boys stand in similar stances as the outcome of the game registers in their tired minds.

in an attempt to cheer them up despite his own disappointment, seonghwa half-heartedly smiles at his boys as they slowly start to trudge their way off the rink. “we played well, boys. it was unlucky that our pass got intercepted, but we can do better next time.”

“good thing it isn’t the playoffs yet,” yunho tries to joke, “so we’re still in the competition.”

nobody cracks a smile and wooyoung’s face is dark, hand grabbing the walls in support to favour his left foot whilst lifting his skates over the slight ledge of the bench door. noting his slight limp, san quietly murmurs in worry, “did you tape your ankle?”

wooyoung shakes his head. “i ran out. forgot to buy some yesterday.”

“make sure you ice it tonight then, okay?” san gently supports him by the elbow to the benches so they can loosen the laces of their skates and grab their things before heading to the locker room.

you look away to flip through the notebook in your hand instead, trying to calm the shaking of your hands. ice hockey is a contact sport and you cannot protect the players from every single collision, but that last body check that hongjoong had been unprepared for still has acid pooling into your mouth. you scratch the score ‘4-5’ onto a page filled with their scores from this season thus far. a quick calculation tells you that the red devils have just as many losses as they have wins, which in all honesty, is not looking good.

this…conflict needs to be cleared with the team–with hongjoong. you cannot let this concealment of tactics and blatant changing of strategies right in your face continue any longer, because at the rate they are going, they may not even make it into the playoffs. and as you make eye contact with san, who has been staring despondently at the puck that still lies in his goal, you know that you must clear the air for the team, too. the last thing you need is for their own teamwork to fall apart because their differing opinions on your coaching starts to drive a wedge between them.

san stills when you break your gaze and glance away to pivot on your heels in the direction of the changerooms. from the way your mouth thins and neck becomes rigid, he is quite certain you are not happy—and rightfully so, san must admit. he stalls time by slipping off his bulky gloves and freeing his hands up to remove his helmet and mouthguard too.

noting that the other boys have grabbed most of their belongings, san heads off first to meet you, knowing that they will follow him soon after. he walks down the corridor easily balancing on his skates and rounds the corner to their locker room. except the sight that greets him has his feet halting and taking a step back behind the doorway.

your hand is deep in one of their bags. san is unsure whose bag it is, but the brief glimpse of the black canvas bag he caught is enough to tell him that it is one of theirs. although he is not making any accusations, he also cannot think of a reason as to why you would be rummaging through their bags.

“why are you just standing there?”

jongho’s voice startles him and he mumbles, “nothing,” before stepping through the door with the rest of his team. you are sitting on a bench in front of an empty locker now and if he did not know better, san would think that he had imagined the last minute. he glances discreetly at the bag you had been poking through and recognises it as wooyoung’s.

gingerly seating himself in front of his own locker, san waits on edge as mingi also grasps the atmosphere and sits too. gradually, the boys read the room with tactful glances and linger on their feet or on the benches. all except for one.

“what was that?” you cut through the silence with a directed question at hongjoong.

the captain continues to toss his gloves into his unzipped bag at the bottom of his locker before proceeding to unlace his skates, not once turning to look at you.

“what was what?”

you know fully well that he is aware of what you are talking about but you decide to humour him as you elaborate, “that last faceoff. i clearly told you to play defensively, but you went against it to try for a goal. and let me guess, you told the others to ignore what i said.”

“and so what if i did?” hongjoong challenges. yeosang’s wide eyes dart from side to side and yunho watches on uneasily as his captain finally turns to glare at you. “in that moment–as a player on the rink–i saw the opportunity and took it. if there is a chance to attack, then my team takes it. we don’t run away like cowards.”

the successive jabs at your athletic retirement cause a lick of phantom heat to wrap around your shoulder. your jaw grinds as you hold yourself back from biting the bait. “then i’m curious as to what opportunity you saw every time you decided to withhold game tactics from me, or every time you changed the strategy the moment you and your team stepped foot onto the rink.”

“maybe we would respect and listen to your coaching if it actually suited the playing style of our team. heavy defence may have worked for the grey eagles, but i think you need to reevaluate your abilities as a coach because it seems like you are forgetting that we are not them. forcing us to play defensively like your past team is not going to work for shit, coach,” hongjoong mocks.

you scoff to the side, questioning your own ears. it borders on a laugh, because that is his reason? you have been adjusting their playing style not only based on the situation that arises each game, but in general for their own good. earning his respect be damned, you will not stand for this.

you return the same scornful tone, “well then, captain, considering you just lost the fucking match because you were too arrogant to defend for twelve fucking seconds, i think you should also reevaluate yourself. are you acting in the best interest of your team, or are you acting in the way that best strokes your own ego? and let me remind you–if you suffer an injury, your whole team suffers with you.

“if you do not have the decency to at least tell me what you have discussed with the boys so that i can adjust the plays accordingly, then i think the shit results of your games so far speak for themselves. teams have a coach for a reason whether you like it or not…or maybe i should say, whether you trust them or not,” you snap.

running your stressed fingers through your hair, you tear your eyes away from hongjoong’s defiant eyes. the two youngest avoid your gaze, whereas yunho and yeosang simply stare at you with their jaws slack at a loss for words. the fire within you almost quenches when your eyes skim over san, mingi and even seonghwa, who are fiddling with their jerseys with guilt.

the room suddenly feels too small and too stuffy. “change. the bus will be waiting outside,” you mumble, then you leave without a further word.

nobody in the room moves in the wake of the argument, not even hongjoong, who continues to bore holes in the doorway that you have just disappeared through. yunho’s eyes awkwardly dart back and forth between hongjoong and the other boys before they land on the bench you had been sitting on.

the notebook you are always holding is still there, left behind in your haste to leave. he stands up to grab it, turning on his heels to chase after you when the open pages catch his eye. “woah,” yunho breathes out, double-taking and bringing the notebook closer towards him to read the contents. “this is insane.”

you have marked down not only their score for every single game they have played this season, but you have also tracked the statistics of who has scored, assisted, or successfully defended a shot. yunho flips back through the pages as the other boys come to crowd around him. there are logs of their major games from the past five years, diagrams of their faceoff plays and formations, analyses of their strengths in games won and similarly, analyses of their weaknesses in games they have lost.

“oh, fuck,” mingi curses when yunho flips to the more recent pages and they see that you have compiled the same details and information, only more concisely, for every single opponent team the red devils have played against this season. there is no way of seeing this–hours upon hours of hard work–and still questioning your intentions as their coach. “i think we owe coach a huge fuckin’ apology.”

hongjoong immediately furrows his eyebrows with displeasure. “are you taking her side, mingi?”

“captain,” mingi deliberately calls. it is at times like this where being the only logical thinker in the team has its merits. it may be harsh, but mingi must draw the line between their professional and personal life. this dispute must stay strictly within the bounds of their career without blurring the lines over into their romantic involvement with one another, otherwise things could get messy real fast.

mingi stares at the captain as he reasons, “this isn’t about taking sides. from a solely rational point of view, i think it may have been better for us to play safe and defend like coach had suggested.”

from beside him, san nods in agreement. mingi continues, “and i’m not just talking about today–there were a lot of times when coach’s plays might have worked out better than bulldozing ahead with offence. yeah, we’ve won a few games but we’ve also lost just as many. how many of those could we have won if we had trusted coach?”

yunho backs him up whilst gesturing vaguely between the both of them and san, “it’s easier for the three of us to see from defence, but their forwards were already close to intercepting our faceoffs quite a few times that game.”

hongjoong’s immediate thought is to defend himself, because he is their captain and their centre forward; the one who leads them into opportunities to score and win. he knows that every single time he chooses an aggressive play, it is at the risk of weaker defence. the odds have never deterred him, though, because he has always been confident in his abilities–in his team’s abilities.

but if, even now with the palpable experience of losing because of his own decision, it still does not deter him from taking risks in a situation where offence may be his downfall, then is he confident…or overconfident?

it is quiet for a moment. hongjoong swallows the urge to justify against their opinions–against your opinions–instead looking around at his team. he meets jongho’s round eyes and he remembers one of the very reasons why he is so committed to leading the red devils to the gold trophy. why, if he is becoming a hurdle instead to their victory, then he needs to change. “what does everybody else think? seonghwa?”

“we’ve been wary of y/n all this time, but the more games we play and especially after…” the alternate captain vaguely gestures in the air, “...today, we should really work with her instead of relying on ourselves. we’ve seen her notebook, too, and i think that’s more than enough for us to see that the effort and resolve she places in our team is genuine. we need to acknowledge that and apologise.”

“not even coach cho went to these lengths, and most definitely not coach yeon,” yeosang shrugs as he offhandedly comments.

spurred on by everybody else, san carefully voices the thought that has been lingering on his mind, “i think it’s time to tell her the truth. we owe her that much.”

the truth. the wounds that not even coach cho knows of.

hongjoong’s distrust in you may have initially been true to his desire to protect his boys from something like that from happening again. but he is now realising that you may have seen right through him. perhaps at some point in time, it became unwillingness to trust you, blinded by his prideful title as the demon king of the ice rink but at the expense of his team under the guise of wanting to safeguard them.

exhaling shakily, voice thick with regret, hongjoong accepts, “i’ve let you all down, haven’t i?”

“no,” yunho gently rebukes. “letting us down would be refusing to listen to us. we trust you for a reason, hongjoong.”

not just as a captain, but as everything else too.

seonghwa wraps an arm comfortingly around him. with hongjoong’s demonic presence on the ice once he is in the zone, it is easy to forget that he actually has a shorter stature than all of them. “that’s right, we trust you,” seonghwa affirms. “the next step is for us to trust our coach as well. we’re a team, but it isn’t complete without our coach.”

“and this apology isn’t yours alone to bear,” yunho reminds. “like seonghwa said, we’re a team and we all have fault in our behaviour towards y/n. if i’m honest, i had a shitty attitude and gave her a hard time at the start too,” he admits, wincing at the memory.

yunho is not the only one who grimaces as they reflect on their own actions–whether they happened when you were first introduced to the team, during your first training together, or even up until today’s game. but wooyoung, who has been quiet throughout the entire ordeal, still has a niggling doubt: one that is most personal to him in comparison to the rest of the team.

wooyoung reveals his thoughts, “but what about her choice to stop playing? i still can’t think of a good reason that i can respect her for having retired.”

“then we ask her,” mingi proposes.

jongho nods, also curious to know whether there is more to your decision than you have let on. “today, though? we don’t really want to come off as accusatory or anything. it might be good to give her some space today.”

“what’s our schedule looking like tomorrow? training?”

everyone looks at seonghwa, the most likely person to know their schedule off by heart. he does, and he scratches his head as he recalls, “no, recovery day. low-intensity cardio in the morning and…a team meeting with coach in the afternoon.”

“tomorrow it is, then,” hongjoong concludes. there are hums of agreement and the decision appears to appease wooyoung enough for the boys to start dispersing, heading to their lockers to finally start changing out of their gear.

wooyoung tosses his helmet and gloves onto the bench in front of his locker before sitting with a sharp but discreet inhale. he carefully loosens the laces on his skates, easing the left one off his foot slowly. the relief is immediate and his fingertips gingerly touch the throbbing area around his ankle. it is not too swollen, but he will need to ice it when they get back to their apartment and he will definitely need to buy more tape.

he sheds off the rest of his gear and uniform, leaving them on the bench too to air out while he takes a quick shower. as he roughly towels his wet hair afterwards, he drags his kit bag further out to make it easier to toss everything in.

“huh?” wooyoung makes a noise of confusion when he unzips the bag, hand immediately reaching in to grab the item that has caught his eye. it is partially covered by his hoodie but he would be able to recognise the packaging anywhere.

“what’s wrong?” san asks, glancing over.

the younger brandishes the brand new roll of strapping tape he has found in his bag, the frown etched across his face slowly relaxing into amused exasperation as he reasons, “i must not have seen this in my bag all along.”

san is about to snort and make fun of his inattentiveness, but a sudden thought stuns the smile off his face. it was not that wooyoung had managed to miss the spare roll in his bag. it was–

“y/n,” he quietly exhales with realisation.

at wooyoung’s questioning what?, san looks at him with upturned eyebrows. “the tape–coach was the one who put it in your bag, right before we all walked in here.”

“this…she gave it to me?” wooyoung’s face drops, remorse evident in the thickness of his voice. “but why?”

san gently squeezes his shoulder with a smile, simply answering, “because she’s our coach.” he turns to zip up his own kit bag and leaves wooyoung to digest the revelation. the boy is quiet for the rest of the time, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he stares ahead and absentmindedly follows the rest of his team out of the locker room.

when they exit the ice arena, they do not expect to see you. and yet, there you stand beside their bus waiting stonily with your jacket zipped up and hands in your pockets. you mentally count them off without acknowledging them as they start to store their kit bags under the bus and board. yeosang gets on first, taking a seat near the front of the bus as usual. he watches from the window as you wait for the rest of the boys.

you follow jongho up the stairs, the last to load his kit bag, and tell the driver that you are all good to leave. yeosang sits a little straighter as he tucks his small backpack further under the seat in front of him with his feet, having left the seat beside him empty. but before he can open his mouth with an offer of a seat, you have already sat right behind the driver. yeosang leans back into the cushions of his seat, unfamiliar with the sense of disappointment he feels.

the ride back from the competition venue–much less after a lost game–is always quiet, players both physically and mentally exhausted from the strain. this time, though, it is strikingly silent, but you appreciate it–need it.

you stare out of the window as the trees flicker past like a repetitive motion film. most of their leaves have already fallen off, littering the ground in a blur of tragic glory. and with the beginning of winter, the trees will soon become completely bare, bringing about the period of time when there is nothing but bleak emptiness.

winter, 2019: regular season

‘2019 ice hockey rookie stars tournament: team standings’

hongjoong stares at the printed piece of paper with seonghwa at his side, where the results of all the team’s round-robin games have been taped up onto the walls of the stadium. hongjoong does not even bother reading from the top, eyes going straight down to the bottom of the page instead.

the red devils are dead last, having lost every single one of their matches. even the korean penguins, who had nil wins either, had managed to beat them earlier today, ranking them at the lowest of all teams. it is fucking humiliating and hongjoong hates that the sport that had brought him and his boys all together, that they had immeasurable love for, is now one that fills them with shame and indignity.

nobody else but the two captains of the team have decided to look at the rankings. they had all already known towards the end of the regular season that they would not stand a chance at making it into the playoffs. and yet, hongjoong and seonghwa need to see the results for themselves. it is almost masochistic, forcing themselves to look at the fruitless results of their hard work in their first competition that has so devastatingly crushed their morality.

seonghwa picks at his cuticles fretfully and wonders whether he made the wrong decision to give up his education in pursuit of becoming an athlete. he thinks of his parents, who had encouraged him with supportive smiles and offers of financial support the moment he brought up the idea–was it all in vain?

“are you two done looking?”

both of the boys turn at the question to find a captain with his team waiting to look at the standings.

“yeah, sorry,” hongjoong mumbles before stepping aside to yield his spot. the players swarm forwards and he is pushed further back away from the list like a physical representation of his distance from the playoffs.

somebody from the other team yells, “we made it! we’re in the playoffs!” and they simultaneously break out into cries and cheers as they celebrate together.

hongjoong watches on bitterly, wishing with every cell in his body that that was him and his boys. how is he going to walk back into the locker room as their captain when all of his boys have eyes that are rimmed red and cheeks that are blotchy from despair–when there are captains like that who have successfully led their team to at least a chance at winning the competition.

the feeling of a pinky slowly hooking around his own draws hongjoong out of his pain. “let’s go back,” seonghwa murmurs, tugging him away from the still-celebrating team. together, both of them start to walk back through the hallways to their locker room.

“aren’t we down here?” seonghwa questions, standing at the t-intersection that hongjoong has absentmindedly walked straight past.

“oh, yeah. sorry,” hongjoong apologises and begins to backtrack. his ears suddenly perk up at the sound of a voice. “wait, doesn’t that sound like coach?”

before seonghwa can respond, hongjoong has turned around yet again towards the voice in search of their coach. seonghwa hurries to catch up and that is when he hears it too.

“have you transferred the money?”

“yes, i wired you the remaining amount the moment we won,” a deeper, unrecognisable voice reassures.

hongjoong’s footsteps falter, brows knitting together and head cocking to one side. he gestures for seonghwa to slow down, pressing a finger on his other hand to his lips. both of them creep forward silently.

the unfamiliar voice probes, “your team–you’re sure they don’t suspect anything?”

hongjoong and seonghwa do not need to see him to confirm their suspicions when they hear the unmistakable laughter of coach yeon. through the gravelly sound, he mocks, “they have no fucking clue even though they’ve lost every single one of their games. they’re dumber than fucking sheep. their captain tells me everything about their plays and strategies and they never question it when i change things around.”

seonghwa clutches the back of hongjoong’s jersey with a death grip, knowing that without it, his captain will punch coach yeon’s face into a bloody mess. but as much as their coach deserves it, it is not worth the disciplinary action that will inevitably follow, likely suspension, because–

“plus, even if they do somehow find out, what can they do about it? bullshit, that’s what. they have no evidence and they’re not going to risk blowing this up and ruining their own careers instead,” coach yeon boasts smugly. “losing like that as a rookie group in their first year out is completely normal. no one will believe them, and no coach is going to want their team after that because of their ‘shitty sportsmanship’ or out of fear of being accused in the same way if they lose again.”

at coach yeon’s words, seonghwa scrambles to put them into context with his dread-riddled mind. the echoing pounding in his ears tells him that he has just heard something that was never meant to be known. he does not even notice that the voices start to grow distant as the two men begin to walk off, but hongjoong does.

the trembling grip that is still on the back of his jersey grounds hongjoong enough not to throw everything away and sprint up to coach yeon with vile words and heated fists, but he also cannot do nothing. hongjoong peers around the corner before seonghwa can counteract his movement, desperate to identify who exactly coach yeon is talking to. except the revelation has him reeling, hands white from how hard his fingers dig into his palm–a stark contrast to the deep scarlet of flames that leap forth from his murderous eyes.

because the person who is walking beside coach yeon is the coach of the korean penguins. hongjoong and his boys have not been losing because of their skills they believed to be fucking shit–coach yeon has been fucking ensuring they lose.

for money.

winter, present: regular season

you stand on the balcony of your apartment. the sliding glass doors are shut behind you to keep the heat trapped inside, but for now you welcome the refreshing cold of the winter chill as you simply observe.

below on the streets, the miniature specks of people and cars mill around as if you are watching a game simulation. it is strangely humbling to think that each and every one of the people you see are living their own lives, completely distinct to yours with different yet very real problems of their own, but in the grand scheme of the cosmos, you are all insignificant.

you wonder what concern the people holding their coffee are plagued with right now; what problem the people crossing the street are facing. you wonder, if you were to tell them of your worries and they were to tell you of theirs, would you curse or thank the heavens?

the phone in your hand buzzes. you look to see if it is from coach cho and manage a small smile of relief when the notification is indeed from him.

apologies y/n, i was busy earlier. i can call now if you still need me?

you send an affirmative reply, then slide to answer the call that comes through. “hi coach, sorry to bother you.”

“no, you’re alright. is everything okay?”

you hesitate before revealing, “...i messed things up with the boys.”

“the team?” his voice goes gentle, fatherly nature extending to you too. “what happened?”

“hongjoong and i had an argument today after the game because he keeps changing the team’s plays without letting me know, or even after we’ve agreed on something else. it was only meant to be a talk, but then things escalated and we ended up fighting. i just–i don’t know what you saw in me, coach, because i don’t think i’m fit for the boys,” you ramble. “they’re not listening to me, they probably don’t even like me, and we’re going terribly with the season.”

you take a breath as you timidly admit, “i don’t think we’re going to make it into the playoffs and it’s going to be my fault.”

“hey,” coach cho grounds you, “making the playoffs would be great, yes, but the reality is that most teams don’t. and you’re still very young yourself–this is your, what…fifth year of coaching?”

throat too sticky to formulate a response, you simply hum.

“when i first started coaching, i was older than you and it was still a steep learning curve during my first ten years. i believed that coaches deserved the utmost respect and that my opinion was final. they’re my players, so of course i should be the one laying down the laws,” he chuckles. “but growing up was realising that whilst the respect is still there, it needs to be mutual. coaching a team is not a hierarchy of ‘i command, you listen’, but a show of leadership with the captain at the front of the team–not on top of them.”

his words strike a chord within you. coaching the boys was frustrating because they were not listening to you. but it should never have been a case of who listens to who–it should always have been a reciprocated relationship of everyone listening to one other.

as if he can physically feel the guilt that is starting to settle in the pit of your stomach, coach cho draws your attention to something else. “remember what i told you when we met the team for the first time? why i chose you specifically?”

“because of our similar playing styles?” you recall.

“exactly,” he confirms, “you know best the strategies and plays that work, and what their strengths and weaknesses are, because they were also your own. you need to be a coach to their playing style, not the other way around–they shouldn’t be a player to your coaching style.”

you cannot help but worry, “what if they get injured?”

“y/n, this is where your similarities can either be your biggest flaw or your greatest asset as a coach. no matter how safely they play, there will always be a risk of injury. that is just how the sport works and you know that the best. you can teach them to assess the risk and pull back if they really need to, but ultimately, there is no way of eliminating the risk completely.” coach cho pauses, then asks, “if you could meet your younger self, would you make yourself change your playing style?”

would you? as you imagine what you would tell your past self if you had the chance to, you find that you do not have an answer. perhaps for the sake of a prolonged career, you would. but then would it be your passion and skills that are playing the game, or your fears and worries?

if you cannot come to a decision even for yourself, then it is completely unfair for you to restrain the boys within the cages of what you view as safety for their own good. harnessing the defensive skills may have been functional for the grey eagles, but like hongjoong said, you are coaching the red devils now and it is not working for them. you must come to terms that you cannot protect the boys at every opportunity–consciously or unconsciously–you need to be a coach to them.

coach cho, aware that you have come to a conclusion, asks you one final question, “have you told the boys why you retired?”

“no, not yet,” you shake your head. you already have an idea of what he is going to say to you next.

“i think it’s time for you to tell them,” he advises. “remember, y/n, sometimes you need to be vulnerable with them first before you can make things right.”

after coach cho ends the call, you do not make a move to go back inside the apartment. you stay standing on your balcony, arms folded as you lean against the handrail listening to the faint rumble of traffic and hustle of busy activity. life goes on, and so will yours; you just have to make it count.

the trees on the streets may be stripped bare and lonely throughout winter, but eventually you learn to appreciate its nothingness. it is a necessity in order to start afresh.

mingi stares at the blinking cursor that sits in the open search bar. it has been empty for the last twenty minutes since he started up his laptop, wondering whether it would be an invasion of privacy for him to look you up on the internet.

he makes up his mind. he knows that he was the one to tell wooyoung only mere hours ago that they would ask you about your decision to retire tomorrow at the meeting, but mingi supposes it would not hurt to simply see what sort of athlete you were like before.

typing your full name into the search engine, mingi hits ‘enter’ and waits for the results to appear. he combs through the first several links quickly. they all have the same information; ice hockey databases and websites that detail your age, nationality, physical stats and position, but the sections that usually list your team and agency are now blank.

mingi is surprised to learn you were also a centre forward. he scrolls down to your game logs and match statistics that span from 2014 to 2019. you have won an impressive number of championships, most notably the under-18 and under-21 women’s ice hockey league. they are both international competitions and mingi is not sure how your reputation has flown under all of their radars.

frowning, he goes back to the search engine and clicks on the next page in an attempt to find more information. it is not until he clicks yet again to the next page that he finds a low-reputed news article from almost eight years ago where you are the main subject.

‘y/n l/n, youngest player of ‘black cats’, wins ice hockey championship at the age of sixteen’ the headline reads. there is not much to the article, but it outlines your admirable achievement at your young age as a rising prodigy in the ice hockey scene. mingi agrees, since he knows that you also go on to win another international competition a few years after that. just as he is about to close the tab, there is a recommended link that catches his eye.

he hovers his cursor over it. the hyperlinked headline does not explicitly say your name, but the phrasing really only alludes to one athlete considering it is a recommended link on your article. mingi does not know whether he wants to click on it, though, because he is afraid of confirming it is you.

and if it is…then the others will also need to see this too.

“hongjoong, guys, come look at this,” mingi calls out, balancing his laptop on his forearm as he walks out into the open living room. the others look up from where they are sitting or emerge from out of their rooms at his summon.

“what’s this?” hongjoong reaches out to receive the laptop and places it on the table. his eyes skim the screen, trying to make sense of what mingi is showing them.

mingi points to the hyperlink he had been mulling over. “i think we need to look at this.”

solemnity washes over the boys as their curious gazes dull and darken, realisation of what exactly they are reading dawning upon them. all at once, their hearts clench in solidarity. hongjoong clicks on the link. the only sound that permeates the silence is the rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall. nobody talks. nobody moves.

ice hockey star announces retirement following shoulder injury june 18, 2019 star player y/n l/n, centre forward of the ‘black cats’, has announced her retirement from professional ice hockey today. her decision follows lingering issues after suffering from a rotator cuff tear during the grand finals of this year’s under-21 women’s ice hockey league. l/n has been under the ice hockey spotlight ever since her win in the under-18’s league as the youngest player on her team. she is well-known for her offensive threat to the opponents, bold playing style and unparalleled skill breaking through the lines of defence. during the grand finals in april, l/n was body checked from the side by ‘polar bears’’ kim hyejin. although full-body checking is illegal in women’s hockey, it is not uncommon during the heat of competitions. l/n suffered a severe right rotator cuff tear and is reported to have received open surgery last month. l/n did not provide further details about her recovery, however stated that she plans to focus on her physical rehabilitation in the meantime.

the glare of the screen stares back at the boys as they finally understand exactly why you had retired and why you had come back as a coach–you were unable to fully step away from the sport you so loved with your entire life.

“coach wasn’t telling us to play defensively at all the crucial times just for the sake of the game strategy…” seonghwa grasps.

“...but because she didn’t want the same thing to happen to us,” hongjoong finishes. one of your heated remarks during your argument with him suddenly resounds in his mind: and let me remind you–if you suffer an injury, your whole team suffers with you. you had been reliving your own demons every single time hongjoong and his boys were playing aggressively on the ice. “fuck,” he mutters.

mingi leans down a little. “wait, see if there are any other articles about this.”

fingers dancing across the keyboard, hongjoong opens up a new tab. another quick search of your name with the keywords ‘injury’ and ‘retirement’ yields no further articles. mingi is certain you would have had more media coverage considering you had suffered an injury at the rising peak of your prodigious career, so he finds it strange that there is close to no information about this.

“it almost looks as if somebody had the articles purged from the internet,” mingi observes.

jongho nods with furrowed brows, “maybe y/n? but why would she go to the length to remove them?”

“i mean, wooyoung didn’t exactly go around flaunting off his injury to the media. maybe she didn’t want the attention anymore,” yeosang guesses.

yunho nudges wooyoung playfully as he comments, “no offence to you, but none of us are exactly famous enough for the media to take interest in our injuries.”

“i think the real question is why coach didn’t tell us that her injury was the reason why she stopped playing,” seonghwa wonders, “it was never really a choice like she made it out to be.”

none of them know the answer. hongjoong slowly closes the laptop, exhaling deeply, “we’ve got a lot of things to clear up tomorrow…and a lot of apologising. i’m going to sleep early. you all should too.”

with that, he gets out of his seat and disappears into his bedroom. hongjoong’s mind is heavy and crowded and he knows he is going to be awake for a while.

nobody sleeps well that night. especially wooyoung.

spring, 2023: playoffs

“what do you mean i can’t compete in the playoffs?”

“you have a fractured ankle, wooyoung. the playoffs are honestly the least of your concerns and if you keep straining yourself like this, it won’t just be the playoffs that you can’t compete in–it’ll be the rest of your life,” coach cho admonishes.

“but this is our first proper championship, coach,” wooyoung begs, “you have to let me play.”

coach cho hates that he has to say no and if he could swap ankles with his player, he would do so in a heartbeat. “this isn’t a choice. you physically cannot play. what are you going to do out there on the ice? crawl?”

“fuck, coach, you don’t understand. it was so hard for us to get to this point. this means everything to me, fuck, please,” wooyoung pleads between heaving breaths.

“i’m sorry, wooyoung,” coach cho apologises, leaving no further room for argument as the other boys divert their gazes to the floor.

hongjoong gently squeezes wooyoung’s shoulder. “the doctor said that your cast can come off in about eight weeks and if it’s looking good, you can gradually join in on any light training when it’s off-season.”

wooyoung does not care because in eight week’s time the playoffs will already be over. he knows he is being unreasonable and that there is no chance he will be able to set foot in an ice rink within the next two months. but his heart and mind are operating separately and the only thing his heart can see is the opportunity of playing in the championships slipping right out of his grasp.

he is already angry at himself for getting injured in the first place but it is not enough to quell wooyoung’s raging inferno. so he does the only thing he can think of in the moment–he spits out his anger with a venomous, “i hate you all.”

it hurts the boys more to see wooyoung hurting and coach cho speaks up on their behalf, “i would rather you hate us now than for you to hate yourself in the future because you traded decades of your career for this one playoff.”

wooyoung jerks his head away defiantly, but they know he is only trying to hide his tears. unable to watch any longer, san moves in closer and pulls the younger into his arms.

“fuck off, san. i don’t need you.”

san swallows the hurt in his chest because he knows there is no truth behind wooyoung’s words. “i know you don’t,” he offers, “but i need you. so just let me stay.”

wooyoung’s body sags as all of the fight slips out of him in the form of shuddering sobs. san embraces him tightly, as if he has picked up all the pieces of the other and only a hug can make him whole again.

“i’m sorry,” wooyoung chokes out.

san shakes his head with reassuring hushes, “don’t be. you focus on recovering and we’ll take it from here.”

like that, wooyoung’s anger is quenched and the team goes on to compete in the playoffs without him. but in the absence of anger comes other emotions, jealousy and insecurity the ugliest of them all. wooyoung despises the bitter taste in his mouth as he sits on the player’s bench outside of the rink each game, only able to helplessly watch his team advance further in the playoffs without him.

and as much as wooyoung wants them to win, he also does not want them to win, because if they can win the championships without him playing as their left wing, then do they really need him at all? he never gets to find out the answer though. they lose in the quarter finals.

wooyoung does not tell anybody about the ill relief he feels…and he vows to take that secret with him to the grave.

winter, present: regular season

the moment you walk into kq’s meeting room, a rehearsed apology for the team on the tip of your tongue, you realise that something is off. not necessarily wrong, per se; just off.

all the boys are sitting around the table as usual, though the overhead projector that is routinely already set up with video footage of their recent games has been put on standby mode. but the thing that unconsciously makes your hackles rise is the expression they all nurse on their faces, strangely familiar yet foreign at the same time. it is familiar in the sense that people have looked at you this way in the past, but it is foreign in the sense that it has never come from the boys before.

“hi, coach,” hongjoong clears his throat awkwardly, opting to look at the wall behind you instead of your eyes as if even he knows this is the first time he has ever addressed you as such. “we had a…talk last night and thought we should probably clear up a few things before we discuss the actual games.”

although you share the same sentiment as they do, hongjoong’s words put you on guard. gingerly, you lower yourself into an empty seat across from him. “i also have a couple of things to say, but you guys start,” you cue.

hongjoong glances at seonghwa beside him, who in turn gives him a miniscule shrug. neither of them know how to bring it up with you as they are afraid of saying the wrong thing. thankfully, mingi steps in, not one to beat around the bush.

“why didn’t you tell us about your injury?” he asks directly.

with mingi’s question, you are suddenly able to place their expression. the boys look at you warily as if you are a wounded animal they are afraid will run away. you loathed the expression years ago when it was from your coach, your teammates and your family–the constant treading on eggshells around you with pitying eyes–and you still loathe it just as much as you do now.

your prickles emerge and your instinctive reaction is to deny it. you have kept your injury a secret up until now for a reason and the unexpected confrontation has all of your sirens blaring to keep it a secret. but then you remember coach cho’s advice–you remember the apology you had mulled over all night–and you force your prickles to retract.

you take a breath. coach cho would not have told them about your injury, so there is only one way the boys could have found out about it. “you read the articles, didn’t you?”

mingi at least has the decency to look sheepish as he admits, “one…but there weren’t any others.”

“i thought as much,” you mumble to yourself, smiling tightly. you choose not to think about how they came across the article. “i wanted them all removed and my agency managed to pull enough connections to sweep the articles under the rug, but i should have known that in this day and age it would be impossible to get rid of any media completely.”

the question remains as to why you have chosen to keep this hidden and also–

“why did you want them removed, though?” hongjoong furrows his brows.

you have faced countless demons in the last six years. the injury itself, the abrupt end to your golden days, and the forced reconciliation with the fact that you will never be able to play again. and yet, the demon that continues to haunt you to this day is the media spotlight that chases after you as if you are a circus animal.

you are unable to look at any of them in the eye as you finally bare yourself open to the boys. “the articles felt belittling and shameful–they still do. they made me feel less as an athlete then and they make me feel less as a coach now. i worked my heart and soul to get to where i was with the skills that i had, but you don’t understand just how crippling it is for all of that to be overshadowed by an injury. it was no longer a celebration of my achievements, simply because nobody cared anymore. it just became a fucking broken record of, ‘how does it feel to have fallen at the peak of your career?’

“then when i became a coach, it didn’t matter how well my team performed or how hard they worked to win the championships. the question became, ‘how does it feel to coach after being forced to retire because of your injury?’ no matter how hard i tried, i just could not escape the hellhole of my injury.”

guilt settles in the pit of mingi’s stomach as it also does for the others. they may not have written the article, but by consuming it and searching for more, they had unknowingly joined the faceless masses of those who had hurt you.

you dig your thumbs into the flesh of your thighs to stop your voice from shaking as you continue, “the media will not care for the achievements that myself or my players accomplish when there is something even better–a sob story. but i do not need that kind of pity. not from athletes, not from other coaches, and most definitely not from strangers silently pitying my life from behind their newspaper or screen when i did not ask for any of it. i made people forget and i kept this all hidden because my career, be it as a coach or a former athlete, does not deserve to be reduced to that kind of shit.”

the raw honesty behind your words strikes the boys silent. what they thought they had started to understand about you, they are now realising was barely the tip of the iceberg. seonghwa wonders for just how long you have left this wound bleeding and untreated. he calls out for you sadly, “coach, you should’ve told us.”

when you look up, you are surprised to find wetness brimming his eyes. you feel the hot rush of emotions build up behind your own eyes but from anger, because why is he upset? what reason does he have to cry when you are the one who has suffered all this time?

your voice is biting when you respond, “and have you look down on me like everybody else? i just said, i do not need your pity–”

“it’s not pity,” a voice interrupts firmly. of all people, you least expected it to come from wooyoung. his tone stays unyielding as he holds your gaze. “we’re athletes too, y/n.”

the way he includes you in the collective–as an athlete–has your glare softening immediately, replaced by the dangerous quivering of your bottom lip while he elaborates, albeit voice gentler now, “we are hurting for you–with you. it is not pity; it is standing by your side in hopes that we can help you up if you ever fall again.”

because it is okay to fall, and you will fall; wooyoung knows that the best.

you tilt your head upwards as you desperately blink back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill. the swell of emotions that had churned in your chest had not been anger but fatigue, you realise. wooyoung’s words give you sudden clarity that you are tired–of suffering alone and in silence. you want help.

“i’m tired of hurting,” you confess quietly.

“then let us share the hurt with you.”

the dam breaks and your tears fall freely down your cheeks. it starts off with a nod so miniscule that the boys think they have imagined it, but then slowly and surely, your head moves up and down with more conviction. “okay,” you whisper.

you had always thought that you had come to terms with your injury and the end of your career, but perhaps you are still mourning your loss…and perhaps that is okay. like looking into a time-warped mirror, wooyoung sees the fight slip out of your body with a sob as you apologise, “i’m sorry.”

san wants to cross the room and wrap his arms around you if it can take away even just a fraction of your hurt. but he knows that he cannot cross the boundaries of professionalism despite the intimate nature of the conversation right now, especially when you and the team are only just starting to patch things up. so instead, he opts to rub his thumb over the knuckles of wooyoung’s hand from under the table, which has slipped into his, hoping that one day he will be able to do the same for you.

“we understand,” hongjoong answers on their behalf, “you were doing what you needed to do in order to protect yourself.”

and if you do not realise that he says those words for himself and his team to hear too, then you will by the end of the conversation as you walk away with a newfound understanding of them.

“no, not just for that,” you shake your head, roughly swiping at your tears with the back of your hand. “it ended up negatively influencing the way i coached you guys, even if it was subconscious. i let my own trauma dictate how i wanted you to play: defensively all the time whether it was needed or not. hongjoong, you were right about me not coaching your team as your team.”

you try your damned hardest to keep your voice steady so that you can look at them properly to apologise, “i’m sorry i made it so hard to trust me as your coach.”

“okay, let me stop you right there,” yunho smiles gently, sliding a tissue box in your direction. “we were pricks too, so half the apology is ours.”

“don’t call her a prick,” seonghwa whispers. his horrified expression relaxes when you break out into a wet chuckle.

hongjoong is glad that you are able to find something to laugh about even with your cheeks still damp and blotchy, and he finds his mouth curling into a bittersweet smile. you have been honest and vulnerable with them and now it is their turn.

“we have something to tell you about our past coach,” he starts, drawing your gaze to him. “not coach cho–our very first coach. we’re not trying to justify that what we did as a result was okay, but…”

“but hopefully i can understand,” you finish when hongjoong hesitates. he nods and you mirror his action with a reassuring smile to encourage him to talk.

but irregardless of what they tell you, you already know that you want to understand them, because understanding is the first step to forgiving, and you want that too.

so with intermittent comments from the other boys, hongjoong reveals to you the hidden wounds they have been nursing. and as they tell you about coach yeon, how their trust in him had been misplaced, how he had betrayed it for money at the expense of their championship, and how they had then let that become mistrust in you and your reason for retiring, wooyoung finds himself quiet so that he can steal glances at you.

he can see it now. the untameable beast within you of passion for ice hockey that has been forcibly chained down to the ground with the weight of the earth. the devastating torment that must incessantly surge through you in the most debilitating waves, tenfold any anguish he felt when he was unable to compete in the playoffs. the blemished canvas of dark and ghastly emotions that you do not let see the light of day, yet continue to coexist in hidden silence.

it is there and then that wooyoung realises you and him may be more similar than he thought–that you may actually understand him better than any of his seven boys.

you stop the drill.

yeosang gracefully turns in an arc whilst keeping the puck close to his stick as hongjoong and seonghwa dig their skates into the ice to brake before their momentum takes out the younger.

“let’s have jongho try using the perimeter of the rink instead of passing to yeosang this time. start the faceoff again,” you instruct.

the chorus of responses that you receive are zealous, even slightly teasing as the boys lower their voices with a, “yes, coach!” and give you small salutes with their gloved hands. you cannot help but snort and shake your head, waving at them to retake their positions.

practice is short today, since your team has a game tomorrow. the first half an hour consisted of running through offensive formations for power plays and you are now focusing on defensive penalty kills. your two captains and wooyoung are playing as the mock opponents, preparing your remaining wings and defenseman for a situation where they are down a player.

hongjoong seems to mull over a thought as he looks at the formation of his boys. “you mentioned the team we’re playing against has a tendency to position their forwards higher up, didn’t you?” he asks and when you nod, he suggests, “what do you think about trying the diamond formation instead? might help close some of their shooting lanes.”

with the captain’s input, you reposition yeosang further up to form the tip of the diamond, and yunho too to cover the right point whilst jongho covers the left. mingi moves in a little closer to the goal to cover the bottom of the diamond and you make sure to point out the importance of his position.

“if the opportunity arises, we can transition into a counterattack instead with 3-1. but we’ll need to make sure we still cover the goal in case they turn it back over again–mingi, this will probably be you. support whoever has the puck from behind, but make sure you don’t go too far forward.”

mingi answers with an affirmative and yeosang passes the puck to hongjoong for him to commence the penalty kill. at your whistle, the rink explodes into action. wooyoung and seonghwa immediately split down the perimeters to open up shooting lanes for their captain, who passes the puck off to wooyoung the moment he has cleared half the rink. with a brief adjustment of the puck’s angle, he attempts a cross-ice pass to where seonghwa is free on the other side.

with astonishing speed, jongho intercepts the puck and yells, “3-1!” he continues to barrel forward with the momentum of his explosive acceleration towards the goal as yeosang anticipates a pass and yunho joins the counterattack rush to his right. the three of your players charge forwards with adrenaline as mingi covers them from behind. jongho chips the puck over hongjoong’s stick, which is immediately taken up by yeosang. without a goaltender, he finishes it off with an easy shot into the net.

the tempo and execution of the rush surprises not just you, but the boys themselves too, who are tapping their sticks together with elated excitement at the success of the play. it may only be a simulated practice drill, but you still share in the same pride and contentment that hongjoong’s face glows at you with.

he cocks his head to the side with a paired smile and you return the same nonverbal acknowledgement. corners of your lips still lifted up, you gather the boys, “let’s have a drink break.”

as the boys make their way over to the benches, removing their gloves and helmets, you eye the water bottles and make sure you have enough–five in the cooler and three on the bench beside it. san bounds up to you after grabbing one from the cooler, bragging, “coach! did you see the way jongho intercepted that puck?”

from beside him, wooyoung reenacts the moment with wild flails of his limbs and airy whooshes from his mouth, jongho watching with bashful giggles. you indulge in their animated recount and listen intently. “he was amazingly fast,” you agree.

yeosang passes an opened bottle to wooyoung before untwisting the lid to his own, commenting, “the ankle weights on top of all the training must be working.”

the boys are not currently wearing any, but you had slowly implemented the use of vests, ankle or wrist weights during specific drills. now that they have taken them off and are playing without the burden of the additional mass, you are all starting to see the gains of their hard work.

you smirk with satisfaction, “of course. if my players are going to bulldoze across the ice, may as well make them fast enough to avoid all the opponents.”

“don’t encourage her,” wooyoung elbows yeosang scandalously. “she’s going to make us wear heavier weights next practice.”

“you don’t get to complain if you don’t even wear the weights,” you quip.

he knows his injury means that he cannot wear the weights in case it places stress on his ankle, so he curses at you with no real heat just for the sake of cursing, “fuck you.”

you wink, “love you too.”

wooyoung shuts his mouth and scrunches the bridge of his nose with faux displeasure, and jongho laughs at his inability to faze you. you glance down and open your notebook to mention, “on that note, though, how do we feel about going up a few hundred grams next week?”

“i’m fine with that,” yeosang says at the same time jongho confirms, “sounds good.” most of the other boys also nod that they are fine with increasing their weights, save for seonghwa who notifies you that he is still adjusting so he will keep his as it is for now.

you jot down ticks and crosses next to their names corresponding to their answers whilst suggesting, “yunho and mingi, you can both probably try half a kilogram since your body masses are higher.”

said boys peer over your shoulder to see what their new weights would be, then yunho makes a noise of intriguement. “coach, did you write these?”

you look to where his finger is pointing to–sticky notes upon sticky notes of unorganised observations and reminders to yourself. starting to feel self-conscious, you deny, “...no,” only for yunho to swipe the notebook from out of your grasp. “hey!”

he holds it up and open above him, voice gleeful as he reads one out, “‘jongho, wooyoung and yeosang prefer water at room temperature when training–take bottles out of cooler!’”

“aw, coach,” wooyoung coos, “did you deliberately leave three bottles in room temperature for us on the bench?”

feeling your ears heat up from being exposed, you swipe at the notebook. your skates give you added height, but so do yunho’s skates, so your attempts to jump for it are futile.

“‘boys want to eat abura soba after their win’,” he continues to read, pausing to let out a dramatic gasp, “are you going to treat us, coach?” his question is met with enthusiasm.

when another wild swipe sends a sharp sting down your shoulder from the movement, reminding you of the pain that had flared up a few days ago, you decide to change tactics. you grab the back and front of his jersey with your hands, completely ready to commit to scaling him like a literal tree. but then a different set of hands easily takes the notebook out of yunho’s and of course it would be mingi. you insult, “give it back, you tall buffoon!”

mingi is hardly fazed as you switch targets to him, your fingertips nowhere near reaching the notebook as he snickers and reads, “‘trial jongho as starting forward–wait.” he lowers his hands with sobriety and you are finally able to snatch the notebook back, shutting it before they can read any more of your sticky notes. it is not like there is anything they cannot know, but it is sort of embarrassing for them to see how much attention you pay to them.

“you want jongho on the starting lineup?” mingi confirms that he has not read it wrong, eyes as wide as all the other boys as they look at you.

jongho is almost certain that you must have meant somebody else, or something else, because there is no way that he would be given the opportunity to start for the team–not when they have yeosang and wooyoung as their wings, and the choice of hongjoong or seonghwa as their centres. he is used to being the player who momentarily relieves others of their shift on the ice, or as his parents so like to remind him, option b.

“why do you all look so surprised?” you frown. beckoning at jongho with your chin, you ask, “you’ve been practising hard to make your right hand just as good as your left hand, haven’t you? so let’s take advantage of your versatility and unpredictability on ice and throw the opponents off. what do you think?”

jongho’s mouth opens and shuts, struggling to formulate an answer through his wide beam other than, “i–of course, if you’d let me–if everyone else is happy.”

the pleased smile on hongjoong’s face is enough to make his cheeks sore and he wraps his arm around the youngest’s shoulders. he praises, “look at you, our wild card and our hidden ace,” as seonghwa declares, “i know he’ll do us so proud.”

both yeosang and wooyoung simultaneously offer their positions in the starting lineup and the rest of the boys watch on with fond expressions. they are grateful that you have recognised the talents and hard work of their youngest. although you are not aware, this opportunity holds significance not just in regards to his career.

you conclude, “we’ve been on a good streak with our games. let’s ride the momentum and show the other teams what jongho is capable of–what we’re all capable of.”

“yes, coach!” they shout, the loud echo of their voices reverberating and filling the rink with buzzing energy for the remainder of the training session.

spirits still high by the time you call it a wrap, you let them change as you grab your own belongings. there is a team meeting in the afternoon so you and the boys will be going back to kq to eat at the cafeteria and use the booked room. you pause when you see wooyoung loitering by your bag. he still has not changed out of his practice clothes.

“i’m not letting you on the bus if you’re planning on staying in those clothes,” you joke.

“i’m going to change!” he scowls indignantly, then avoids eye contact as he thrusts something out in your direction. he mumbles, “had some spares. didn’t want them. just dumping them with you so you can stash them or use them or whatever, i don’t care.”

you grab the small bag, brows creased with confusion, but wooyoung dashes away to change before you can ask what it is. you peer inside and to your pleasant surprise, there are two packs of pain relief patches. your shoulder protests at the lack of attention you have given it in the last few days. the pain is chronic and never really goes away, but it has been bothering you more than usual recently, so it is all in good timing that you now have some patches.

you make a mental note to stick one on when you get to the company and grab your bag after ensuring your notebook is stored inside. as you head towards the change rooms to wait for the boys, you spot a piece of paper on the floor. it looks like rubbish that you must have missed on your way in earlier so you pick it up to throw away. but when your fingertips touch the familiar sheen of the wax-like paper, you realise wooyoung must have dropped it.

it is confirmed when you unfold it to read the text and see that it is from yesterday evening, at the pharmacy that is just across the street from the company; in your hands you hold wooyoung’s receipt for two packs of pain relief patches.

spring marks the start of the playoffs. in synchronisation with the burst of life that blooms with the season, your boys, too, flourish in the league.

the unpredictability of your team’s strategies that entail a mix of both yours and hongjoong’s prowess helps to secure wins over the remainder of the regular season. despite the unsteady start to the season, it allows your team to scrape into the round of sixteen near the bottom of the standings.

the red devils are seeded against the team that is third in the rankings, and then against the sixth-standing team in the quarterfinals. in upsets that knock out two of the most anticipated teams in the league, your boys advance into the semifinals, their reputation as the demons of the ice rink that had laid low now rapidly spreading.

where none of the other competitors had paid you and your players any mind before, barely even noticing your presence, the opponents now glance and watch your team walk past with an air of confidence through the arena. their tense jaws and hard gazes size up your athletes–formidable rivals who have suddenly barrelled up the ranks from out of nowhere and now pose perhaps the biggest threat as a team that has somehow slipped under their radars.

you know; your team may be small in numbers. but with yunho and mingi flanking the sides of the boys, and even with hongjoong’s charismatic aura alone leading the front, which extends around him like a dark cloud of terror and envelops the rest of the group too, your team is a pack of predators at the tip of the apex.

other players part to make a path for your boys, whose heads are held high and eyes are set only on their captain and you, their coach, as you all walk to your assigned changeroom. the nerves have long dissipated because the ice rink is your territory and the other teams are your prey.

the moment you shut the door behind the last of them into the room though, the icy stare in wooyoung’s eyes melt and he exclaims, “holy shit, did you see the way everybody was looking at us? we must have looked so fucking hot, i wish i could ask for my own signature.”

from their glowing faces alone, you can tell that they are all basking in the feeling of finally being recognised and reckoned with. yunho bats his eyelids and pinches his voice higher into a falsetto, “oh wooyoung! you’re so handsome and cool, could i please have your signature?”

mingi imitates him and pounces on wooyoung, begging for a photo together as he clings onto his elbow. it sets off the rest of the boys to crowd around like mock fans with faux exhilaration. you snort at their antics, leaving wooyoung to sign imaginary sheets of paper with his imaginary pen in favour of ensuring all of their backup equipment and gear is correctly located outside or in the storage area.

you allow the boys adequate time to change into their full gear for their warm-up prior to the actual semifinal game before you walk back into the locker room. your ears perk up when you catch the end of san’s question, “that’s good for us, isn’t it?”

“what is?” you ask out of curiosity, flipping open the provided cooler and adding several sports drinks into the ice.

“i overheard someone on the white tigers team say that their head coach happened to fall sick, so they have their assistant coach today,” jongho mentions.

the surge of brazen smiles and reassured glints in their eyes at the reveal of information makes you falter to a degree. you lightly chastise, “don’t let that get to your heads and start being cocky–play as you usually do and do not underestimate them just because their head coach is off.”

you pull your notebook out of your bag, the familiar cover and weight of the book providing you with a sense of security as you remind the boys, “the white tigers have a very similar playing style as us. we may have worked hard on our defensive strategies, but with similar strengths and weaknesses overall, it won’t hurt for us to still be cautious.”

“yes, coach,” they chorus.

hongjoong nods, “let’s go warm up, then finalise our starting lineup for the game.”

your team’s allocated time on the rink passes by quickly and it is followed by the last adjustments to the discussed strategies and game plan, thorough checks of their gear, and the remaining boys who are still wearing their practice jerseys change out of the blue into their red game uniform. in full gear, there your boys stand, presence intimidating and demoniac. the boys do not live up to their team name; their team name lives up to them.

they stride through the hallway for their semifinal game against the white tigers. right at the end before it leads to the ice rink, yunho yells, “pep talk, captain!”

hongjoong groans, rolling his eyes, but places the blade of his stick onto the rubber flooring nonetheless. the rest of the boys huddle around, their sticks meeting in the centre of the circle and standing close together so that their helmets and shoulders knock against one another. you are also swept into the circle with yeosang and san by your sides.

“boys…and girl,” hongjoong snickers to himself before recollecting his very inspirational train of thought, “we’ve fought hard to make it this far–this is the first time we’ve made it into the semis, so let’s keep running until the very end, yeah?”

to the team’s increasingly loud cheers, hongjoong yells, “let’s fuck it up out there!”

their sticks hit the ground in unison and despite the muted sound of the cushioned flooring, their shouts of fighting resolve and unwavering determination drown out everything else. together, you emerge from the hallway and your starting players take their positions on the ice, ready to fuck it up.

only, it happens literally.

the moment the puck hits the ice and the white tigers’ centre forward, byun, wrestles it away with his blade, hongjoong immediately knows it is going to be one of those games. the ones where his competitive grit is fueling his mind ablaze but his body is leaden-footed as if he is wading through quicksand; where his body is just unable to keep up and move the way he wants it to. it is one of those days where his condition is just inexplicably off and there is nothing he can do about it except hope that his years of training and sheer aptitude for the sport will be enough.

“fuck,” you curse under your breath at hongjoong’s slip as jongho and yeosang rush to fall back and support those in defence. “he wasn’t like that during the warm-ups.”

byun is not only agile and swift, but is almost an identical reflection of hongjoong’s own bold and assertive offence. the centre forward powers through with evasive turns around yunho’s attempt to body check him, unafraid and confident. passing the blue line into your team’s defensive zone, byun flicks the puck at the goal.

the point shot is an unexceptional attempt to score, nothing that san’s reflexive goaltending cannot take care of. he extends his left foot and blocks the low shot with his leg pad, where the puck then slides in yunho’s direction. you did not doubt for a moment that san would not be able to save the shot, but it is still a close call that is far too early in the game to be a good sign.

your team’s greatest strength is their unspoken synergy and seamless unity, but it is also their greatest weakness. when one player stumbles, particularly when it is their captain–the very roots of the team–their bond runs so deeply that it throws their teamwork out of harmony and ultimately impacts the entire team.

with san’s save, yunho regains possession and handles the puck around the back of their net to shake off the pressure that the white tigers’ forwards are placing on him, as well as to buy his own team some time to reassemble in their formation.

you know that this is not going to work for long; you have to change the momentum of the game, and fast. “seonghwa, get ready,” you alert. “you’re going on for hongjoong.”

the alternate captain stands, alarmed at the unexpected line change so early into the game. he grips his stick with white knuckles and watches his team as he waits for your cue. yunho hits the puck against the boards where yeosang successfully receives the rebound.

“breakout!” yeosang yells and rushes forward with the chasing skates of the opponents nipping at his heels. jongho clears the centre line into the offensive zone at the same time hongjoong screens and blocks the view of the white tigers’ goaltender, setting up for an opportunity to score.

when the opponent’s left defence and wing advance on yeosang rapidly, he fakes a deceptive pass towards the boards before twisting the blade of his stick and flicking the puck between their skates instead in hongjoong’s direction. but like an eagle honing in on a small rodent, byun swoops in to snatch the puck, flipping the possession again.

the tides turn and all the athletes on the rink race towards your team’s net, a cutthroat competition between triumph and desperation to chase the puck. byun passes to the player on his left as they both dash closer, the left forward immediately returning the puck the moment he receives it to break past mingi’s defence.

you are able to see the white tigers’ right wing following closely behind ready for a drop pass, but in your team’s frenzied minds, they are unable to read the play. yunho approaches byun, who is expecting the defence and leaves the puck behind whilst skating on, knowing that it will be received by his trailing teammate. with the momentary confusion that is enough to disrupt both yunho and san’s gaze on the puck, the opponent’s right wing winds his stick back just enough to build power without sacrificing speed, then slaps the puck into the corner of the goal–

–and scores. within the first three minutes of the game.

“seonghwa,” you call out again with urgency as the whistle blows. you turn to look at him, “you’re up. you have to break the flow of the team. not just the white tigers, but ours too–the boys are panicking and you need to help anchor them.”

he nods, steadying his hand on the board in preparation to hop over it, and you yell out for the captain, “change!”

hongjoong sees the gesture of your hand pointing at the bench, and although his chest tightens with frustration at himself, he speeds towards the edge of the rink to change. once the captain is close enough, seonghwa pushes his skate off the benches to launch himself over the top of the boards onto the ice then propels himself forward to take the centre faceoff.

the captain sits down heavily on the bench, defeat already broiling off of his slumped body in smothering swells. you really cannot afford to take your eyes off the game; it waits for nobody and the whistle has already blown, the rink erupting into commotion. but whilst you need to watch the game unfold, you need hongjoong just as much, and his team needs him.

you turn him slightly to face you so that he can see your face of resolution. “you are the captain, so be the captain–for the team…and for yourself,” you invigorate, voice raised so that he can hear you over the noise of the stadium.

you give his shoulder a hard squeeze, certain he will not be able to even feel it from under the pads of his uniform. regardless, he understands your intentions and nods grimly, the fog in his eyes clearing. wooyoung taps the back of his helmet in a show of encouragement and hongjoong returns the gesture with appreciation.

a particularly loud thump draws the attention of all three of you back to the game. from the grimace on yeosang’s face and his hand steadying himself on the boards, it is obvious he has just been body checked into the wall. seonghwa pursues the puck with graceful yet powerful speed before he digs both skates perpendicular into the ice to suddenly change direction. pushing off, he accelerates back towards the white tigers’ defensive zone when mingi manages to disrupt the opponent’s stickhandling enough for yunho to sweep the puck and skate it up the perimeter of the rink away from their net.

wooyoung also goes on for yeosang but as the left wing, so jongho switches position to play as the right forward. he skates past the benches when an opportunity arises and he hands off his stick whilst grabbing his right-handed stick from you with practised ease.

with the line change of forwards and with seonghwa on as your centre, your team stabilises to an extent. the red devils are no longer being pushed back but they are also unable to push forward. the game is at a stalemate, although the tides remain in favour of the white tigers with both their positional and psychological advantage of the first goal.

you can see the pressure weighing down on your boys; passes that yunho and mingi would be capable of executing blindfolded are miscalculated; predictable manoeuvres still mislead wooyoung in the wrong direction; seonghwa and jongho fail to notice the opportunities for clear passing and shooting lanes; and the openings appear far too wide and innumerable for san to cover the goal from. the relentless offensive pressure that the white tigers places on your team, strikingly similar to how the boys played when you first started coaching them, does not give any breathing room either.

so that is how the first period comes to an end–losing zero to one with none of your players performing at their best condition. their steps are heavy and burdened as they walk back to the locker room for the intermission, helmets removed the moment they come off the ice to reveal hardened expressions. in the privacy of your assigned room, most of the boys adjust the pads in their gear and yunho peels off his shin guards to let them air out.

you pass around their iced bottles and as exhausted as they are, they make sure to voice their gratitude. san grabs wooyoung’s bottle for him, since the younger is bent over loosening the laces of his left skate. “here,” san murmurs, twisting open the cap and passing it to wooyoung once he straightens his back.

similarly, seonghwa hands over an opened bottle to yeosang before taking a swig of his own. “you’re okay?” he checks, the particularly rough body check that yeosang had copped earlier in the game still at the forefront of his mind.

yeosang gives the alternate captain a reassuring smile, “i’m okay.”

appeased by the answer, seonghwa turns to look at hongjoong, who is re-taping the blade of his stick. “what about you?” seonghwa softly asks, “you’re feeling okay?”

hongjoong glances up briefly at the back of your figure. you are busy shifting the red magnets around on the whiteboard and erasing the markings you had made prior to the start of the semifinals. when you turn around to gather their attention, you accidentally make eye contact with him and break out into a small smile.

“yeah,” hongjoong replies, “i’m feeling okay.”

“alright, listen up boys, that was just the first period. we’re not even halfway into this game and we’ve started to even up the playing field now that we’ve found our footing,” you encourage. “we just have to make sure we keep our heads cool and read their plays instead of simply reacting to their movements.”

you look at each of them as you direct, “their centre forward, byun, has been on for almost all of first period, so there’s probably going to be a shift change, if not a complete line change of forwards. they have the leniency to swap out their top players since they’re in the lead, which means if we want to break their momentum, we need to break it then.”

shifting yourself slightly out of the way, the boys are able to see the new arrangement of positions you have marked out on the whiteboard. “we’re starting the second period by sharpening our offence in the 2-2-1 formation,” you explain. you beckon your head at the captain, “hongjoong, you’re back on. you and wooyoung are to position yourselves up high between the neutral and offensive zones–try to screen their goaltender when our boys have possession. yunho, i want you to move up to our blue line with jongho and open up as many passing lanes as you two can. mingi will stay in defence and help cover the goal with san in case the white tigers makes a counterattack.

“use this opportunity to make as many scoring chances as you can. if there isn’t a clear shot but there’s a chance it can be continued on by another one of us, then go for it anyway–any sort of pressure we can put on their team is better than none.”

your forwards nod with understanding, so you continue to the most important point, “but the moment byun and the wings–kim and song, i think they are–come back on, we’re reversing the formation.” you reposition half of the magnets into a 1-2-2 formation. “only hongjoong will stay up high; wooyoung will fall back and join jongho in the neutral zone; put pressure on their forwards from there. yunho and mingi, you’ll play left and right defence as usual.”

san listens intently when you start moving the black magnets that represent the opposing players and call out to him directly. you warn, “san, be careful of their drop passes. kim and song have been skating forward but leaving the puck behind for byun to score multiple times throughout the first period. they have you primed to predict it now, so they’re probably going to change their tactic and pass directly in front of the goal instead.”

“yes, coach,” san acknowledges.

a glance at the screen on the wall of the locker room tells you that there are only a few minutes left of the intermission. “gear up and get ready to go back on,” you instruct the boys.

they make final adjustments to their pads and yunho tapes his shin guards back into place under his socks. you make sure they all have their helmets and sticks when they start to file out of the locker room once they are ready and you grab wooyoung’s gloves for him while he ties the laces of his skates again.

“thanks,” he reaches out for them as he stands up. except he stumbles slightly when he puts weight on his left ankle and your hand instinctively grabs his to steady him.

your eyes grow wide with concern. you know that wooyoung is the type to keep quiet about his pain, even if you ask, “does your ankle hurt?”

“no, my legs just fell asleep on me from sitting,” he reassures, conscious of your hand that still holds his. he smiles through his lie and hopes that you are unable to pick up on it. the buzzer sounds before you can, though, warning you both that there is only one minute remaining until the game resumes.

hurriedly you tell him, “let me know if you need to come off.”

somebody yells out your names, forcing you both to rush off to join the rest of the team in the hallway. wooyoung knows that he should admit to you right there and then that his ankle does hurt, but he will not–he cannot…because he owes it to his team.

they do not know and they will never know, but there is not a day that goes past where wooyoung does not feel guilty for having desired for their loss last year. he has to play and win this championship for his team because only then can he start to forgive himself. but until he wins, he deserves to suffer.

those in the lineup rapidly glide across the ice to take their positions, wooyoung included. a short buzzer sounds, the puck is dropped, and the second period starts. immediately you can see that your boys have the advantage. the white tigers had not expected you to take such an aggressive approach of offence considering that you are losing.

and sure enough, just as you had predicted, their coach has changed their entire line of forwards. the players are still undeniably skilled, but they visibly struggle to match the pace at which hongjoong and wooyoung are now leading your team to attack.

the rink is under the boys’ control; the neutral zone has become a stronghold with the resistance of both jongho and yunho’s combined strength and mingi’s reinforcement from behind. wooyoung weaves through the players with polished agility as he creates passing opportunities around the offensive zone, whilst hongjoong makes his own path with imposing might, his devilish wings spread. and even if the white tigers somehow manage to gain possession of the puck and break past your defence, san looks impossibly larger than the goal itself, leaving no openings for their forwards to score.

it is well into the second period when the perfect play sets itself up. with mingi blocking any possible rebounds off the boards, yunho’s attempt to body check the white tigers’ right wing forces the player to pass the puck across the ice. before their centre forward is able to receive it, jongho has already intercepted and is thundering ahead with his stick controlling the puck.

“high!” he shouts, ploughing through the neutral zone as wooyoung and hongjoong immediately respond to his call and skate up towards the goal.

jongho deliberately looks at his captain but flicks the puck with a forehand pass in the other direction, too fast for the defenders to react to. wooyoung easily receives the anticipated pass, thighs burning and his left ankle stinging as he rushes towards the goal from the left with powerful acceleration. the white tigers’ goaltender immediately lowers his stance and raises his arms in preparation to block his shot.

in the corner of his eye, wooyoung sees hongjoong matching his lightning pace on his right, the captain’s eyes narrowed with concentration and body weight tilted forward as he hurtles past the defenders. wooyoung pretends to wind up his stick for a slap shot into the net, only to twist the angle of his arms at the last second to send the puck skittering across the ice directly parallel to the goal. the goaltender drops down to his knees, having anticipated a scoring attempt, except the puck is now nearing hongjoong.

hongjoong sees it clearly–the trajectory that the puck is taking and the perfect point where it needs to meet his stick. without breaking its momentum, his arms contract to swing his stick and the blade collides with the puck with forceful precision, sending it hurtling through the air. the goaltender desperately scrabbles back onto his skates to defend the other side of the goal, but it is too late.

the puck flies past the posts and hits the netting.

the horn blares and echoing cheers erupt throughout the stadium as the lights flick on to shine across the net and your forward players. hongjoong yells with fierce triumph, stick raised into the air as wooyoung excitedly collides into him. the duo disappear amongst the bodies of your boys as they swarm around them feverish exuberance.

“that’s our fucking captain–” “–woo’s assist was insane!”

hongjoong cannot even tell who is who as he is jostled around in overjoyed laughter and beaming smiles, numerous hands reaching out to tap his and wooyoung’s helmets and shoulders. from outside the rink, you, seonghwa and yeosang have long stopped sitting on the benches, bodies too strung tight with hopeful tension to stay seated, so you are immediately swept up into a hug as the three of you celebrate the goal with identical exhilaration.

the game is still far from over but the morale has just skyrocketed through the roof as if the red devils have scored the winning goal. combined with the team’s fans electrifying the atmosphere of the stadium, it definitely feels like it, and you are starting to see hope that the ones advancing to the finals after today will be your boys.

“line change!” you faintly hear, so you still to watch all three of the white tigers’ forwards skate towards the boards. byun, kim and song jump onto the rink, back on offence in the wake of your goal.

hongjoong makes eye contact with you when you search for him amongst the team huddle and in unison, you both nod, pride and determination unspoken in your gazes–the real game is about to start now. the boys start to disperse and take up their positions around the marked circle for the centre faceoff, and hongjoong and byun meet head-to-head once again in the middle of the rink.

the white tigers’ centre forward smirks condescendingly, “cute goal.”

hongjoong’s face thunders over but he will not let himself resort to dirty sportsmanship. he bites his tongue and lowers his stance, focusing his attention on the game instead.

“ready,” the referee signals, then the puck is released.

byun manages to steal it and sends it backwards to his defensemen to open up more passing lanes, but as discussed, your boys mutually move into the 1-2-2 formation to fortify against their offensive plays. despite the pressure of the white tigers’ top forwards back in play, your team is riding on the momentum of your goal; although you had been treading to keep your heads above the water during the first period, there is now an air of confidence that permeates the ambience of the rink in favour of your boys.

an angled pass from their defence rebounds off the boards and kim receives it high in the neutral zone. he attempts an immediate pass across the ice to song, except the safety net of your player’s defensive formation allows mingi to thrust out with his stick to intercept the pass. he signals, “breakout!” before deflecting it to wooyoung.

the turnover of possession immediately triggers a switch in defence to offence as wooyoung handles the puck back the other way. his wrists twist the stick with measured coordination, controlling the blade and puck as an extension of his own hands while approaching the offensive zone. wooyoung sees the white tigers’ defensemen racing towards him so he abruptly pivots towards the left to drag the black disc around their extended sticks.

suddenly, a sharp pain engulfs his ankle that has his legs crumbling as he staggers off balance. wooyoung manages to stay upright, using his stick to steady himself, but the momentary stumble is more than enough of an opening for byun to steal possession from behind him.

the rival centre forward swerves around jongho then stays close to the perimeter to avoid mingi’s resistant defence. behind mingi, san splays his legs out as he prepares to block the left side of the goal, but byun continues blazing on and wraps around the back of the net. san follows his movement and swiftly shifts over to the right instead while byun cradles the puck with his blade to lift it into the air the moment he approaches.

yunho cannot risk a penalty by raising his own stick to block its trajectory, so he shifts his body in hopes of deflecting the shot before it reaches san. but byun’s wrists snap and tuck the airborne puck at a sharp angle right past the red goalpost…and the horn blows to mark the scoring of a goal.

your jaw plummets at the same time that your heart does. not even your lungs work, your body frozen stock-still. once more, the white tigers are back in the lead only mere minutes after the score had been painstakingly tied by your team.

“fuck!” wooyoung curses and slams his gloved fist against the ice, having dropped to his knees in enraged denial.

seonghwa looks on with despondence from beside you as hongjoong drags wooyoung back up to his feet. the captain’s jaws are clenched in frustration but only because of the score itself–never because of his boys. when mingi and yunho try to comfort san with firm squeezes and uttered reassurances, he can only return a tight smile, all three of their breaths heavy and irregular from exertion and dismay.

for the boys to have climbed so arduously and persistently to even the scores, only to be knocked off and their momentum obliterated so mercilessly soon, it is even more demoralising than the white tigers’ first goal. after all, the higher the climb, the harder the fall.

through the deep ache in your heart, you mutedly say to yeosang, “go on for wooyoung, and tell jongho to change sticks and play as left wing.”

“yes, coach,” he replies, voice delicate. yeosang waits as you gesture for wooyoung to come off before he hops over the boards and skates in jongho’s direction.

“woo,” you murmur as your left wing makes his way back to the benches, but he avoids your gaze and keeps his head down. you bite your lips and decide not to push it for now. instead, you press an opened bottle into his gloved hand.

wooyoung is thankful that the bottle is half empty, because his hand unconsciously clenches around it with quivering shame and he would have spilled the water were it full. he makes no move to bring the bottle up to his lips; he doubts the water would go down his constricted throat anyway. the penetrative guilt of his tears hurts immeasurably more than the piercing throb of his ankle because he may have just cost his team the win…again.

even when the buzzer signals the end of the second period, wooyoung dares not to look up. the score is one to two and it is his fault. the intermission passes by in a haze of dissociation, his body robotically moving on autopilot into the locker room and back to the ice rink. wooyoung does not even know whether there are line changes to the positions or whether the game strategy has been altered.

but it does not matter because it does not concern him–as if any coach would put him on after his grave mistake. what wooyoung fails to notice though is the glances of worry in his direction, and they do not come solely from his boys.

the stakes run at their highest in the third and final period. tension suffocates the entire stadium, invisible hands that snake around your throats with a hangman’s loose and make you break out into cold sweats. all the players on the ice rink put everything that they have on the line because by the end of the next twenty minutes, only one team will be advancing to the finals.

from the moment the puck is dropped into play and the timer resumes, the rink is a torrential battlefield of contesting skates and grappling sticks. dramatic passes and unforeseen interceptions lead to rapid turnovers that force both teams to hastily switch back and forth between offence and defence.

but everyone learns of the juxtapositions of the world early on in life. there is no light without dark, there is no happiness without sadness, there is no spring without autumn…and there is no victory without defeat. for every scoring attempt that the red devils make, the white tigers make three, steadily and gradually pushing your boys back in the final stretch of the game. and while most of your forwards’ goals are blocked in the nick of time, most of theirs are not.

as a last resort in the face of the crisis, you calculate the risks then add seonghwa onto the field. “yunho, change!” you yell, pulling him off defence.

“behind you,” byun alerts song as seonghwa powers across the ice right into the cutthroat action, before cursing when the white tigers nearly lose possession of the puck.

your two captains unrelentingly pursue the black disc at the forefront of your team, their complementary synergy and unity a whirlwind of prowess to be reckoned with as they try not to let the burden of scoring weigh them down. despite the overwhelming pressure as the team’s last line of defence, even more so now that you have sacrificed stability to capitalise on having two centre forwards, san’s cat-like eyes do not cloud over, only intensely scanning the field and the opponent’s plays.

you glance at the clock. there are only two minutes left and even the combined efforts of your forwards is not working. you never thought that you would ever have to do this as a coach, but now you are afraid there is no choice. “yunho,” you urge.

his head turns to you and you see the ashen pallor of your own face reflected on his as the very probable outcome of the game dawns across your minds. you make your decision. “you’re going back on. for san.”

yunho’s eyes widen. “for san? i can’t play as goaltender–”

“no,” you shake your head, “we’re playing without a goaltender.”

sixty seconds.

save for wooyoung, all of your defenders, wings and centre forwards make a last-minute spurt to attack, not letting their bodies recover for even a split second as they strain their burning legs and gasping lungs.

thirty seconds.

they desperately break past the physical boundaries of their own stamina into their last reserves of pure grit and will, draining every last drop that their mental resilience has to offer.

ten seconds.

they do not give up. they try again and again to score. but against all of your prayers, all of your tears and sweat and against all of your hopes, the gap does not close. the final buzzer blares throughout the entire stadium, marking the red devil’s loss.

two to six.

your players stand motionless, ghosts of denial and despair amongst the crazed jumps and bounds of celebration as the white tigers flock across the rink towards one another. hongjoong tilts his head upwards to stop the rush of tears from falling down his face, both yunho and seonghwa mirrors of his pain as sweat and tears drip down in salty trails. san grasps the edge of the board in front of him, his head hung low and shoulders quaking from how hard he tries to stifle his sobs so that wooyoung does not hear him.

not one of your boys are able to accept the results of the match. not even you can bring yourself to utter a single word of consolation, be it for yourself or for them. and as you watch the wretched image of your heartbroken boys, choking back tears of your own that you are unaware still manage to escape the corners of your eyes, the only sounds in your ears their stricken cries, you are reminded that the path of an athlete and coach is nothing like its portrayal in movies and stories; where hard work triumphs and leads to sure success.

the harsh reality is that there is no dramatic comeback. there is no underdog victory. there is no miracle and there is no final to advance to. you and your boys lose by triple the amount of your own goals and just like that, the journey has come to an end at the semifinals.

it is an anticlimactic defeat, the gap so far that your team could not even see the light at the end of the tunnel. and somehow…that feels far worse than losing by just a marginal difference.

the locker room is mostly quiet, the silence punctuated only by the closing of zippers and rustling of canvas as the boys who have finished showering and changing pack the rest of their gear for the final time. there are no more intermittent sniffles, leaving behind a miserable hush of emptiness instead. even the dying flicker of the light in the far corner of the ceiling thrums with more energy than the boys combined.

you sit on one of the benches and absentmindedly thumb through your notebook. seonghwa sits to your right, his kit bag already long organised and tidied to preoccupy his mind. the warmth from the close proximity of your thighs and elbows is a gracious comfort to the both of you. it no longer makes your backs straighten with uptightness, conscious of the boundaries between coach and athlete–not after your hearts and bodies melded together in hugs of solace after the final buzzer of the semifinals and melted away those lines.

seonghwa places his hand soothingly on your knee and murmurs, “stop looking at that. we’ll think about it later all together.”

none of the words or diagrams had been registering in your head, but you nod and close your notebook anyway. he probably does not want to see it either. you rest your head back against the wall behind you with a small exhale, blankly watching your team instead until your eyes travel around the room.

you count, then count again, before calling out, “captain, is wooyoung still showering?”

hongjoong cranes his neck around at the same time that everybody else does as well. “don’t think so,” he frowns, “i’m pretty sure he was one of the first ones out.��

wooyoung’s kit bag is still unpacked in his locker, so he is definitely not already waiting for the bus outside. before his absence can raise any alarms–the last thing the boys need on their plate right now–you stand and announce, “i’ll go find him. he probably just lost track of time.”

“do you need me to come with you?” yeosang rises to his feet.

you shake your head and reassure, “keep packing your bag.” then you turn to make your way out of the locker room when somebody calls out for you.

“coach, wait.”

it’s san, who skitters in front of you to press something into your hands. “give this to him when you see him?”

the item crinkles and a glance downwards reveals that it is an instant ice pack. you smile softly, stuffing it into the pocket of your jacket and hoping that nobody notices the ice pack that is already in there. “of course,” you gently touch his forearm. “i’ll be back.”

this time you make it out to the corridor but you do not get further than four steps before another voice stops you.

“coach!”

when you turn around, hongjoong emerges from the doorway. he slows down as he catches up to stand in front of you. “i…” his voice falters. “i’m sorry.”

i’m sorry i didn’t realise wooyoung was gone. i’m sorry i didn’t do my job as captain…and i’m sorry for losing.

“no,” you shake your head. “don’t be.” because you tried your best…and you did not give up. beckoning in the direction of the locker room, you tell him, “take care of the boys, okay? i’ll be back with wooyoung.”

the rigidity in hongjoong’s shoulders dissipates. “thank you…y/n.”

you smile, “anytime, hongjoong.” you wait for him to walk back inside before you finally turn to find wooyoung.

the arena is massive but apart from the locker room–which you already know wooyoung is not in–there are limited places that offer privacy from the multitude of people who mill around, be it other athletes, staff or spectators. you know from personal experience, so you head to the one place that is usually guaranteed to be somewhat out of the public eye.

“oh, fuck me,” wooyoung startles when you sit yourself down heavily on the same step as him, his curse echoing around the both of you. “how the fuck did you know i would be here?”

you snort, bumping his shoulder with yours. “i hate to burst your bubble, but this isn’t exactly an original experience. i’m pretty sure every athlete has hidden here to cry at one point in their career.”

the slight spark of light that had ignited within wooyoung at your appearance suddenly flickers out, reminded of why exactly he is hiding in the emergency stairwell in the first place. shame tears his eyes away from you, unable to meet your gaze any longer.

“i want to be left alone,” he murmurs.

although you respect his request, that is the opposite of what he needs. left to his own thoughts and devices, you know that wooyoung will spiral dangerously in guilt and self-reproach, even if the red devil’s loss is not his fault–is not anybody’s fault.

the two of you sit in silence, wooyoung intermittently swiping at a lone tear that threatens to drip off his chin, and you mulling over the words that you hold close to your heart. eventually, you break the quietude with a soft chuckle.

“the first game i ever played i was actually on left defence. our team was losing by two goals and i suddenly had the puck. i still remember seeing an opening in the goal and feeling the surge of confidence that i did when i hit the puck…but you know what?”

wooyoung does not answer, does not look up from where he is picking at his cuticles, but you can feel his curiosity so you continue, “it was an own goal. i scored into my own team’s net and it wasn’t until i scored another goal before i finally realised which way i was meant to go. obviously, my team wasn’t very happy with me, but then i ended up winning the game for them anyway and that’s how i started playing as centre forward.

“there was also a time during internationals where i argued against the ref’s call and got myself put into the penalty box. it cost our team a goal–the tiebreaker, too. i learnt my lesson and never did that again. and then there was the first couple of years i started to coached. i thought i had enough experience as a player to be a perfect coach. it wasn’t until one of my teams told me to pull my head out of my ass that i realised i was anything but.”

that gets a small snicker from out of him. you deliberate, “i’d like to think that we make the best team now, though.”

he scowls disgruntledly, “we’re your only team.”

“and my favourite team, too,” you laugh softly, gauging his expression. “my point is, wooyoung, we all make mistakes. but the reason why we make them in the first place is because we love playing. we do what our heart wants to in the moment and we play for ourselves because otherwise, there would be nothing left of us without ice hockey. what matters is that we stand up again and learn from the experience.”

wooyoung feels the weight of your words settling heavily in his chest because they are only half true to him. his passion and love for the sport indeed burns eternally as a blazing inferno inside of him, but his persistence to play today was due to ulterior motives. to acknowledge that aloud is a different story, though.

your voice takes on a lighter tone, “although i guess in this case, you should be sitting down with that ankle of yours. you know you should not be gambling with your injuries.”

he finally looks at you; a former athlete who did not even have the luxury to gamble your injury. it suddenly scares him to imagine just an ounce of the conflicting anguish that must course through you at his continuous decisions to endanger his own career–the anguish that you have made sure to never show, lest it affect them.

“do you ever feel angry?” wooyoung abruptly asks, voice laced with hesitation.

it is your turn to look away. you know that the question is not directed at himself but your entire career. with a bittersweet chuckle, you allow yourself to admit, “every day. i still get angry and i still get upset. i wake up in the morning wondering why it had to be me and i go to bed at night wondering why i didn’t deserve a second chance.

“but i’m okay; it gets easier to be okay. coaching means that i still get to go on the ice, i still get to experience the adrenaline of games and i still get to play through you guys. and most of all…i still have a team. i don’t know if i will ever stop feeling angry, but it’s better than it used to be.”

at your admission, wooyoung is reminded of how you are possibly the only one who would be able to truly understand him. he musters his courage and confesses, “i wanted us to lose last year…and we did end up losing.”

it catches you off guard, the direction of the conversation not what you had expected, but you neutralise your expression and tone so as to not make him feel defensive. “how come?”

he swallows. “my ankle–i fractured it last year just before we made it into the playoffs, so i wasn’t able to compete. i had been so angry at first; angry at myself for getting injured, angry at my coach for not letting me play, angry at my team because they could play. then when it became clear that i wasn’t going to be able to compete regardless of how angry i was, i became jealous, insecure and…afraid. jongho and i share the same position, and i mean, look at him now–he’s able to play both left and right wing. if they had won the playoffs without me, then would the team really need me?

“they did end up losing, just like i had wanted them to, but that made me feel so much worse–made me realise just how terrible i am of a person. the guilt eats me alive every single day and i tell myself that i will make it up to them this time, that i will risk everything to win for them…” wooyoung scoffs pathetically at himself, “only for me to fuck things up because of my fucking ankle again.”

you get it. the slow gnawing of yourself from the endless feelings that you ‘should not have’ until you become no more than an empty husk. ever since your own injury, you have spent nights on end trying to reconcile with your emotions in your own confusing and formidable journey, but for the first time ever, you are grateful that you did–because you can keep wooyoung company on his.

you carefully voice, “i think it was okay for you to have felt the way that you did. they’re your feelings and nobody can invalidate them nor your experience. what i came to realise was that all of those ‘ugly’ feelings do not make us ugly for having them–they simply make us human. it is only a problem when those feelings end up hurting other people, but i think the person you hurt the most…was yourself, wooyoung.”

at your words, he looks at you with wide eyes, a fresh swell of wetness gathering in them. wooyoung is kind and loving to everybody, yet has never once thought about deserving that kindness and love for himself. you smile gently, trying to hide the slight quiver in your own lips as your heart clenches with a desire to be loved in his stead.

“you know, woo, i’ve watched basically all of your past games including the quarterfinals from last year. but if i were to compare it to today’s game, it was as if two completely different teams were playing. your team was alive today–a truly united team where every member is the driving force behind each other’s passion for the game. i am pretty confident when i say that a huge part of it was because you were playing with them–because the team was finally whole again.

“yes, the trophy and the championship title is coveted but it is not what truly matters to them and neither to you. it wasn’t the actual win itself that you wanted today, but being able to win for them. and if your boys were to pick between winning without you and losing with you, i’m pretty sure you know better than i do what their immediate choice would be.”

should the other boys be here right now, they would instantly berate your ears off for even suggesting the first option. the thought flickers through wooyoung’s mind too and the corners of his lips tug upwards slightly.

still, he apprehensively confirms, “...no one is angry at me?”

“no,” you reply, voice soft, “not at all. but we are worried.”

you are reminded of the weight in the pocket of your jacket. pulling it out, you present the ice pack to wooyoung. “look, san told me to give this to you.”

his fingertips brush against your palm when he reaches out, hand hovering over the ice pack as if he does not dare to touch it. “san did?” he whispers.

when you nod, the final confirmation that he needs that nobody–you included–harbours ill feelings for him and his actions, he allows himself to take the ice pack. allows himself to love himself.

“you need to take care of your body,” you fondly chastise, lightening the atmosphere. “did coach cho not drill into you that as an athlete, your body is your most valuable asset? if you thought he was bad, he’s going to seem like an angel when i’m through with you. you won’t just be banned from playing, i’ll tie you to the bed to make sure you don’t walk on that ankle.”

wooyoung laughs through the few tears that are left, mood lifted enough to suggestively lift his eyebrows and quip, “kinky.” his laughter grows when you punch his arm in response.

no longer does he have to carry this burden alone because you are there for him now. but you know that you are not the only one who can be there for wooyoung. the dynamic between the boys runs past mere teammates and from what you have noticed, quite possibly even friends.

tentatively, you suggest, “maybe this is something you should tell the others about. that way you can truly let things go.”

his gaze wavers at the idea as he looks at you. yet, the miniscule smile and encouraging nod you give him fills him with tranquillity. perhaps it is time to let go, but the only way he can truly do that is if he is honest to the boys about his feelings–if he is honest to himself.

“okay,” he breathes out softly.

you grace him with another beat of silence before you stand up, extending your hand out to him. “let’s go.”

wooyoung takes your offered hand and lets you pull him up to his feet. he does not know if it is intentional, but the slight squeeze you give him right before your hand lets go of his fills him with warmth. the feeling stays with him even when he activates the ice pack as you two walk back to the locker room.

right at the doorway where the rest of the team is behind, you stop. you place your hand on wooyoung’s back, whose brows are starting to furrow in confusion. “i’ll be waiting out here. take your time,” you tell him.

“thank you, coach,” wooyoung returns your soft smile.

before you can think better of it, you reply, “i wasn’t talking to you as your coach…but as your friend.” then you nudge him towards the doorway with tender encouragement, waiting for him to walk through the threshold before you close the door behind him.

the first few months you had coached the red devils, mistrust had been in the shape of private conversations that deliberately excluded you. but now, trust is in the conversations that you know you do not need to be a part of. so you simply lean against the wall and wait.

and when they emerge from the locker room half an hour later, you know you have made the right decision upon seeing their eased expressions and relaxed shoulders. the air is still sombre, their defeat in the semifinals still fresh at the forefront of everybody’s minds, but what matters now is that they will face the loss together–the eight of them and you.

“here you go.”

hongjoong hands you your bag so that you do not have to go back in to grab it. you take it graciously from him, then with him by your side, you two lead the group through the arena–past the gazes and whispers that follow your group–and out to the team’s bus.

first to load his kit bag, yeosang takes his usual seat towards the front and waits. he has long developed the habit of placing his backpack under the seat in front of him instead of beside him. as the bus starts to pull away once all the bags are properly stored, you wordlessly take the seat next to him. your knees intermittently brush up against each other with the slight sway of the bus, but neither one of you make a move to shift your legs away.

you and yeosang watch the outside world whirl by the window, just like you always do. except the flowers that have bloomed among the trees–that had been bursts of positivity and vibrancy only just this morning–are now bittersweet reminders of the fall that you and the boys have just experienced.

a brief movement below your line of vision causes you to glance down. it is yeosang’s hand, palm upturned with a silent invitation of solace. you slide your fingers into his, an extension of the comfort you wish to give to them, and them to you.

what you and the boys do not realise, though, is that your flowers have simply bloomed elsewhere.

your jaw drops in sync with the last of the heavy suitcases that seonghwa rests on the floor outside their apartment complex. the amount of his luggage is easily equivalent to at least half the team’s.

“these are all yours?” you confirm.

seonghwa looks at you strangely, “of course. why?”

you look at him strangely. “are you planning on moving? why did you pack enough for a trip around the world?”

“well somebody didn’t want to tell us where we were going, so i had to make sure i was prepared for wherever our destination would be.”

“it’s called a surprise for a reason,” you shake your head, “and i did tell you to pack for cold weather, didn’t i?”

seonghwa fakes offence, scoffing, “can i remind you that it is still spring here, so my apologies for assuming that it might potentially mean we are travelling overseas.”

“you’re such a worrywart, you old fart,” wooyoung teases, circling around the older on his rideable suitcase.

seonghwa yelps when the wheels nearly run over his toes and he threatens, “next time you wet through your entire pack of underwear, don’t come crawling and begging for my spares.”

the suitcase halts indignantly to a stop with its rider. “that was one time,” wooyoung complains, “and it wasn’t even my fault!”

“it wasn’t even my fault,” seonghwa mocks. “i told you not to put your shampoo in a ziplock bag but no, you said that it would be fine.”

wooyoung sticks his index finger up. “correction, hongjoong said that it would be fine.”

“what the fuck, wooyoung,” hongjoong blanches at the sudden disclosure.

“and that’s exactly where you are at fault,” seonghwa cocks his eyebrow at wooyoung. “why would you listen to him?”

“what the fuck, seonghwa. i’m your captain,” hongjoong scowls.

“only during games.”

when you make eye contact with san, the two of you can only sigh with amused resignation. the rest of the boys shake their heads and proceed to load their luggage onto the bus, leaving the trio to feud it out in the background.

as mingi stacks his luggage beside yunho’s, he turns to ask, “are you sure we don’t need our kits?”

“you all brought your skates and sticks with you?” you question in return. when mingi and yunho nod, you reassure them, “then that’s all you need.”

jongho pipes up from beside you, “but what about training?”

“mental training,” you simply grin before hopping up the stairs to sit beside yeosang.

the boys gradually take their seats, even wooyoung and the two oldest despite their continued bickering. somebody yells out over the commotion, “coach! are you going to tell us where we’re going now?”

you peer backwards over the top of your seat to find everyone’s eager eyes on you. “nope,” you snicker, “you’ll find out when we get there. we are going on a holiday though, i’ll tell you that much.”

there is a surge of excitement at your confirmation and a similar fluttering eagerness flits through you, except yours is because you cannot wait to see their reactions. you really hope that the next two weeks will help to reset the team’s morale and give them a much-needed break.

“kq let us go on holiday?” yeosang asks with an impressed look as you settle back in your seat.

you give him a proud smirk. “i’m pretty convincing when i want to be. plus, we just had playoffs and we would all benefit from the rest. what better time to do that than at the start of the off-season?”

“there is no better time.”

“exactly.”

and so the bus starts the four-hour drive towards what the boys will soon come to realise is a team retreat. mingi connects his phone to the bluetooth, in charge of shuffling the music that blasts through the speakers, turning the atmosphere of the bus into a lively concert once it becomes obvious that it is going to be a long trip.

you have to yell over their deafening singing–which you have to admit actually sounds quite impressive–numerous times for them to sit their asses down, their enthusiasm uncontainable by the seat belts and law regulations. but they look their age, free and untroubled; just a group of boys up to their silly antics with one another, so you cannot bring yourself to truly regulate them.

the bus drives on, making a rest stop at one of the service areas along the highway so that you can stretch your legs in fresh air, use the restrooms and most importantly–

“food!”

their hollers resound before the doors of the bus even open. the second that the gap is large enough to fit one of them through, most of the boys go sprinting off like a stampede of toddlers in the direction of the food court.

wooyoung stays back and slips his arm through the crook of your elbow when you step off the bus too. he grins mischievously, “i’m sticking with you so you can pay for my food.”

“oh, stop it,” yunho tugs him away, pulling even harder when it only serves to make wooyoung’s grasp tighten around your arm. “i’ll pay for your food. leave her wallet alone.”

you laugh brightly as you are jostled around and you pull a card out of your back pocket, holding it up like a golden ticket. you waggle your brows playfully, “it’s on the company card.”

both wooyoung and yunho freeze. their eyes instantaneously start to glimmer, faces radiating when they slowly look at each other. then before you can react, they pounce on you, linking their arm through yours on either side of you and dragging you along to catch up with the rest of the team.

“buy whatever you want!” wooyoung brags and waves the card that he has seized off of you, “it’s on me!”

the service area itself is a field trip as the eight boys cause carnage throughout, except the destruction is in the number of times they swipe the company card. their hands quickly fill with rice cakes and fish skewers, corn dogs and grilled squid, more bags of walnut pastries and roasted potatoes tucked safely under their elbows. they demolish the snacks at the same rate it takes for the next ones to be prepared and the card is tossed around to keep up with their purchases.

they do not forget about the drinks either, getting iced americanos and barley tea to go along with their snacks, and banana milk and soda for the next leg of the trip. whatever catches their eyes–basically everything they lay their eyes upon–they buy. you do have to draw the line at daytime drinking though, narrowing your eyes at the cases of beer jongho and yunho try to pick up until they sheepishly put them back.

(you also end up having to purchase motion sickness tablets because seonghwa and mingi gorge themselves so full on snacks that they are queasy before they even make it back on the bus. kq’s president sends you a text too, asking just what exactly you and the boys have bought to rack up almost forty consecutive purchases at a service area. but the subsequent message asking if they are enjoying themselves tells you that his question is all in good fun.)

their energy mellows out during the last hour of the trip, both from tiring themselves out and from the gradual change in the scenery outside the windows. no longer can you see an endless mirage of highway road and open fields.

as the miles build up the further you travel, it leads deeper into a mountainous woodland with the trees growing denser and thicker around you. the narrower road winds around the base of hills and the bus driver carefully navigates the undisturbed peace of the forest. it starts to get colder and when the branches of the trees gradually dress themselves in dappled layers of snow, more of you shoulder on the thick coats and puffer jackets you had told them to bring.

the bus eventually arrives at a clearing amongst the pine trees, revealing a large but welcoming cottage pension. its wooden exterior and sloped roof gives it a distinctly cosy and rustic look, with large glass doors spanning the entire height of the walls that will let you admire the surrounding mountainous beauty from inside. off to the side of the cottage, there is a sizeable lake that has frozen over and immediately, you know that this was the perfect place to choose.

the boys press their faces against the window to get a better look as the bus pulls up beside the accommodation. “woah,” they breathe out, their exhales fogging up the glass.

they follow you off the bus in a trance, mouths open and unable to peel their eyes away lest they waste even a second to drink up the sight before them. here, in the heart of the taebaek mountains, it is still a winter wonderland despite the spring blossoms that cover the rest of seoul.

you turn to face them, walking backwards slowly and spreading your arms out with fond tenderness. “welcome to your home for the next two weeks, boys.”

even though it is simply an illusion created by taebaek’s geographical location and mountainous terrain, this time you find yourself appreciating the coldness and bareness of the winter-like ambience that cocoons you and your boys. it is as if time has stopped and there are no worries…only time to heal and start afresh.

living together, even if just for a holiday, is different.

you are used to only seeing the team in their training clothes, practice jerseys or bulked up in their padded gear and uniform. but here, the boys wear lounging sweatpants and worn hoodies, hair soft and poking into their eyes, bodies and expressions unguarded as they laze around. and where you are used to only seeing them at training, meetings and games, all rigorously scheduled and planned, there are no expectations to follow and no limits as to when you see them here.

the boys have their own organised chaoticness to their daily routines, having been living together for almost seven years now, and it seamlessly integrates into the space of the cottage too. but what truly surprises you and them is how you naturally blend into it.

when you rented the pension, you had ensured there were at least three bathrooms to accommodate all nine of you. however, you quickly discover that numbers mean nothing because the boys are incapable of staggering their morning and nightly bathroom routines one by one like you had assumed they would. you also realise that it is not that they are incapable, but that they like and want to do everything together.

space within a room holds no meaning to them and they are perfectly content to stand pressed up against each other’s sides, expertly dodging elbows and leaning over one another to reach for their toothbrushes or skincare. after that first night, you wake up in the morning and patter off in search for the least cramped bathroom to wriggle yourself into, up to three of you sharing the large sink and mirror that now looks comparatively tiny as you brush your teeth together.

more often than not, you find yourself sandwiched between yunho and mingi. it is moreso a matter of neither boy letting you escape from their clutches if you happen to peer into whichever bathroom they have crammed themselves into.

“we make the perfect ratio as the two tallest plus you as the shortest,” mingi likes to rationalise, “so it averages out perfectly with three boys in each of the other bathrooms.”

“but san’s shoulders are basically the equivalent of two grown men, so your point is invalid no matter how we divide ourselves up,” you like to argue back.

except they refuse to see reason. instead, yunho raises the volume of the speaker he has set on the sink’s counter that blasts out music to playfully drown you out. you relent every time and it turns into goofy dancing from the three of you as you pull silly expressions at one another in the mirror. when you rinse your mouth, mingi will start a gargling competition without fail, but none of you have lasted for more than three seconds before you begin to choke with laughter.

(when you are with people you like, everything is funny.)

seonghwa shakes his head whenever he passes the bathroom, insisting, “the only thing you guys are missing is a disco ball.” he is definitely not jealous of the fun you three are having. not at all.

the eldest has his own routine though, visible in the way he prepares everybody’s cups of coffee in the morning. they are all made differently according to individual preferences; no sugar, double shots, a dash of milk, brown sugar, matcha powder or decaf. and despite the fact that yeosang is usually up the earliest, seonghwa does not allow him to make his own coffee.

seonghwa claims it is because nobody knows how to properly use the drip brewer, but yeosang sits next to you and murmurs into your ear, “he just won’t admit that he likes to make them for us.” it must be the chill of the morning, but yeosang’s warm, whispery voice always sends goosebumps over your arms.

by the second morning, seonghwa finds himself naturally grabbing an extra cup and the hot surprise greets you with one and a half teaspoons of sugar in it, just how you like it. hongjoong emerges from the bathroom moments later to grab his cup and as he takes a careful sip, his eyes flit over the remaining cups on the table. seonghwa can practically hear the numbers ticking up in his head.

“y/n already took hers,” he verbalises, beckoning with his chin.

hongjoong turns around in the same direction to see you curled up on the sofa next to jongho and yeosang, your feet tucked comfortably underneath you as you lean forward out of curiosity to take a sip of jongho’s americano. when your expression scrunches up from the shock of bitterness, jongho giggles brightly and steadies your hand that is holding your own cup of sweetened coffee. his eyes melt at your reaction.

“oh, i know that expression,” hongjoong chortles. “he’s a goner.”

seonghwa sees the honey in hongjoong’s own eyes and he smiles knowingly, “i don’t think he’s the only one.”

hongjoong does not peel his gaze away from the three of you all cosied up on the couch. “you’re right, they’re both goners,” he hums absentmindedly, not at all registering who exactly it is who is being referred to.

(the true answer is that there are more than three of them.)

you discover that wooyoung is usually in charge of cooking, but in return, everybody else gets up to clear and wash the dishes the moment the last pair of chopsticks is placed down on the table. that is the only time they are allowed into the kitchen because they are apparently all walking hazards.

but when wooyoung realises you can actually handle a knife without giving him grey hairs from watching, the two of you easily divide the roles and tasks between yourselves. like a waltzing dance, you move together in the kitchen to prepare the meals. he passes you the spices in the overhead cabinets before you ask and you close the fridge when he takes out a pack of meat or vegetables.

cooking with wooyoung is never without bickering. he does not let you hear the end of the time you bump your head on the edge of the counter when you try to grab a saucepan from underneath, or the time you squeal after the oil starts to splatter from the onions. but if that is the reason why he starts to subtly move his hand to cushion the edges of the counters when you bend down to find something, or why he chooses to do the stirring and frying while you slice, then he pretends it is merely coincidence.

san never strays far away from the kitchen whenever you and wooyoung are cooking. you have noticed that they do not really ever stray apart–none of the boys do, though. wooyoung talks as you and san listen and the latter does not stop smiling as he watches wooyoung multitask. what you do not realise is the countless times you have forgotten to keep cooking because you are watching him too with the same expression that san wears.

(the rest of the boys realise and they also see the way san and wooyoung will pause to gaze at you.)

when you two have mostly finished cooking and it is simply a matter of waiting for the sauce to simmer or the soup to boil, you find that wooyoung will take his seat next to san on the barstools at the island, knees and thighs touching as he continues the conversation. you gravitate towards them the first time before catching yourself, cautious that you may be intruding, but then san gives you a dimpled smile and beckons for you to come and sit by his other side.

san likes to keep a gentle hand resting on wooyoung’s knee as he talks. when he does the same thing to you without even looking, your lungs stop working for a minute. the only thought that consumes your mind is the warm sensation of san’s thumb soothingly running back and forth across your skin. you do not want him to stop, so you stay still in hopes that he continues. you are pretty sure san does not even consciously realise he is doing it.

(san does, and he is glad you do not move away.)

in the hours after dinner and before you all head off to sleep, you pile the thick blankets into the open living room and squish yourselves on the least number of couches as possible. again, space holds no meaning when you are with the boys and you find the press of yeosang and hongjoong’s skin against your own more natural there than not.

sometimes you watch movies together, other times talking with low voices as the hours tick by, and other times where you are all doing your own things but in the presence of one another. regardless, the nine of you stay cuddled in front of the fireplace with the warm glow of the fire and the light dreamy flutter of snow outside the windows.

yeosang tenderly tucks the blankets up around mingi’s shoulders when he falls asleep before turning to you on his other side. “are you warm enough?” he softly asks. and even though you say you are, he still tucks the edges of your blanket under your chin, nestling you safely within the blanket, hongjoong’s side and his own body.

the boys are naturally affectionate with one another and seeing the close dynamic of their…friendship so intimately in the environment of the retreat reminds you once more of the possibility that their relationship may run deeper than they let on.

(but when that affection extends to you, you wonder what exactly that may mean for your own relationship with the boys.)

and so living together, even if just for a holiday, is different. it is different when they are the first sight to greet you when you wake up, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and voice still husky from fatigue as they murmur good mornings to you, and your cheeks start to glow with rosiness.

it is different when the decisions you make together are not about a change in formation or a defensive power play, but what to make for dinner and what movie you want to watch afterwards, and it makes you begin to wonder what other mundane decisions you want to make with them. it is different when they wrap you in their embrace–eight consecutive hugs–to bid you goodnight, and it takes you longer to fall asleep because you toss restlessly in your bed as their smiles replay in your head.

being on the retreat together is strangely domestic and homelike. but it has been almost nine months since you have started coaching the boys and thus seeing them every day for countless hours on end. so really, this trip should not change anything.

and yet, it feels like everything is changing.

jongho pays no mind to the conversation that is happening around him. last he heard, half of you are wanting to go out to skate on the lake before the sun sets and the other half are wanting to finish the halli galli championship you had started the night prior.

he is happy to do either but his mind is distracted by something else. as the screen of his phone lights up, jongho’s eyes flicker down and he puts his hand over the glowing display before anybody can see the caller id. you glance at him when you catch the movement in the corner of your peripheral vision, only to look away when yunho calls out your name to see which of the two options you would prefer.

the screen goes black as the call goes unanswered. seconds later, it lights up briefly with a notification.

pick up.

then the caller id shows up again. jongho grabs his phone and mumbles to nobody in particular, “going to grab something from my room.”

closing the door to the room that he is sharing with hongjoong in the pension, jongho sits down heavily on the edge of his bed, phone clutched tightly in his hand. whilst he has no qualms ignoring their messages now, he still finds it difficult to do the same to their phone calls. he finds his resolve weakening as he watches his phone ring for the third time within minutes.

so jongho picks up. “mother,” he greets stiffly.

she scoffs scathingly, “you finally decided to pick up.”

“i’ve been busy with the playoffs.” a half lie.

“busy? busy losing, you mean,” his mother ridicules. jongho is taken aback by the fact that she is aware, since he did not tell his family. it makes sense when she berates, “do you know how embarrassing it was for me to find out from your aunt? she told me to congratulate you for making it into the semifinals–the semifinals, jongho.”

he feels a heat of shame at what she is insinuating. jongho defends, “that’s still the top four out of seventy six teams.”

“nobody cares,” she turns her nose up. “it does not matter if you came fourth, second or last–unless you win first place, the result is not worth anything. our entire family has a legacy of achievements and your younger brother even has an olympic gold medal now. but what have you done? this is a mere national competition and yet you are incapable of making it into the finals.”

“jong–” his name dies on the tip of your tongue and your hand stops before you can knock on the door when you hear jongho’s muffled voice.

the boys had finally decided to grab their skates so you had come to get jongho to join everybody outside. realising he is talking to somebody, you are about to turn away and give him some privacy, but the words you hear make you freeze.

it is not the conversation itself that you overhear; it is the wounded tone of jongho’s voice that makes it impossible for you to walk away. your feet stay rooted to the spot, in fact, wanting to enter the room. you have not heard jongho in such great affliction before, not even when he was consoling the boys with tears in his own eyes after their crushing defeat in the playoffs.

“when are you going to celebrate my achievements for what they are, instead of telling me to do better?” jongho appeals.

he has lived his entire life being told that he is not good enough–constantly compared to the accomplishments of his family, particularly those of his younger brother. what he does not understand is why he cannot just be recognised for the athlete that he is, void of any other person.

his mother is silent and for a brief moment, jongho thinks that she may finally see some sense in his words…only for her to unfeelingly state, “when they are worth celebrating.” with a simple, “do better,” she hangs up on him.

jongho’s hand falls limply into his lap, phone slipping out of his lax fingers with a dull thud to the ground. he wants to swear. he wants to cry. he wants to throw his phone against the wall until the screen shatters. but jongho simply leans forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, the crushing weight of dejection forcing his lungs to exhale shakily.

there is a faint, timid knock on the door. he knows who it is immediately–only one person would knock so softly. “come in,” he answers listlessly, because he could never bring himself to ignore you no matter his own feelings.

the door cracks open to reveal your tentative figure and you slip through the opening. from the way your lips are pulled down, eyes rounded with concern, jongho knows that you have connected enough dots to understand the context of the phone call.

you approach the bed and try to ignore how small the boy in front of you looks with his shoulders hunched inwards on themselves. jongho has always appeared as the most collected and composed, even more so than the captain, and it makes your chest tight to realise he has simply been hiding this whole time.

jongho is not a man of many words so you do the next best thing that feels right in the moment. you simply open your arms. when his hands slowly come up in silent acceptance, you step forward to engulf him in your embrace.

he presses his face into the soft warmth of your stomach. the darkness welcomes him with safety and comfort and he lets out a stuttering breath that racks his entire body. you wrap one arm around his shoulders and cradle the back of his head with your other, your fingers tenderly caressing his hair in soothing motions.

although silence is what he needs, you allow yourself to say one thing to him. you murmur, “i’m proud of you, jongho…so, so proud of you.”

and they are the words he has been wanting to hear his entire life. unable to keep it together any longer, jongho breaks down in your arms with tearful sobs and allows himself to grieve for the acknowledgement he has yearned his entire life and never received. however, it will only be for tonight because he has realised that it is futile to chase after recognition from a person who refuses to see his worth, even if that person is his own family.

there will always be other people who can see his actual worth; the same people who will still love him even if he does not have a gold trophy to call his. for him, those people are his seven boys and you.

so he stays in your arms with you wrapped around him, time lost to the two of you. he cries until he has no tears left and you tilt your head upwards to stop the flow of your own tears before they can drip down onto the crown of his head. and outside the bedroom, hongjoong quietly eases the door shut to give you both some privacy.

you do not know how much time has passed when you finally step out. jongho has fallen asleep after you tucked him under his covers, exhausted. heading towards your room to change out of your shirt, you are startled by the sight of hongjoong lingering near the door.

“you didn’t go out with the boys?

he shakes his head, then conscious of where you two are standing, he gestures inside your room and follows you in. “is jongho okay?” hongjoong asks.

“i think so…he’s sleeping now but probably just needs a bit more time,” you sigh, “i just wish i could do more for him.”

hongjoong reassures, “you are already doing so much more than you realise.”

for jongho. for wooyoung. for all of them. comfort has never been about the words or actions, but the person who is by their side, and for the boys, having you there is already enough.

“really?” you worry.

“yes, really.”

before he realises what he is doing, hongjoong reaches out to gingerly cup the side of your face to thumb away the worry in your brows. “y/n, you take care of us all the time…but who takes care of you?” he whispers.

“i’m your coach, of course i–”

“no,” he interrupts. “you aren’t just our coach and from what i have seen, you aren’t just our friend either. unless…” hongjoong hesitates, “unless i’ve been reading everything wrong, then in which case, tell me and i’ll move away.”

you do not reply. your eyes flicker back and forth between his, your heart racing and mind blank. it is true–they are not just your players and they are not just your friends either, but you are unsure about taking such a huge leap of faith and acting upon the feelings you have only just started to understand.

hongjoong takes your silence as encouragement to step even closer until he is right in front of you. he keeps his hand on your cheek, his other coming up to delicately cradle your waist. you are standing intimately enough for his warm breath to span across your cheeks as he tenderly pleads, “let us take care of you as more than what we are right now.

“if you do not want to put a label on it then that’s fine, we won’t. we’ll still be your team and you’ll still be our coach. but please, let us take care of you when you are hurt, when you’re upset or angry, and when you are happy, too. let us love you as one of ours.”

as one of theirs.

you swallow and confirm, “are you all together?”

“yes, we’re dating each other,” hongjoong nods.

“but then why…” your voice trials off. why me, too?

hongjoong taps the tip of your nose and jokes lightly, “is there a capped limit as to how many people we are allowed to love?”

it pulls a giggle out of you and he smiles fondly as he reiterates, “we don’t need to put a label on this and we can go entirely at your pace. just let us into your heart, please?”

for a moment you wonder what will happen to your professional relationship with the boys–what will happen if things do not work out or worse, if other people find out and report you all for it. but when you really think about it, you realise that the professionalism between you and the boys has long since blurred.

you do not know if you can go back to seoul after this retreat and act like you do not want to continue living with them. most importantly, you do not want to know if you can. so you take the leap of faith and nod–you want to be theirs.

when you first met the red devils in autumn last year, you were resolved to win over them. never would you have expected that you would win them over in more ways than one…and be won over yourself.

“hi, girlfriend.”

seonghwa smacks the back of wooyoung’s head. “stop pressuring her,” he hisses as the younger cackles delightfully and strides away through the snow impressively fast considering he is wearing his skates.

“ignore him,” seonghwa turns to you, where you are sitting on the porch steps to the cottage. he squats down and takes the laces out of your hands to start doing up your own skates.

“i can do it myself,” you start.

“i know you can,” seonghwa hums, gazing up lovingly, “but i want to do it for you.”

you press your lips together in an attempt to hide the shy smile that blooms across your face and when that fails, you duck your head down instead. ever since your talk with hongjoong the other day, the boys have been significantly more obvious and proactive with their displays of affection for you. however, you are pretty sure they had their own conversation when you were asleep or in the shower, because not one of them pressures you into something you are not ready for, even if that includes making your relationship official.

“there you go. is it too tight? too loose?” seonghwa taps your skates and you tell him they are perfect. taking his offered hand with an appreciative smile, he pulls you up to your feet and you go to join the rest of the boys on the frozen lake.

you are sure it feels the same for every single one of your boys–nothing can compare to that moment when you first step onto the ice. it is where you become a completely different person; a fish back in water, in control and at home.

it had been a gamble renting the cottage pension as you were unable to know whether the lake would be frozen over enough to allow for skating. but it is as if the heavens know not to separate you and your boys from the love and passion that your entire lives revolve around, because you are blessed to see them scrambling out to play on the frozen lake almost every single day, just like they are right now.

san spots you and seonghwa and beckons for you two to join. “hongjoong’s the tagger,” he calls out.

the captain stands at the other end of the lake, back facing everybody as he drawls, “green light…”

before hongjoong even starts to enunciate the first word, yunho, wooyoung and jongho have already pushed off their skates to advance. it sets off an immediate chorus of indignant shouts and desperate acceleration amongst everybody else to catch up. you laugh and seonghwa drags you along with him urgently, unable to stand your apparent nonchalance and uncompetitiveness.

but oh, how wrong he is. very quickly, you join the majority of the boys in a game of who can be the most sneaky with dirty play. wooyoung and mingi tussle with one another right as hongjoong turns around with his yell of ‘red light!’, trying to topple the other over so they get caught. jongho yanks on the back of seonghwa’s jacket whilst yeosang giggles and joins in to yank on jongho’s, effectively preventing all three of them from advancing forward.

“let go of me, you brats!” seonghwa flails forward against the combined weight of the two boys but to no avail.

you use yunho’s height to your advantage and hide behind him, steadily creeping forward even when hongjoong has turned around to face you all. yunho quickly catches on and extends his hands backwards for you to latch onto. you are more than happy to let him do all the hard work skating you both towards the captain and you grin cheekily at the trio–still caught up in their self-induced tug-of-war–as you overtake them easily.

“y/n’s cheating!” san hollers, the only one who is actually playing by the rules.

“life’s not fair!” you holler back gleefully at the same time that hongjoong sniggers, “san, you moved your mouth! go back.”

san gives an indignant cry, “favouritism, i say!” but, bless his heart, moves back to the starting line regardless.

when yunho is almost towering over hongjoong, he cues you to get ready to escape by letting go of your hands. you pivot around and without waiting for anything else, you start to run away.

“gree–”

yunho tags hongjoong’s right shoulder before pushing off to the left so that he escapes the other’s immediate line of vision. except it means that the first person that hongjoong sees when he turns around is you.

an involuntary squeal escapes you when you hear the terrifying crispness of skates on ice right behind you followed by the captain’s arms snaking around your waist. “caught you, babe” he beams. hongjoong lifts you up with shit-eating smugness at your reaction–both at his close proximity and the pet name–spins you around for good measure, then sets you back down to chase after the others.

wooyoung skates in a wide arc to dodge the captain’s frenzied rampage, only to suddenly appear right beside you with the most telling glint in his sparkling eyes that he is up to mischief. he grins.

“wooyoung, no,” you warn.

he grabs you by the waist. “wooyoung, yes.”

wooyoung pushes off his skates with you in front of him at breakneck speed across the ice, bellowing at the top of his voice, “make way for the cripples!”

you scream the entire way to the end of the lake, hands clutching onto his like a lifeline as a colourful string of words flies out of your mouth. you think you black out for a second because when you open your eyes again, you are in a heaving tangle of arms and legs on the cushiony surface of powdery snow.

“oh, shit,” hongjoong winces.

the boys speed towards you and wooyoung, and yunho peers down at you on the ground with panicked concern in his eyes. “are you two okay?” he asks but when he sees that you are laughing, unrestrained and radiating joy, yunho relaxes and joins in with relief.

they–mainly seonghwa–fuss over you both enough to reassure themselves that there is not so much as a scratch or bruise, before mingi suggests playing a casual hockey game of five versus four. there are to be no goaltenders and san fashions makeshift goalposts by poking sticks into the snow on either ends of the lake.

the team splits into their usual arrangement when they are required to be in two groups; hongjoong, yunho, san and wooyoung; seonghwa, yeosang, mingi and jongho. normally, you would offer to be the honorary referee…but the boys have never been rough with you and you have confidence that you will not get hurt. so for the first time in years, you play.

it is far from a proper league game and it will never be enough to quench your thirst as a former athlete, but for now, gripping your stick on the ice in tandem with the others, you are content–you are alive.

like red light, green light, the game starts off fair and proper for a grand total of two minutes. then it becomes a circus of foul plays and increasingly creative methods of cheating as all sense of order is tossed out the window. yunho and san stand in front of you, leaving just enough space for you to handle the puck, whilst hongjoong and wooyoung flank your sides and use their sticks to block any attempts to steal the puck. as a shielded group of five, you all move up towards the goalposts like a formidable army tank.

in retaliation, jongho physically manhandles hongjoong out of the way, hugging him from behind with a vice grip that he swears not to let go. seonghwa, mingi and yeosang imitate him with similar displays of strength, turning the entire match into a childish scuffle of chaos and hysterics.

there are no proper rules, no proper gear and no proper stadium–only the bare minimum, yourselves and uncontainable laughter. it feels like you are kids again, little souls harbouring colossal dreams, running around on the fields with long branches and a pine cone you had found when you could not afford to go to a real rink.

it is like you have gone back in time to when all you knew about ice hockey from watching it on your television screen was that you had to get the puck into the goal. you and the boys are fresh, blank slates without a care in the world for the countless strategies and tactical plays that you have learned over the length of your careers.

without the pressures and routines of strict training regimes, you all reignite the very roots of your ardour and fervour for ice hockey. no longer is it about the scores and making it into the playoffs. no longer is it about winning the championships to gain the acknowledgement of other people. no longer is it about the trauma of betrayal, injury and defeat you have experienced.

playing is simply the thrill of skating liberally with no burdens across the ice. it is the feeling of thriving when your blade connects with the puck and sends vibrations up your arms. it is the rush of adrenaline as everyone moves in tandem with the same singular thought in your hearts–that you love ice hockey with your entire lives. and that in itself is already more than enough, even without a gold trophy and championship title to prove it to yourselves.

for the last five years, the boys have had the leaves of their trees forcibly plucked and removed–by family, by coaches, and by injuries…but now?

it is time for their flowers to bloom.

spring, 2025: playoffs

standing off to the side, you watch your boys listening attentively to the reporter who is conducting an interview with them. you have continued to stay out of the media spotlight where possible, not yet entirely comfortable standing in front of the cameras again, but your boys have quickly grown accustomed to media coverage ever since their popularity gained traction thanks to their undefeated streak in the regular season.

the interviewer glances down at her prompt card before asking, “so tell me, what has been a major contribution to your success this season? your team has made a name for yourselves as the undefeated champions so far–quite a contrast to how you started off last season.”

seonghwa laughs cordially with her. “we were getting used to a lot of changes last year so our teamwork and mentality wasn’t the best,” he admits. “our agency gave us some time off to recalibrate, which really helped us to focus on building ourselves–as individuals and as a team. i think we learnt to place our unconditional trust in one another and our coach. we still play with a dominantly offensive approach, but we’ve been adopting different playing styles and experimenting with them, so this relies heavily on believing in each other.”

yunho nods, gesturing for the microphone to add, “as cliche as it may sound, a huge part of our growth was also learning how to accept loss. this wasn’t just in the context of being defeated in the semifinals but in the wider lens of our past mistakes, relationships, and even situations that we could not change.

“it has been a tough journey for a lot of us over the last year, but we were lucky enough to have each other’s support,” yunho’s nostalgic smile reflects your own as you realise just how far both you and all of your boys have come. “once we were able to let go, it meant that we could enjoy our career for what it truly is–playing the sport of our dreams together, every day.”

the reporter’s ears perk up in interest at the segway to probe and she jumps on the opportunity to ask, “i am sure many of your fans have been curious for a long time. is there a special somebody who has supported you–or any of you–throughout your journey?”

yunho passes the microphone to the hand that has extended out to reach for it. it’s san this time, who has a charmingly confident persona that he takes on whenever he answers questions during interviews. good thing too, because their fans are going to need something to distract them from understanding the confession he is about to make.

“there is. we all do, actually,” his deep voice rolls off his tongue like butter. the way he smoothly talks with a flirtatious smirk never fails to make you swoon. “funnily enough, we all met our girlfriend at about the same time.”

off to the side, wooyoung sends a wink in your direction and you have to muffle a snort with your hand and divert your glance away. the structural framework of the stadium ceiling suddenly looks very interesting. san stands there incredibly smug at his joke that he knows nobody but you and the boys will pick up on.

by the time you tune back into the conversation, the reporter has moved onto the next question. “last year, you lost to the white tigers in the semifinals. how do you feel about facing them again later today?”

due to a spike in popularity, the korean ice hockey league had to divide its teams into two separate groups for the regular season matches this year. both the red devils and the white tigers had been placed in different groups and by some twist of fate, had ranked at the top and then seeded accordingly on either ends of the tournament brackets. now, your team faces theirs in the very last game of the season.

the finals.

“we’re quite excited, actually,” jongho responds. “we have been wanting to play against the white tigers again some day and i don’t think it gets any more fitting than meeting them in the finals. they have some incredible players but like seonghwa mentioned before, we’ve been working hard to adjust our playing style to suit the situation. our coach has put in a lot of effort to hone in on our strengths and weaknesses, so no matter what today’s outcome is, we’re confident that it won’t be an easy win for either team.”

“i am sure the finals is going to be a thrilling match. now, speaking of coaches,” the interviewer starts and you can see hongjoong’s hand twitching subtly at his side, ready to step in and deflect the question need be should it pertain to you.

she continues, “how does it feel to play against your former coach?”

yeosang and mingi frown, unable to neutralise the confusion on their faces. hongjoong smiles calmly, ultimately taking over the microphone as he apologises, “sorry, could you please elaborate your question?”

it is the interviewer’s turn to fluster slightly but she nods quickly, “you must not be aware, then.”

your eyes dart back and forth as you try to recall whether there is a crucial piece of information you have somehow missed or forgotten to tell the boys. the tone of her voice foreshadows something that makes the pit of your stomach churn.

“last year, the white tigers had a stand-in coach, so you probably did not know.” she says her next words carefully and despite the bustling movement that fills the entire stadium, you can hear the exact moment all of your hearts drop.

“the coach of the white tigers is coach yeon, your team’s former coach in 2018…and he’s here today.”

you are the first to rush back into their locker room. frantically, you grab the official guide that had been given to you by the ice hockey league prior to the start of the regular season from out of your bag. you flip through it, team profiles upon team profiles blending into a hazy blur of faces as you find the one you are trying to look for.

“y/n,” somebody gently murmurs from behind you but you do not register their call. you continue to flick through the pages and when you find the profile for the white tigers, you scan the top of the page for a certain name with a shaky finger.

head coach: yeon ha joon

“oh my god,” you breathe out, hands lowering to your sides and gaze wavering. how the fuck had you managed to miss it this entire time?

you are not the only one affected by the revelation. the change room is pervaded by unease and restlessness, and wooyoung paces back and forth despite hongjoong’s attempts to get him to sit down. hongjoong himself cannot even remember how he answered the question about coach yeon, only that he had somehow excused themselves not long after to cut the interview short.

“how is he still a coach?” seonghwa furrows his brows.

wooyoung stops pacing and your eyes are drawn to him when he suddenly blanches, “what if coach yeon is doing the opposite now and paying other teams to let his own team win?”

“no way–” “–i wouldn’t put it past him–” “–surely not?” the boys’ voices overlap at the speculation.

it is a valid speculation based on what they have told you in the past about coach yeon. however, you stay quiet, suddenly aware of the fact that it is not something that would favour you should it be true. you gnaw the inside of your cheek because as much as you know that your boys would not suspect you, you still worry that doubt may cross their minds at one point, even if only briefly.

“unless the money he offered every single time was equivalent to the prize money, it’s highly unlikely the teams would have all accepted, right?” jongho points out.

yunho shrugs nonchalantly, “but even if they did, we all know that coach yeon would never be able to bribe our girl.”

the way everybody immediately agrees expels some of the anxiety within you, filling you with reassurance and security that starts to relax your chest instead. wooyoung chooses that moment to finally sit down on the bench beside you. he adds, “we’re too whipped for you, so even if you were bribed, we would probably ask whether the money was enough and if you wanted more.”

san chucks a water bottle at him. despite yourself, you laugh and admit, “that is…strangely comforting.”

“see,” wooyoung triumphantly boots the bottle back at the older. “she gets it.”

seonghwa intercepts the pitiful bottle before it becomes weaponised and sets it down next to him. “she wouldn’t accept the money in the first place.”

“exactly, so why does any of this matter?” mingi suddenly questions.

yeosang knits his brows together as he states the obvious, “it’s coach yeon.”

“and?” mingi mirrors his expression with genuine confusion.

it is quiet in the locker room. the coach of the white tigers is indeed coach yeon…and so what? what exactly about the revelation has pushed you all to the edge of the cliff?

mingi cocks his head. “what i’m trying to say is, does it make any difference whether he is their coach or not? think about it–regardless of how he got his team to the finals, he has no unfair advantage over us. there’s no way that he has bribed a fixed win in the finals, and he has no access to any insider knowledge that could jeopardise our tactics and plays.

“the only leverage that he ‘has’ is a psychological advantage–if we can even call it that. but we’re not the same boys who were too naive and powerless to do anything about it six years ago. if anything, we can easily turn this to work in our favour because i don’t know about you guys, but i’m ready to drag his ass through the mud. what we said earlier about not caring for today’s outcome? nah, fuck that. we’re going to fuck him up and show him that he messed with the wrong people.”

he takes everybody’s silence as misunderstanding of his last statement and he hurriedly clarifies there is no violent intent, “by winning. fairly.”

“damn,” jongho whistles. “you’re onto something for once.”

mingi clambers over seonghwa’s legs to grab the forgotten bottle and it goes flying across the room with violent intent. “dude, what the fuck,” mingi grouses.

the dull thud that resounds when jongho holds san’s leg pad up to block the projectile is enough to shift the mood in the room entirely. you finally relax into hongjoong’s side and he moulds you closer to him with the arm that he snakes around your waist as you both watch the locker room erupt into familiar pre-game mayhem.

yunho immediately scoops up the bottle and pitches it again. san stands to the side worrying over his poor leg pads as jongho uses them to bat the makeshift ball. his impressive accuracy makes you wonder whether they would have made it just as big as they are now had they formed a baseball team instead, but then yeosang narrowly dodges the bottle before it gives him a black eye, wooyoung cackles in the background, and you think better of it.

seonghwa joins you both on the bench and amongst all of the mischievous chaos and raucous laughter, you feel at peace, your hands clasped tenderly in the hands of your two captains–in unity, trust and love. you affectionately squeeze their hands with unspoken conviction.

you know your boys are going to play well; you just have a good feeling.

the energy in the room spikes exponentially as you huddle together one final time before you walk out of the locker room, through the hallways and to the arena–one final time before you step out to the ice rink as the red devils, playing in the final match.

you and your boys stand in a circle as close as it is physically possible with their bulky pads and game jerseys that they wear so proudly. it is indiscernible where one of you starts and where another ends from how intimately you all press together. your huddle is a woven nexus of arms and your hearts pound as one entity.

everyone learns of the juxtapositions of the world early on in life. there is no light without dark, there is no happiness without sadness, there is no spring without autumn…and there is no victory without defeat. not a single one of your boys has made it this far without falling at least once, and the conscious thought makes your heart swell and your throat constrict with overwhelming emotion.

somehow, you manage to choke out, “i am so, so proud of all of you.”

yunho and seonghwa’s own eyes start to heat up with wetness. from your side, san kisses your temple with feather-like tenderness, “and we’re so proud of you. y/n, you have grown just as much as we have.”

“thank you for being our coach,” hongjoong murmurs into your ear from your other side, the tip of his nose softly nuzzling you.

wooyoung reaches out to thumb the round of your cheek, “and thank you for loving us when we found it difficult to love ourselves.”

you had always viewed your injury and career with anger, bitterness and anguish…but you have finally come to terms with it. in the process of healing, you have learnt to love yourself, love eight other people, and to be loved. you have had your golden days as an athlete and you are now living your golden days as a coach–

–the very coach of the red devils, your team of boys who are living through their golden days as athletes, and you are going to lead them to victory in the finals.

swiping at a tear that slips down your cheeks, you grin. “boys, let’s win this match and then,” you pause as you meet their determined gazes, their smiles wide with uncontainable excitement, the tension in the room electrifying and palpable.

“let’s go international.”

you may have all fallen before–as athletes, as coaches, as a team–but you will always stand back up together, because at the end of the day your dream is theirs and their dream is yours. and like autumn, the leaves fall for a reason; they must fall before the spring flowers can bloom to their full beauty.

and bloom your flowers have.

911 notes · View notes

thefallennightmare · 3 months ago

Text

The Coyotes Cry-Two

*gif made by me. feel free to use, simply give credit*

Pairings: MafiaBoss!TattooArtist! Noah Sebastian x OFC.

Warnings/Tropes: reverse harem/why chose in most parts of this story, violence, death, swearing, angst, fluff, forced proximity, forbidden love, dark romance, mafia themes, arranged marriage, tattoo artist, smut(very mature: P in V unprotected, masturbation, oral with male and female receiving, dry humping, knife play, blood play, period sex, Dom! Noah, mask play, choking, degradation, fingering, hand jobs, voyeurism, public sex, reverse harem which means one woman with multiple partners, sometimes together.)

Summary: Saoirse "Scar" McManus's life is turned upside down when her father and uncle marry her off to Noah Sebastian, the Ruler of The Concrete Jungle and Leader of OMNS, her old high school crush. A marriage based on secrets and lies comes back to destroy OMNS and The Concrete Jungle from within. When Scar has no choice but to step foot into the The Grey looking for help, she realizes the price of love comes in a nest full of darkness.

Authors Note: Well after four months, we FINALLY have an update! It is a very long one so buckle up. This series will have mature themes throughout as a warning! This one probably wont be updated nearly as quick as JP will be. Maybe once JP is finished, I'll have more time to update this one!

*I do not own the rights/names of Connor and Murphy McManus. Or anyone mentioned to the Boondock Saints.

Tags[CLOSED]: @sammyjoeee @happi-goth @lma1986 @iknownothingpeople @vinyardmauro @malice-ov-mercy @wheezybrenda @thisbicc @malerieee @mrs-zimmerman @srorgana1 @miserylovescompany1195-blog @embracethereaper42 @lizzieseveride @eclipseeetop @sundamariis @calleyx13 @krisslee18 @princessgh0st @aprosiacperson @xxrainstorm @ourdiabolikal-rapture @iamamatus @klutzy-kay24 @bngurngheart @idwt-money @rain-down-on-me @themodern-daywednesday @oxythoughtin7715 @cncohshit @bleachampion @xserenax-13 @collidewiththesavannah @karenfranco @amelia-acero @tashka @themortaljessica @shayzillaaaa @badomensls @princesspeach-00 @blueskylinesx @shadowseve @sorrowsofsilence @shilohrosechicken @flowery-mess @itsafullmoon @toospooktocute @respectfulrebel @pathion @supersquirrel1996 @missduffsblog @hayleylatour @sleepyomens @loeytuan98 @artificialbreezy @marvelosmal @lma1986 @dsireland86 @wild-child-7747 @illmakeyousaywow @jaded-and-hollow-souls @thatchickwiththecamera @whenthesummerdies @madomens

SCAR

Everything was so fucked.

How was my life bartered for a way of peace without my consent?

I understand it was something I had to do, for the family. But surely there had to be another way, right?

Wrong, if there was you wouldn’t be standing next to Noah Sebastian in an elevator as he was about to show you your new home. Not to mention, sharing a bed with him.

I nearly fell onto my ass when he told me that there was only one bedroom in his penthouse and we would be sharing a bed. I grumbled at my thoughts, crossing my arms over my chest; something Noah picked up on with a raised brow.

“Everything alright?”

“No,” I scoffed while facing him in the small elevator. “Everything is not alright. I have to get married to you without a choice, I have to share a bed with you, and not to mention, you just told me I have to work in your tattoo shop. In a matter of minutes, my entire life changed!”

My screechy voice echoed in the small confines of the elevator and Noah leaned against the back wall with a smirk on his face.

“You think this is funny?” I scoffed while crossing my arms over my chest. “My free will is gone and you’re laughing.”

Suddenly, his face sobered as he stood tall, with dark eyes staring down at me through even darker tendrils of hair.

“Let me make one thing clear, Scar. You have free will. You can come and go as you please but need to return. Just because we’re going to be married that doesn't mean you’re signing your life away.”

I blinked, mouth agape. “Scar?”

“I like it,” Noah shrugged as if he really didn’t see the problem with shortening my name.

“And if I don’t like it?” I still had my arms crossed but now I had my left hip popped out, showcasing the attitude I’ve had since birth.

Something flashed in his eyes just as the elevator doors behind me opened.

“Too bad, it stays,” he muttered before grabbing my bags and walking past me.

Turning slowly on my heels, I noticed that the elevator opened to a vast darkness, Noah’s footsteps echoing. I didn’t move, not even when he turned on the bright lights showcasing his large penthouse.

Our large penthouse, I corrected myself.

Slowly stepping off the elevator, I peered around my new surroundings. Currently, I was standing in the foyer, and to my left was a long hallway that I assumed led to the bedrooms. To my right was a wall that had two large bookcases built into it. I quickly made a mental note to browse Noah’s large collection and then took a few tentative steps into the open space before me.

It was an open concept of a kitchen and living room combo. To the left was the kitchen and I sucked in a breath at the gorgeous design. Black cabinets with gold fixtures. A kitchen island in the middle big enough to fit two Thanksgiving dinner spreads. I noticed that he didn’t have a dining room table, only eight stools that lined the kitchen island.

The living room was simple with a large forest green sectional couch, a fireplace, and a large television above it. Although it was still nicely decorated with fine things, there was still an empty feeling that crept over my bones.

“I find it hard to believe that this huge place only has one bedroom,” I said with my hands on my hips.

Noah, who was leaning his lower half onto the back of the couch with his arms over his chest, gave me a sly smirk.

“I never said there was only one bedroom.”

I stared at him with wide eyes. “So then why do I have to share a bed with you?”

He pushed himself up so he could look down at me. “There are three rooms. Besides our bedroom, one is my office, and the other is locked up. No one goes in there.”

“Are you hiding dead bodies in there?” I teased with a raised brow.

“No, that's what the room underneath the shop is for,” Noah deadpanned.

My lips parted, mimicking a fish, as the words died on my tongue. I knew given his line of work that Noah undoubtedly killed people. The rumors around town told me. I did my best to not be involved in my father's and uncle's nefarious dealings, but every so often my uncle would bring me in during one of their meetings, much to my father's dismay. My uncle thought I needed to know the inner workings of the Irish mob since I would take over one day. While my father didn’t want that for me. He wanted me to stay in the family home and continue to turn a blind eye to everything.

In the meetings I was brought in on, many of the men who worked under the McManus twins would tell them everything they knew about OMNS; which wasn’t a lot. Noah had done a fantastic job of keeping his dealings quiet, that was until recently when his friend Vincent showed up on his doorstep dead. After that, Noah made it his mission to find out who killed him by kidnapping my family's level drug dealers for information. None gave anything up until recently when Barry somehow managed to get OMNS a meeting with my family. If it wasn’t for that kid, maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

I never fucking liked that kid.

Every time Noah’s name was brought up in those meetings, my stomach would flutter and my heart would hammer hard in my chest; exactly like in high school. From the moment my eyes landed on him freshman year, I knew that would sink his teeth in. We never ran in the same circles but when they did cross, I was rudely reminded by my mother of the reason why during graduation when she caught me staring at Noah from across the gym.

“Saorsie, stop ogling that boy. The Sebastian men are only trouble, he will hurt you the first chance he gets.”

I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t ogling him, mom.”

She grasped my chin, forcing me to look at her. “I’m serious, stay away from Noah Sebastian. You’re too good for him, he would only lower your stature.”

I took those words my mom said to heart because I knew Noah didn’t feel the same. The only time he ever looked at me was with distaste because of our family's long-standing history. The McManus and Sebastian rivalry would be told in the history books one day but now it seemed as if the rivalry had ended with or upcoming unions.

To keep the peace.

“So the wedding.”

My eyes snapped up from admiring Noah’s long legs. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I figured you’d want to plan it since you didn’t get a say in the groom,” he jeered while stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

“Honestly, I’d be fine going to the courthouse and signing the needed paperwork. Get this over with,” I admitted.

This made Noah’s usual stone face falter, his eyes softening. “If that’s what you want, Scar. I’ll make an appointment first thing tomorrow.”

Clearing my throat, I stood up straighter after grabbing my bags. “Can you show me to our room? I’d like to unpack and go to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah-,” Noah’s words were cut off by his phone ringing which he pulled out of his pants pocket.

His brows furrowed at the caller's I.D and when I peaked down at it, my heart dropped into my stomach.

“Who’s Lana?” I asked, my voice thick with jealousy.

His eyes flicked up from underneath his long lashes, a foxy smile playing on his lips.

Those lips that I’d been craving to taste ever since freshman year.

“She’s my assistant,” Noah informed.

“Does your assistant always text you this late?”

He brushed a loose strand of my fiery red hair behind my ear and chuckled. “Nothing is going on between Lana and I. She’s dating one of the artists in my shop. She was letting me know that my morning meeting was canceled.”

My mouth formed an ‘O’ shape and I suddenly threw a thumb over my shoulder. “I think I’m going to get my stuff unpacked and head to bed.”

“Come on, I’ll show you-.”

Suddenly the elevator to his penthouse made a loud ding before the doors opened, revealing a man I didn’t recognize.

Noah, who was still towering over me, snapped his head up and his shoulders fell.

“Jesse? What’s going on?”

The man, Jesse, brushed back the curls from his face and sighed. “We need you at Limits. There’s a problem.”

My eyes bounced between the two men. “Limits?”

Noah ran a hand over the few hairs that peppered his jawline. “My nightclub.”

“I didn’t know you owned a nightclub,” I said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Scar,” he shrugged with an indifferent look in his eyes before glancing back to Jesse. “Can you handle it? It’s why I made you the manager so you can deal with these kinds of things when I’m not there.”

Jesse hesitated for a long beat, his gaze flicking to me before settling on Noah. “You know I usually do, Noah. But there’s someone that is refusing to leave unless they talk to you.”

“Have Ash force them out,” Noah sighed while pinching his eyes shut.

“It’s Vincent’s sister. She wants an update.”

His body went rigid, hands dropping to his sides, and I felt my heart drop slightly at that name.

Vincent.

Noah’s friend who was murdered.

“You should go,” I spoke softly after a few long moments of silence.

Eventually, Noah nodded and he caught the jacket Jesse threw him mid-air, slipping it over his thick shoulders.

“I won’t be long, I promise,” he assured me.

Suddenly, all of the anger I felt about my situation faded, knowing that there was someone somewhere else dealing with something worse; a murdered brother with no answers.

“I’ll be fine,” I gave him a small nod.

“Bedroom is the last door on the left. Make yourself at home.”

Noah and Jesse were gone in a flash, leaving me alone in the quiet penthouse. It was an eerie silence, the one that made your ears ring, and I let out a long steady breath. Even though this was my home now, it didn’t feel like it. Everything here felt like Noah, which wasn’t a bad thing. His scent lingered in the air and it brought a faint smile on my lips.

Snap out of it, Scarlett! Noah doesn't think of you that way.

My brain practically screamed at me and with a shake of my head, I gathered up my bags to find the last door on the left. My eyes darted into the open door of Noah’s office and briefly could see a large black desk, a computer set up that seemed to fit a gamer, and red neon lights.

I came to a halt in front of the closed door and curiosity peaked in my mind so I tried the door knob.

Locked.

“What the hell are you hiding, Noah,” I muttered to myself before finally reaching the last door on the left.

Now there was resistance filling my veins, making me unable to cross the threshold into the bedroom. While I was interested in seeing how Noah had decorated the bedroom, I was nervous because it would mean that everything was about to become real.

The second I stepped into that room and unpacked my things, this marriage was going to happen.

Before I could make my final decision on whether to run or stay, my phone buzzed with an incoming message.

Noah Sebastian: Hi, it’s Noah. I wanted to let you know that I cleared out some space in the closet and the bathroom for your things. I mean it when I said make yourself at home, Scar. What’s mine is yours.

I couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at my lips while I replied.

Me: I know it’s you, Noah. I’ve had your number saved since high school.

Before I could pocket my phone, a new text came through.

Noah Sebastian: You had it saved? I thought for sure my number would have been blocked.

Me: Tell me what’s in the locked room and I won’t consider blocking your number.

Noah Sebastian: Not a chance, Scar.

Rolling my eyes, I pocketed my phone and gathered up all my courage with a deep breath before walking into the large bedroom.

“Holy shit,” I breathed. “Who needs this much space for one person?”

The king size bed was directly in the middle of the room, up against a wall painted black. On either side of the bed were end tables, each with their own lamp. There were floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the Concrete Jungle and now, with the late evening, it casted the room in a glow of moonlight.

There was a fireplace and what I thought was a picture above turned out to be one of those televisions that you were able to use like a picture frame. It was of some abstract colors, nothing that seemed to make sense to the human eye.

The hardwood floors creaked as I walked farther into the bedroom, noticing that there were clear walls where the fireplace was, showing the bathroom on the other side. I could see straight into the shower and bathtub from my spot in the bedroom.

On the other end of the room was a little sitting corner, made up of a long leather couch and two chairs.

The walk in closet was behind the couch and when I stepped inside, I let out a choked gasp.

“This closet is bigger than my bedroom at home,” I shook my head in disbelief.

Noah was true to his word.

There was more than half of the closet space empty, his clothes and shoes only taking up a small section of the closet.

With a sigh, I went about unpacking all of my things, spending a few hours arranging my clothes by types of shirts and pants. Shoes by heels or flats. Jewelry by necklaces, bracelets, and rings.

Rings.

Glancing down at my bare left hand, I tried to envision how it would look with a wedding ring and I couldn’t help but shudder. Everything was happening so fast and I didn’t even get the chance to let the news settle in yet that this whole arrangement was made without my consent.

Carrying my bag full of toiletries over to the even larger bathroom, I made a mental note to take a very long soak in the deep jacuzzi bathtub as I went about putting everything in its place. There were two sinks and with Noah already taking over the one on the left, I chose the one on the right.

As I was about to leave the bathroom, I caught sight of Noah’s cologne and pursed my lips.

Sauvage by Dior.

After spraying a quick spritz on my sweater, I went back into the closet to put away my suitcases. There was a small area in the far back that took a few finessing to make them fit but it caused something to fall off of a shelf next to me.

Miracle High School. 2013-2014.

It was Noah’s highschool yearbook.

“I haven’t seen one of these in so long,” I said while kneeling on the floor of the closet, opening the book in my lap.

Familiar faces stared back at me as I slowly flipped through it but came to a stop at one picture.

Me.

I was with my old group of friends, most of whom I didn’t talk to anymore, and the smile on my face was so fake. I thought I was happy back then, the facade I put on tricked even me. But after I graduated, I realized how much of a liar I had been. I had to put on this show of the privileged rich girl to appease my mother when in fact, I hated who I was. I despised being in the popular group and desperately wanted to hang out with the artsy kids because that's where I felt my heart deserved to be.

Just as I was about to flip the page, something else caught my eye; a written note next to my picture.

One look at your eyes and I cave in. One taste of the life now I crave it. So give me something beautiful. So give me something else. I need another miracle. I really need some help, I need a miracle.

I frowned, feeling my heart sink to the depths of my stomach, and looked for the picture on the next page.

Noah Sebastian.

Back in highschool, his hair was longer, down to the middle of his back. He did have tattoos, not as many as he did now, but the snake and apple tattoo on his neck poked out from the collar of his shirt. It was customary that all seniors took professional pictures for their yearbook photos but that wasn’t who Noah was.

His senior picture was one of him sitting in a computer chair with a gaming headset on and those adorable gold round glasses while throwing up the peace sign; showcasing those hand tattoos I spent countless hours staring at during our history class together.

Slowly closing the book, I set it back in its place on the highest self before leaving the closet. With a quick glance at my phone, I noticed it was nearing nine in the evening and even though I was exhausted, my stomach growling reminded me that I skipped dinner earlier.

Once back in the large kitchen, I found the remote for the television and turned it on. I had to flip through the channels until finally landing on The Crow and then went about searching the cabinets and fridge for food.

“Does this man not eat?” I groaned when I saw how bare everything was.

Me: You have nothing to eat in this big ass penthouse.

I expected Noah not to text back right away, figuring he was busy dealing with what was happening over at Limits, so when my phone buzzed a few seconds after I sent the message, my heart fluttered.

Noah Sebastian: What are you in the mood for? Indian? Italian? Greek?

You.

Shaking the thought from my head, I typed out my reply.

Me: I’ll just run out and pick something up.

Before I could even lock my phone, Noah’s response appeared on screen.

Noah Sebastian: The Concrete Jungle is not safe at night. Please stay inside. I’ll order whatever you want. My treat.

Pursing my lips, I glanced up to the window, seeing the tall buildings outside, and thought about it for a moment. The Concrete Jungle was Noah’s domain, he created it. But if he said it was dangerous in the dark, I had to believe him.

Me: Greek. One gyro. Hold the veggies. Extra feta cheese and tzatziki sauce.

Me: Large fries and a Dr. Pepper.

Me: We also can’t live off of fast food every day. How can I cook something with one cracked egg, baking soda, and stale ass bread?

While I waited for his reply, I decided to snoop around the penthouse. Off of the kitchen was his laundry room and for a moment, I thought about switching his loads but decided that I should leave it. A guy like him had someone come clean and do his laundry. Just as I was about to take a shower, my phone went off from its spot on the bathroom counter.

Noah Sebastian: I’ve made more with less. But we can go shopping tomorrow, you can get whatever you like.

I thought about replying with a witty remark but knowing that he was probably dealing with something deep at Limits, I decided against it.

Me: You’re going to regret saying that.

Noah Sebastian: So far, when it comes to you I haven’t regretted anything.

My heart jumped in my throat as I read those words a few times over and with a sigh, I locked my phone. I didn’t bother asking him when he would get back because I had a feeling whatever was happening, it wasn’t something that was considered a quick chat.

By the time I was dressed in my pajamas, there was a loud buzzing coming from the elevator of the penthouse. For some reason, there was a fear that filled me from being here alone and not knowing who was slowly rising up the elevator.

Me: Were you expecting company? I think someone rang the buzzer for the elevator.

My bare feet padded down the long hallway and once I stood in front of the elevator, my heart began to beat wildly. I wasn’t exactly dressed for company, wearing a pair of white cotton shorts and a loose tank top.

Noah Sebastian: It’s your food, Scar.

Oh.

Me: Oh, right.

I wasn’t sure why I was so on edge about the possibility of someone coming into Noah’s penthouse without me knowing. Maybe it was because no one knew about our arrangement so it could have been a late night fuck buddy? Maybe it was because Noah was one of the most feared mafia bosses and ruled the Concrete Jungle so someone was coming to get their revenge.

Noah Sebastian: No one can come upstairs without the code. The delivery driver left your food with Gary, the doorman. He’s been working at OMNS Legacy Villas for years and he’s the only one with the code. You can trust him.

I snorted at that word; trust. There were only two people in my life I could trust and they sold me off for a peace treaty.

Me: Trust isn’t a word that’s in my vocabulary.

The elevator doors dinged open, revealing a paper bag in the middle of it. With a quick swipe, the scent of Greek food tickled my nostrils and my stomach grumbled to life. I spread everything out on the large kitchen island and went about eating in silence while watching the movie. It wasn’t until I noticed the time on the large clock on the far end of the wall that it was almost eleven in the evening and without a new text from Noah, I thought about texting him but figured I’d be bothering him.

Once I cleaned up my mess from dinner, I stood in front of the large windows that overlooked the Concrete Jungle. Bright lights bathed over the dirty streets, littered with not only trash but crime as well. On the far end of the corner, I watched as a drug deal went down followed by an attempt at a carjacking. With the angle of how high up the penthouse was, I could see down to Under The Right Lights Tattoo; closed up for the night.

“How did I go from studying animal biology to working in a tattoo shop?” I grumbled to myself while pushing off of the windows.

“Talking to yourself?”

Whirling around, I saw Noah standing in the middle of the living room with his hair a disheveled mess and blood splatter over his shirt. I blinked rapidly, trying to assess the situation in front of me.

“I-,” I pointed to the elevator. “I didn't hear you come up.”

Noah had his hands hiding in the pockets of his black dress slacks and I couldn’t help but picture how they were covered in blood.

“I took the back staircase,” he shrugged before gliding over to the kitchen and popping a few of my leftover fries in his mouth.

I shifted on my feet, watching how unbothered he was.

“You have a back staircase?”

Noah’s eyes flashed to me. “We have a back staircase for times like this. I can’t exactly walk through the lobby looking like this.”

“Right,” I pursed my lips while nodding.

A weird silence fell between us, I was unsure what to do or say, so instead I continued to stand there watching him as he watched me with his nostrils flaring.

“Why do I smell my cologne?”

With a red hue covering my pale skin tone, I cleared my throat. “How did it go at Limits? Get everything sorted out?”

Something flashed in the darkness of his eyes as they flicked over my body. “Are you unpacked?”

“No, we’re not doing that,” I said while stepping closer to the kitchen island so I could stand across from him.

It created a barrier between us.

“Do what?” Noah asked while leaning his long arms over the edge of it.

I did my best not to gawk at his muscles as they rippled and the way the tattoos just seemed to fit him.

“If we’re going to be married, you’re not going to hide anything from me. I grew up in this life, Noah. You don’t need to keep me away from it.”

A sly smile spread to his lips. “We are getting married, Scar. There’s no if.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m not asking to be a leader next to you but all I want is honesty.”

Those almond eyes watched me for another long beat before he gave a curt nod.

“Tonight went south; fast.”

I pulled out a stool to take a seat, resting my elbows on the counter. “Were you able to give Vincent’s sister any answers?”

“No,” Noah pinched his eyes shut with a sigh. “When I told her the only information I have is that someone in the Irish mafia killed him, she wouldn’t listen. She’s insistent that it’s the Italians.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

I leaned back into my seat and crossed my arms over my chest which made my breasts perk up over the top of my shirt; something Noah tracked intently with his eyes.

“The Italians haven't stepped foot in your or my territory in almost a decade. They know it would start a war,” I explained.

“You seem to know a lot,” he raised a brow, still standing across from me.

“While my father did his best to keep me out of it, my uncle constantly brought me into meetings. He wanted me to take over when they’re gone,” I said.

“Well, Vincent’s sister surprised all of us when she told us she had some Italian tied up in her trunk,” Noah grabbed water from the fridge, popping it open with an attractive ease.

My eyes doubled. “How did she manage that?”

“No fucking idea. This guy had no ties to the mob, nothing. So I had to pay him a lot of money to keep quiet,” Noah said with a grimace on his face.

“Where did the blood come from?” I pointed to his shirt.

That earned a slight chuckle from him. “Fucker had a nose bleed when I tried to scare him off. All over my good shirt.”

Noah’s words prompted him to slip into the laundry room off the kitchen and return with a basket full of his clothes. As he spread them out on the large counter, I watched in surprise when he began folding them.

“Is it the housekeepers' day off tomorrow?” I joked.

“No housekeeper. I do all the cleaning and cooking,” he informed me.

Well don’t I feel like a judgemental asshole.

Drumming my fingers along the marble, I motioned to the bedroom. “I’m going to head to bed, since we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Noah paused the folding so he could gaze up at me through his long lashes.

“Noon at the courthouse. Are you fine with going out to Limits for a small celebration? The guys were adamant on it.”

I shrugged while hopping off the stool. “That’s fine, I guess. Gives me a reason to get all dolled up.

“I’m going to finish up the laundry then go into the shower. I promise I’ll be quiet,” Noah smiled.

My heart fluttered in my chest at the sight of it so all I did was nod before retreating down the long hallway towards the bedroom.

Even though it was a comfortable bed, I found it hard to sink into the black sheets because of the new place. Any time I slept away from home, it was a restless night. My brain couldn’t calm down and tell myself that I was safe. So I lay there with the forest green blanket pulled to my chin and eyes screwed shut hoping it would help the sleep take me.

Noah’s quiet footsteps echoed on the hardwood as he stalked inside of the bedroom. I watched as he disappeared into the closet and reemerged with a pair of pajama pants. The confidence that radiated off of him as he stepped inside the bathroom was one that made anyone envious. Due to the window that peered into the bathroom, I could see Noah beginning to strip out of his clothes, oh so slowly as if he knew I was watching him. He didn’t bother to turn on the bathroom light, the moonlight breaking through the windows casting him in an aura made for the Gods.

I sucked in a breath when he stepped into the large shower, his large back and perk ass on display for my eyes to drink in. The large Jesus portrait tattoo that lined the entirety of his back glistened as the water droplets fell down to the swell of his ass.

“A Thiarna cuidigh liom,” I groaned while dragging a hand down my face.

I was supposed to be upset with this arrangement and I probably would have been if my future groom wasn’t built the way Noah Sebastian was.

Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve had a huge crush on him since freshman year.

Grumbling at the voice in my head, I forced myself to face the other way in bed in an attempt to get some sleep. While floating in and out of consciousness, I swore I heard the softest melody emanating from the walls of the bedroom. It wrapped around me like a blanket, cradling me with endless comfort, and I felt every worry slip through my fingertips. The weight shifted slightly to pull me in closer but did nothing to disturb the comfort.

NOAH

My knee bounced with so much agitation, I feared it shook the entire penthouse. I sat in my computer chair with my fingers steepeled underneath my chin, memories of earlier replaying in my mind on a constant fucking loop.

The slight hesitation in the ballpoint of the pen before she signed her name on the marriage certificate.

I knew Scarlett wasn’t too fond of this arrangement but there was a part of me that wasn’t expecting the hesitation, especially after last night.

“Scar?” I asked, just above a whisper.

Her sleeping form held the pillow close to her chest but I frowned, not getting into bed yet. She was asleep in my spot. I chewed on my bottom lip, debating whether or not to wake her because I slept in that spot every single night for the last eight years of living in this penthouse.

But standing there at the end of my bed, watching the way her chest rose and fell with each deep breath and the soft snores emanating from her plump lips made everything I’d formally known change.

I slipped into bed behind her with every intention of lying opposite of her but almost immediately, her hand found my bicep in a soft embrace and I vowed not to move at all that night. It was a simple touch but enough to make my heart race.

It was foolish to think that it meant something. Scarlett didn’t feel the same, she’d made it clear that she was here against her will. The first chance she had, she would take it to run off with someone more qualified for her love. It didn’t matter for me to try because I’d never been worthy of Saiorse Scarlett McManus.

Saiorse Scarlett McManus-Sebastian.

I glanced down to my left hand, the black band a sight I was still getting used to. I wore rings all the time, just never on that finger. While she had been getting ready for tonight, I had Matt run to the best jewelry store in the Concrete Jungle to pick up the sets of rings I had put a rush order on. My ring wasn’t anything special, and to be honest neither was Scar’s. Due to the short time frame, I had to make due with what I could. A simple gold band with a small marquise diamond. I knew it wasn’t her style but for now, until I could get her something better later on, this would be fine.

The small velvet box weighed heavy in the pocket of my pants and I knew if I didn’t give it to her soon, it would burn a hole.

A soft knock at my office door pulled me from my thoughts and when I peered over the computer at who stood in the doorway, my heart felt heavy in my chest. Scar stood there with her hands behind her back, almost shy as I drank in her appearance.

Her red hair was pulled back into a tight bun, showcasing the sharpness of her cheekbones.

Her make up was minimal but dark enough to make her green iris shine bright.

The dress she wore managed to hug her figure perfectly. It was a deep olive color that stood out against the paleness of her freckles skin and cut low enough at her breasts that it didn’t leave too much to the imagination but somehow covered her modestly. My gaze traveled up the slit on the dress where her toned legs poked through.

“Noah?”

I snapped my eyes up to her face, a low hum rumbling in my chest. “Yea?”

“Is this alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I frowned.

Scar shrugged and in that moment, I could tell by the pain she held behind her smile that she was struggling with something internally.

“It’s stupid,” she sighed, ready to leave the room until I grabbed her hand.

“Hey,” my voice was soft. “Nothing you say is stupid, alright?”

Those emerald eyes bounced between mine. “With Cory, he didn’t like me wearing things like this.”

The ex.

“You can wear whatever you’re comfortable with,” I gave her hand a gentle squeeze, electricity shooting through my system before reluctantly dropping it.

Scar cleared her throat before rubbing her palms on the side of her silk dress and motioning to me. “Ready to go?”

I peered down to my black pants and plain black shirt, suddenly self conscious I wasn’t dressed up enough for her.

“I can change if it’s not-.”

“No!” She said quickly before catching herself. “You look good.”

A sly smirk came to my lips and with this sudden surge of confidence I pulled out the velvet box from my pocket and heard Scar suck in a breath. The prior nerves were back and I couldn’t stop the way my hands shook as I opened it.

“It’s not much,” I sighed. “Given I had less than twenty four hours to get you a ring, this was the best I could do.”

Scar didn’t say anything as her bright eyes watched me slip the ring on her left hand.

It may have been small but it fit her like a glove.

“It’s fine, Noah,” she reassured me with a quick smile. “I’m not into gaudy and unnecessarily huge rings.”

We stood there in the ever growing silence of my office, the roaring flames from the fireplace the only thing that eased my worries. The orange hues of the fire casted Scar in a golden halo, the sight of the angel in front of me enough to still my heart.

Angel.

“An-.”

“Noah!”

Both mine and Scar’s head snapped over to the hallway right outside the door to my office, seeing Matt standing there.

“Everything alright?” I asked, knowing the panicked look in his eyes.

They shifted to Scar’s where they lingered for a moment too long.

“Matt,” I called his name softly but with enough force; a warning.

“Sorry,” he shifted on his feet. “There’s an issue downstairs in the shop. A client that won’t leave.”

My shoulders fell with an exaggerated groan. “Can’t you handle it?

He rolled his eyes, almost insulted that I doubted his ability. “You know I have no problem with that but they’re not here for us.”

My brow peaked. “Then who are they here for?”

Matt’s eyes darted to Scar who pointed at herself, dumbfounded. “Me?”

“It’s your dad and Uncle. They’re here with some asshat named Cory, who is the one refusing to leave.”

The all too familiar feeling of anger and jealousy festered low in my gut at hearing not only where her father and uncle downstairs in my shop, but so was the asshole ex.

“What are they doing here?” I asked her, trying hard to keep my voice calm.

She shrugged. “I have no idea! I talked to my dad earlier and told him that the papers were signed. He said congratulations and he’ll send a gift at some point.”

Rubbing a hand on my jaw, I gave a curt nod urging Matt to lead the way. The heels of Sacr’s heels clicked against the marble floor as she followed behind me. The ride down the elevator was quiet, filled with my deep and even breathing. Through the corner of my eye, I noticed a few things.

Matt’s eyes darted over to Scar, lingering on the side of her face.

Scar played with the new ring on her finger while she muttered something to herself. Something plagued her mind, it was clear in the way her shoulders were slumped and something continued to twitch in her cheek.

“Did you want me to handle him?” I asked once the elevator stopped at my shop.

Her head tilted up to me, my question lingering in her mind. I found myself getting lost in the greens of her eyes, swimming in the pool of the gold specks in them.

“No. It’s probably better I do,” she sighed.

When the elevator doors opened revealing the closed tattoo shop, I extended an arm to let her walk ahead. We walked down the back hallway, passing my office, the gym, and bathrooms before the sight of all of the closed down booths appeared. On the other side of the front counter stood the McManus brothers and Cory, who was red in the face due to screaming about something.

“She was mine!”

“Calm down, son,” Conner McManus lit a cigarette, puffing out the smoke.

“You can’t smoke in here,” I said with a stern tone.

His dark eyes snapped over to me before tossing down the cigarette, crushing it beneath his boot.

“Cory, what are you doing here?” Scar asked after her father left a soft kiss to the side of her head in greeting.

“Your dad told me you’re married?”

I took a deep breath, trying to let Scar handle this on her own, but both Matt and I flanked behind her; just in case.

The McManus brothers shared a look before Conner threw a thumb over his shoulder. “He showed up at our place drunk rambling about wanting to see Saorise so we brought him here. He’s your problem now.”

“Congratulations on your nuptials. Let’s hope for a time of peace,” Murphy reminded, giving a small smile to his daughter.

With a nod, I dismissed them from my shop and soon it was Cory alone with the three of us.

“I told you I was to be married off,” Scar’s brows furrowed. “I called you earlier this week to tell you and your exact words were,"What do you want me to do about it?””

Cory chuckled darkly. “I thought you were fucking with me to get back at me for Tory.”

She flinched. “Tory? What does Tory have to do with anything?”

Cory held a bottle of vodka loosely between his fingers before bringing it to his lips, downing the rest of it in one go.

“Because I fucked her,” he replied while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I took a large step towards him, not being able to hold back my anger any longer, but Scar’s soft gasp halted me.

“Yo-You what?”

Cory snorted when he took in the look of hurt on her face. “I mean, it wasn’t anything serious. Just a good fuck, something to pass the time while you were in school.”

My hands shook at my sides, something Matt noticed because he rested a hand on my shoulder.

“She wants to handle it,” he uttered in my ear, reminding me.

I snapped my eyes over to him but it did nothing to deter the hand on my shoulder. The gun in the holster of my pants began to get heavy. I kept a hard gaze over Scar’s head, directly at Cory, who seemed unphased by the scene he was beginning to create.

“You fucked Tory?”

Scar’s voice and face were unreadable which caused me great panic. I wasn’t sure how she would react or if this news even bothered her. I knew they didn’t date long and according to my intel it didn’t seem to mean much. But even so, finding out you’ve been cheated on during your relationship hurts.

Cory snickered at the distressed look on Scar’s face. “You have no right to act like this, Saorise. You married another man.”

Her eyes flicked over to me but mine never left his face, watching him through the thin slits.

“I didn’t have a choice! My father and Uncle made me. If I did have a choice, I would have moved far away from here years ago,” she sneered.

My heart sank low and my shoulders fell slightly when I gazed down at her. Deep down, I knew she still wasn’t happy about our situation but to hear her continue repeating it cut deep. It was like I was in highschool all over again, fawning over the popular girl who didn’t bat an eye.

“I was going to marry you, Saorise. I had a ring picked out,” the bottle slipped from Cory’s fingers and clattered to the ground at our feet; the leftover alcohol splashing on my shoes.

I grumbled in displeasure.

“Was that before or after you fucked Tory?” Scar took a step towards him.

“Scar,” I warned.

“Scar? What the fuck kind of name is that? Her name is Saoirse,” Cory laid a hand on my shoulder, trying to push me.

Ultimately failing as I barely moved. My veins were filled with hurt from her constant reminders that she didn’t want to be married to me but now, I was filled with sheer anger.

“We call her Scar,” I informed him through gritted teeth.

Cory rolled his eyes. “You guys are all fucked up. I’ve heard the rumors about OMNS. You think you can keep Saoirse safe from that?”

Matt took a large step toward him but was halted with my hand to his chest, both of us sharing a look; one that we’ve shared many times before.

“Take Scar upstairs,” my voice was low and even.

Some would say it even scared them.

Matt gave a curt nod and gently grabbed her elbow but she ripped it from his grasp, those green eyes shooting daggers into me.

“Excuse me? What happened to me handling it?”

I ignored her, letting my stubborn side win, and motioned towards Cory all while keeping my hands in my pockets. “You can leave through the same door you stepped through.”

“Fuck you!” He spat, now pushing me in my chest with both hands, causing me to stumble slightly. “Saoirse is mine! You can’t just fucking take her because you signed some bullshit paper agreement with her father.”

My left brow raised. “Last time I checked, a marriage certificate isn’t a bull shit paper agreement.”

“Noah!” Scar stepped in front of me, blocking my path to Cory. “I told you I can handle this myself.”

“Then why is he still here? Did you invite him?” I asked, eyes flicking down to her and doing my best to keep my composure.

“Fuck off!” She stomped her foot, showing how angry she was getting.

I had to admit, it was kind of cute seeing her bratty side come out.

“You said it yourself you won’t dictate what I do in this marriage. I am my own person.”

The way she said marriage caused something to stir low in my gut and I knew it wasn’t anything good. That all too familiar feeling of my hands shaking in my pockets and my heart beat wildly in my chest usually ended in one way.

Death.

Matt knew this. He’d been by my side since the early days and he’d seen first hand what happened to the people that were on the receiving end of it.

“Alright, time to go,” Matt said before picking up Scar, tossing her over his shoulder.

“You mother fucker! Put me down!” She thrashed in his arm, her no match for his strength.

As her screams faded down the hall towards the elevator, I looked over my shoulder to call back to them.

“Keep it up, Scar. Matt has permission to smack that pretty little ass.”

They stood in the middle of the elevator, her still thrashing about on his shoulder, so Matt gave a wicked smirk with a wink just before the doors shut.

“It’s not even worth it, man. Her holes aren’t even that fuckable.”

My eye snapped back to Cory, who was slightly swaying on his feet, and now one hand rested behind my back to graze over the handle of my gun. My voice wavered only slightly, going undetected by the drunk man in front of me.

“What did you just say?”

He hiccuped, the vodka now settling in his bloodstream. “Her cunt isn’t that great. She just lies there like a board. You’re better off fucking a pillow.”

I swallowed thickly with a finger now on the trigger. All I could see was red.

Blood.

His blood staining the floor of the underground and hearing his pleas of sorrow as I dragged the knife across the flabby flesh of his throat.

“You should have come to me to talk about marrying her!” He poked a weak finger to my chest. “She’s mine.”

I blinked for a long moment, letting out an even longer deep breath in the exact exercises my therapist taught me. I couldn’t do anything up here due to the cameras I had littered throughout so instead, I cleared my throat while extending a hand behind me.

“We’ll, why don’t we step into my office to work out a deal,” I suggested with a playful smirk.

Cory smiled with triumph and straightened out his polo. “The only hole I want is her mouth. It’s all she’s good for.”

The knife hidden in my sock itched with the need to slice flesh.

SCAR

“You mother fucker!” I pounded on Matt’s broad back as we rode the elevator back up to the penthouse.

“Try all you want, Saoirse. But did you forget Noah’s warning?” He teased me.

My face was directly in sight with his round ass and with a playful smirk, I pinched it, causing him to yelp out and dropping me to my feet.

“Did you just pinch my ass?” He asked dumbfounded while rubbing the spot I pinched.

I shrugged. “It was right in front of my face. I can't help it if you've got a nice ass.”

His face flinched, not expecting my boldness. “Noah definitely has his hands full with you.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I gave him my back to finish the ride up in silence. I could feel him behind me, eyes burning over my entire body, and my tough resolve began to slowly slip away. The day had gone straight to hell the second I woke up and found myself wrapped in Noah’s warm embrace. I spent an excruciating long moment tracing over the tattoos on his chest with my eyes, burning them into memory.

Ever since I watched him in the shower last night, I felt this undeniable burn between my legs that needed to be touched, licked, bite, and fucked. Not even the moment in the shower this afternoon while Noah was running a few errands before our courthouse appointment extinguished this burn.

When I cried out his name as my orgasm engulfed me, it made the flames burn higher.

“You seem on edge,” Matt’s deep voice pulled me from thoughts of Noah naked.

“I wonder why,” I grumbled under my breath.

He chuckled, the sound bringing an ease to the tension around us.

“Noah will be fine,” he assured me.

“He’s not the one I’m worried about,” I admitted while stepping off the elevator when it opened to the penthouse.

Turning on my heels, I noticed Matt still standing in the elevator, unmoving.

“Are you not going to come inside and watch me?” I teased.

His eyes raked over me from underneath his hat, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

“Tempting. But I’ve got other things to do.”

I didn’t have time to think of what that other thing was before the doors shut, leaving me alone in the large penthouse. I continued to grumble obscenities under my breath as I stalked towards the bedroom, ready to change into a pair of sweats and spending the rest of this awful day on the couch reading a book.

And not think of your husband’s ass in the shower.

Groaning at the little voice in my head, I threw on a pair of sweats, not bothering to take my makeup off, and dragged my feet down the long hallway again to the large bookshelves that were right next to the elevator. Noah had a large collection, might as well help myself to one or two.

Black fingernails skimmed over the spines of the large collection, humming a soft tune to myself, until one caught my eye.

A New World.

When I went to pull it out, excited to read my favorite book, it wouldn’t budge. Instead, the bookshelf began to creak and groan before slowly opening into the wall.

“No fucking way,” I scoffed. “He would have a secret door that leads to a dark staircase.”

I thought about it for a moment; go down the stairs to see where it led or play dumb to the fact that I ever saw it. But suddenly, something from yesterday popped in my brain.

“I took the back staircase.”

Noah made it a point to say that he takes this staircase when he’s unable to walk through the lobby of the penthouse. Meaning wherever his staircase led, it was meant to be hidden.

“Fuck it,” I muttered with a shrug before taking the stairs, one step at a time.

It was lit with a muted yellow glow so I had a hand on the wall to guide me in case I were to tumble down. With each tentative step, voices grew closer and closer until I heard what sounded like flesh on flesh and then pained cries.

When my footsteps halted at the bottom of the staircase, I felt my heart jump into my throat and stomach fall out of my ass with the sight in front of me.

“What the fuck!”

NOAH

“Wait please!”

Ignoring the pathetic cries falling from Cory’s mouth, I sunk the knife deeper into the already gaping wound in his thigh, twisting and turning it in all different directions. The sound of blood squelching brought a sinister smile to my face as I watched the sheer pain on his face. Tendrils of my dark hair fell into my eyes but I didn’t dare brush them away.

“You have a lot of nerve coming into my shop and talking about my wife that way,” I said.

Cory did his best to thrash in the chair he was tied up in but ultimately failed. “Fuck you!”

I cocked my head to the side, still having a tight grip on the knife in his thigh. I felt a presence behind me as I was crouched at the knees, knowing Matt was also watching with his own sinister smirk. I’d done a number on Cory already, his face barely recognizable from the blood that covered it and not only did he have a wound in his thigh, his arms and chest were littered with small yet painful slices from my blade.

“I’m done with him,” I said while slowly rising to full height, aged knees popping in and out of place.

Matt handed me a small handgun from one of my large collections and when I cocked it, Cory’s eyes went white as a ghost.

“Wait!” He choked on his own blood. “I have information!”

The grip on my gun never faltered but I did raise a brow at him. “What could you possibly know that would interest me?”

Deep, uneven breaths fell from Cory’s lips and I knew that I only had a short window with him before he succumbed to the wounds; more importantly, the one on his side. Matt made a comment of how deep I went with the knife but all I saw was red, Cory’s comments from earlier urging the knife deeper.

“The only hole I want is her mouth. It’s all she’s good for.”

“Its-,” he coughed up blood, spewing it all over himself and at the ground near my shoes. “About Saoirse’s mom. Her death.”

That made my gun falter a bit but I kept my tough resolve apparent. “Her mom died years ago. Why do you think I would spare your life when it was already a solved case?”

Underneath the blood that pooled from Corey’s mouth was a sinister smirk as he leaned his head back.

“That’s what they want you to think.”

Matt, who had slowly slipped behind Cory, and I shared a look before he asked the next question.

“Who’s they?” Matt wondered.

Cory did his best to shrug due to being tied up. “The ones who did it.”

I let out an agitated groan before dropping the gun onto the metal table next to me, the noise caused Cory to jump. It had been an extremely long day and the last thing I wanted to do was stand here while he ran us in circles with this so-called information. There were many things I would much rather be doing.

My wife.

Shaking the thought from my head, I stalked over towards the far end of the underground to where I held all of my variety of tools; immediately reaching for the pair of rusty pliers.

Twirling the tool in my hands, I noticed a look of fear flash in Cory’s eyes just before I flicked my own towards Matt, giving him a silent order. He wrenched Cory’s head back by the roots of his hair, keeping him in place, gloved fingers smearing his own blood all throughout.

It took me a lot longer than I’d like to admit to start wearing gloves during these kinds of meetings. Not only for the fear of leaving fingerprints behind but because blood was a bitch to wash off.

“Cory,” I clicked my tongue against my teeth. “I’m getting really fucking tired of your voice.”

He blinked, trying to fight against Matt’s grip on him. “Wh-what are you going to do?”

I sinisterly looked at the old pliers in my hand and shivered with delight. “I’m going to rip out your tongue.”

Screams of pain echoed loudly in the underground, but never making past the concrete walls, as I yanked his tongue out of his mouth. Cory writhed in the chair as his words were muffled as I nearly clipped the pliers with his tongue.

“One last question,” I said without an ounce of waver in my voice. “Does Vincent’s death have anything to do with Mrs. McManus’ death?”

The pupils of Cory’s eyes bled black and even with both mine and Matt’s grip on him, I felt the softest of nods. Something inside of me burned low with the revelation that my best friend was possibly killed by the same person that killed Scar’s mom.

“This is for everything you said about my wife.”

With the pliers clamped around Cory’s tongue, I ripped it with such force, blood spattered across my shirt, down to my shoes. His cries sounded like pure bliss to my ears as I let the limp muscle and pliers clatter to the dirty ground at my feet.

Matt pushed himself away from Cory, wiping his hands on the back of his sweats, before tossing me a rag.

“You got some blood on your face,” he pointed to his cheek.

With a disgusted groan, I wiped the blood away and ripped away the destroyed shirt now. It would have to join the burn pile. As I discarded my gloves into the same pile, I continued to ignore the mess of a man in front of me. Blood pooled down Cory’s chin and over his bare chest. But the satisfaction I thought I would feel after causing him this much pain was non-existent. I wanted him to suffer for everything he said about Scar but mostly the fact he had the nerve to cheat on her.

Matt immediately noticed the look in my eyes, having seen it one too many times before.

“Noah, let’s end this. It’s not like he’s physically able to tell us anything else,” he suggested.

I scratched at the tattoos on my chest absentmindedly, doing my best to calm the beast inside of me. I was alway calm with dealings like this, the more level headed one of our group. But Cory’s words about my wife continued to tease me and I couldn’t contain myself any longer. Rage consumed me as I laid fist after fist into Cory’s flesh; anywhere I could.

His stomach.

His chest.

His face, over and over again.

It was as if the rage had blinded my vision, making the only thing I could see was pure darkness. His muffled groans and the sound of flesh on flesh was muted by the pounding of my heart in my ears.

“What the fuck!”

Chest heaving, I whirled around on my heels to see Scar standing on the far end of the room where the hidden staircase led. The soft features of her face were contorted with agony as she took in the sight in front of her.

Cory’s near lifeless body at my feet, still tied to the chair.

Matt sat on the metal table, dangling his legs in the air, as he browsed something on his phone.

And me, standing above the mess I created with blood on my hands; literally. Scar’s lips were parted, the softest off breaths falling from them, and her pupils were dilated with sheer fear.

No.

Not fear.

Arousal.

“Cory!” Scar bellowed before taking a step towards him, causing me to block her path.

“Now you care for him?” I sneered, wiping his blood over my chest.

“N-no,” she stammered while shifting on her feet. “I just-. I didn’t expect to see this when I came down here!”

Matt snorted from his spot on the table. “What did you expect to see, Scar? Us having a picnic?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Fuck off, Matthew.”

“It’s Matt,” I corrected. “You need to go back upstairs.”

Now her fury was directed towards me and she poked a nail into my bare chest, doing her best not to gawk at the tattoos and blood.

Ultimately failing.

“You don’t tell me what to do, Noah!” She poked me again. “You brought me into this fucked up world, the least you can do is let me see it!”

I cocked my head to the side, slowly licking my lips, and took a tentative step towards her. The chill of the underground brought goosebumps to my skin but the reminder of how her finger felt poking my skin bathed me in warmth.

“Does this turn you on, Scar?” I teased with a low voice.

There was a slight hesitation before she scoffed, locking her hands on her hips. “No!”

Her voice was high pitched, almost scratchy, and it was something I remembered from highschool she would do this exact thing when she was lying. I raised a finger to her, twirling a piece of auburn hair around it.

“Admit it, Scar. Even you’ve thought about it. Dragging your knife across someone’s flesh. Their screams of despair and pain bring a sense of comfort, maybe even arousal,” I breathed into the crook of her neck.

She swallowed thickly and I tracked the way her bottom lip caught between her teeth, desperately wanting to know how they tasted.

“You’re sick!” her eyes snapped up towards mine.

I grinned, dark tendrils of hair falling into my even darker eyes. “If I’m so sick, then how come your hand is reaching for my belt?”

Scar cursed when she realized her fingers were brushing against the buckle of my belt and hurriedly jumped away from me. Her eyes darted back to the scene behind me, lingering on the slowly dying body at my feet.

“Did you rip out his tongue?!” She gasped, covering her mouth.

I kicked the limp muscle on the other side of the room carelessly. “Bastard kept talking about you. I needed to teach him a lesson.”

Matt slipped off of the table and reached for one of the smaller pocket knives we had hanging on the wall behind him. Twirling it between his fingers, he nodded towards Scar.

“Do you want to finish him off? A little payback for him cheating on you?”

For the briefest of moments, she thought about it with the way her gaze lingered on the sharp blade before falling down to Cory, who had passed out from the pain. Scar was facing an internal battle inside of her between what was right and wrong. Well, what she thought was wrong. Nothing I did in the undergrounds of the Concrete Jungle was wrong. I did it to protect what I’ve created here and to protect the ones I love.

“What do you say? Or are you too much of a pussy to get the job done?” I taunted, hands buried deep into the pockets of my dress slacks.

Scar’s lips recoiled as she violently shook her head. “If I would have known you were like this, I wouldn’t have agreed to this marriage!”

My heart sank to the depths of my stomach but I continued to hold my demeanor, not allowing her to know how her words continued to affect me.

“Fine,” I shrugged with a sigh. “You have two choices. Stay here and watch or go upstairs and wait for me.”

“Wait for you? For what?” She blinked.

Not uttering a word, I turned on my heels back towards Cory and kicked his abdomen, waking him from his slumber. Words were muffled as he tried to fight against the binds, weakly due to the blood loss, so Matt bent at the knees next to him.

“We’ll make it quick,” he shook the knife in front of Cory’s face, whose eyes flared with fear.

I didn’t have to see if Scar went upstairs, I could feel her presence behind me as she stalked closer. The ghost brush of a hand on my lower back made my spine stiffen and when I glanced over my shoulder, I raised a brow at her.

“Curious cat, eh?”

“Fuck off, Sebastain!” She pushed away from me and I could hear her footsteps amcking against the concrete as she ran up the hidden staircase.

“Did you want the honors, boss?” Matt’s voice caused me to turn my head back towards him.

“He’s all yours,” I said, the urge to hurt him not present. “Have Ash help you clean up. But once you’re finished, do me a favor and look into what he was rambling on about earlier.”

Matt gave a quick two finger salute. My heart was no longer in this game of torture and mutalation. It was vying for the woman upstairs and wanting to make things right with her. The usual sick thrill I got from watching a kill meant nothing as I followed Scar’s footsteps.

SCAR

I lay in bed with my back turned towards the door, trying my darndest to erase the image of Cory on the flood from my brain. While I never loved him, it still struck something inside of me to see him so broken on death's door. Yet, the way Noah looked towered over him, shirtless and the blue lights of the underground emanating him in neon glows now made something burn inside. My pussy ached as I remembered how the blood looked smeared across Noah’s tattooed chest and for the quickest of moments, I wanted to lick it off of him.

“You’re so fucked up!” I groaned while pressing my palms into my eyes, hoping to rub away the vision from my mind.

“Talking to yourself?”

Snapping my eyes open, I saw Noah leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, thick arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a dream with the setting sun's rays blasting through the large windows and casting him in a peachy glow. His belt and button were undone, showcasing the hard V line of his hips as his pants hung low, and I found myself staring at the few dark hairs that peaked out from the waistband of his briefs.

“If you want it, Scar. All you need to do is ask,” Noah teased while pushing himself off the door frame and stalked into the bedroom.

Rolling my eyes, I sat up in bed and pulled my knees to my chest as I watched him walk towards the bathroom.

“Did you kill him?”

My words made Noah pause, the muscles in his back flexing, but he didn’t look towards me. “Will you cry if I tell you the truth?”

“I don’t love him. Never had. But that doesn't mean he deserved to die, Noah!”

Now he whirled around on his feet, dark eyes staring daggers into me.

“He cheated on you, Scar! Bragged about how the only good hole you had was your mouth. Claimed you would lie there stiff as a board,” Noah ran a hand through his hair.

I pulled my lips in a tight light after I was about to say something but when he took a large step towards me, I realized he wasn't done yet.

“Did you really think I would let him get away with talking about you like that? My wife. In my shop?!”

His eyes were wild as he loomed over me in the bed and my stomach flipped at his words.

My wife.

“I-,” my voice faltered, unsure what to say.

Noah’s nostrils flared, his anger radiating off of him in droves, and he leaned farther over me causing my body to fall to the bed. Tattooed arms locked me in on both sides of my head and I felt his scorching breath fanning over my lips. We were so close that if I titled my head up just a tad, I would finally be able to figure out what he tasted like; a thought that had been plaguing my mind since highschool.

“Let’s make one thing clear here. You’re mine, angel. Anyone who disrespects you will pay a price, regardless of who they are,” Noah pressed his hips against mine.

I sucked in a breath when his cock brushed along my pussy, over the silk fabric of my pajama shorts. I’d change once I came back upstairs, ready for the day to be over, not caring it was just before six in the evening. My hands shook at my sides, unsure what to do with them, so Noah grabbed them and pinned both of them above my head; both wrists fitting in one of his hands.

“Wh-what did you call me?” I choked out, suddenly realizing what he said.

His nose brushed along my jawline, breathing me in.

“Angel,” Noah almost purred.

I swallowed thickly, doing my best to keep my strong hold against him even though it was faltering with every brush of his cock against me. He was slowly dry humping me and I was giving back to him with even strokes. There was still dried blood across the tattoos on his chest, painting them in crimson, and I could still smell the lingering copper scent.

“What if I don’t like it?” I panted, nearly gone in bliss.

He groaned while grazing his teeth along my jugular. “Too bad because it stays. Angel.”

With one of his hands still keeping mine locked about my head, his other slipped underneath my nightshirt to graze over my blazed skin. We were like a couple of horny teenagers that found their first moment alone with each other with how frenzied our movements were against each other. My orgasm was building slowly, the familiar tingling sensation in the base of my spine. It was so close, I could taste it on the tip of my tongue and I wanted nothing more than to scream out his name as I came undone underneath hNoah.

“How wet are you, angel?” He flicked his tongue against my earlobe. “I bet you're soaked just from this.”

I nodded, too far gone now to try and fight against him. I needed this release more than oxygen and it was almost as if Noah understood because his hand slipped between us to tease my folds over my shorts.

“I fucking knew it,” he chuckled darkly. “How bad do you want my cock, Scar?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, not wanting to give away how bad I actually wanted or how I’ve wanted it since freshman year. Instead I raised my hips up towards his hands, a silent beg falling from my lips.

“Use your words,” Noah demanded before smacking my pussy.

“Shit!” I cried out. “Fuck you.”

He wrapped one of my legs around his back so he could press his clothed cock over my core at a different angle and it was everything I needed for the coil to snap.

“Oh god,” my body convulsed underneath Noah as I let my orgasm overcome all of my senses.

White hazy stars danced at the edges of my vision.

I could taste the blood from Noah’s chest as I lapped at it, unknowingly.

All the noises around me seemed to fade away. The only thing I could hear was Noah’s grunts as he continued to dry fuck me.

At some point he let go of my hands and my nails scratched at the large Jesus portrait against Noah’s back, working myself through the aftershocks.

The scent of his cologne hung along the edge of my nose as I breathed him in.

“That’s such a good girl, Scar. You sound so pretty when you cum,” Noah praised while dragging his teeth along the side of my neck.

My jaw fell slack when I finally came down from my high and Noah began rising the hem of my shirt up over my stomach.

“You can lie all you want, Scar. But what you saw downstairs turned you on,” he flicked his eyes up at me from his new position over my belly.

“You’re crazy,” I breathed, letting my eyes flutter shut.

“For you-.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

My head snapped over towards the doorway where I saw one of his men leaning against the same spot Noah had been minutes prior. I vaguely recognized him as one of the members of OMNS; his long hair down past his shoulders and the cross earring hanging from his ear. The accent immediately told me who it was. I tried to scurry away from Noah, only for him to hold onto my hips with a vice grip, him sitting up against the back of his calves.

“Need something Joakim?” Noah made no effort to fix his pants or briefs as they were askew. I didn’t miss the agitation in his voice.

Joakim's eyes lingered at us for a moment before he motioned towards me. “Her fathers estate has been calling the lobby of the apartments. Apparently, her uncle wants to have her over for dinner tonight to celebrate the nuptials.”

Both Noah and I shared a look, knowing that it couldn’t be true because we saw my dad and uncle a few hours ago and neither of them made it known they wanted dinner tonight. Plus, if they did, they would call my cell phone, not the lobby.

Smacking his leg, Noah reluctantly rolled off of me allowing me to sit up and fix my hair and hopefully cool down my heated cheeks. I wasn’t sure how long Joakim had been watching us but from the sly smirk on his lips, I had a feeling it was before my orgasm.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this, Scar,” Noah sat on the edge of the bed, hair a disheveled mess and pants still unbuttoned.

While I expected to see his cock thick and hard, it nearly shocked me to see a faint wet spot staining the gray briefs; not from my arousal.

“I’ll be fine. Maybe it was a last minute dinner he wanted to set up. I’m sure he’s curious about the Cory situation,” I said.

Noah’s brows peaked. “What are you going to tell him?”

I shrugged. “It was handled. They don’t need to know the details.”

“Let me come with you. Since it is a dinner to celebrate us,” he spoke while rising from the bed, however Joakim shook his head.

“You’re needed at the M.I.N.D Clinic. Something happened with one of our extended guests.”

Noah sighed with even more agitation than before and pinched his eyes shut. “Fine. Let me clean up and I’ll meet you in the living room in ten minutes.”

“Wiat!” I grabbed his arm before he could retreat into the bathroom. “The M.I.N.D Clinic is real?”

“Yes,” his lips pulled down at my surprise. “It’s been a running establishment for the last three years. How have you not known about it?”

I shrugged. “There were rumors in my neighborhood about what you do in the Concrete Jungle but none of us knew for sure. The M.I.N.D Clinic allows you to go through your memories, right? Relieve them?”

Noah nodded but then his eyes widened when he realized what I was getting at and firmly shook his head. “Absolutely not, Scar. It can be a dangerous place there. We’ve had a resident with us for the last 118 days because he’s trying to remember his wife who is currently on her deathbed. The M.I.N.D program, while it is one I’ve programmed myself, still has its flaws. If you find yourself too deep, you won’t be able to pull yourself out.”

“But-!”

“No, Saoirse. Do not ask again,” Noah snapped, using my first name to let me know he meant what he said.

Holding up my hands, I nodded. “Fine. I’m going to change and head to my dad’s. I’ll be back later.”

“Take Joakim with you,” Noah said as I walked away from him. “I’ll bring Nicholas with me.”

Joakim nodded towards him but gave me a playful wink as I walked past him towards the walk in closet. “No offense, Joakim. But I can take care of myself. It’s just a dinner, no need for protection.”

Waving off Noah’s protests, I closed myself inside of the closet to get ready.

Thirty minutes later, I was dressed in a pair of jeans and a hoodie, not bothering to get dressed up for this last minute dinner, and drove down the familiar but darkened roads back to my fathers estate. I tried calling him once I got in the car to confirm but got his voicemail after three rings. Even though I knew it was nothing, I couldn’t ignore the way my heart beat increased the closer I got, something not sitting well with me. I couldn’t even enjoy the earlier thought of me coming apart for Noah without the fear of what I was about to walk into looming.

How could I allow myself to let Noah take that part of me? I had told myself over and over again before moving in that I would not fold that fast for him, yet there I was begging for his cock like a horny teeneager.

I mean, you were horny. You did love what you saw in the underground.

Grumbling at my thoughts, I took the familiar turn around the bend, my old neighborhood less than a mile away. Yet I was blinded when a pair of bright headlights came barreling towards me.

“Shit!” I cursed before wrenching the steering wheel to the side, causing my car to skid close to the edge.

Right in perfect sight of the car that t boned into me. All I could remember was the sound of metal on metal and glass breaking before being plunged into darkness.

JOAKIM

“Did she make it?” I asked Noah who had stepped inside of his office at the M.I.N.D Clinic.

While he was busy tending to the resident and his wife, I’d been sitting at his desk, looking over the numbers in the books. We had made a decent increase in revenue the last six months, along with a lot of our other businesses. We no longer had to worry about where money was coming from to cover the expenses of the underground, yet it was still nice to be aware of where the money was going.

Noah shook his head and stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his black jacket. His black turtle neck had been pulled up high, covering the snake tattoo on his neck.

“She didn’t make it. He claims he kept having visions of her dying over and over again while he was under,” Noah fell into the chair across from the desk with a deep sigh.

“What happens now?” I wondered while leaning farther back into my own chair.

“He paid out for 150 days, he’s going to honor the rest of his contract. To be honest, I don’t think we’d be able to make him leave,” he ran a hand through his locks, brushing them away from his face.

We sat in silence for a moment until his deep voice reverberated in the air.

“How much of that did you see? Back at the penthouse?”

I gazed away from the computer screen to see a faint redness creeping along Noah’s defined cheekbones and snickered.

“Enough to know why Scar has been on your mind since highschool,” I clicked off the program before shutting down the computer.

Noah ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t expect to fall into her so quickly, Jolly. She has this way of pulling me in and I’m so afraid that I’ll fall even harder than the last time when she realizes I’m not what she wants.”

I kicked my feet up on the desk, ignoring the way Noah glared at the action.

“She doesn't have a choice, Noah. As long as both sides want to keep the peace and stop a war from breaking out, she has to remain married to you.”

I could tell my words did nothing to ease the anxiety in his mind so I continued. “Plus from what I saw and heard, she’s into you more than you think.”

Noah’s lips parted to speak but was interrupted by the constant shrill of his phone ringing and he dug it out of his pants pocket.

“It’s Scar,” he muttered before answering. “Hey, did you make it-.”

It was silent for an eerily amount of time and with the way his face changed from neutral to fear to pure anger made me sit straight up in the chair now.

“Where are you?” Noah made a simple motion with his hand, one I understood, and quickly I made my way over to the other end of the office, yanking one of the books off of the book shelf.

The shelf next to me creaked open from the middle, showcasing a large array of different kinds of weapons. After I grabbed one of the handguns, making sure it was loaded, I grabbed one of Noah’s favorites and tossed it to him. He caught it without even looking, still on the phone with Scar.

“It’s alright, angel. Joakim and I can be there in ten minutes. Have you called the cops?”

Angel?

Cops?

What the fuck was going on?

“Don’t. I’ll call the guys to meet you there. Folio can get there in five with his bike. Just stay out of sight, alright?” Noah said while grabbing another gun, giving me a sideways glance.

You can never be too safe.

Once he hung up, he worked out a text message, no doubt to our group chat, and then slipped on his leather gloves.

“Is she alright?” I asked as we made our way through the hidden door of the office that led to the back alley.

“I don’t know,” he spat out through gritted teeth.

Neither of us said a word as we slipped inside of the sleek black car, Noah speeding off before I even buckled my seat belt.

SCAR

The sound of metal scraping along the concrete was loud in my ears as I stood frozen, gazing at the sight in front of me. In an instant, everything changed and I couldn't stop wondering what would have happened if I didn't make it out.

If I was at the bottom of the ocean with what was left of the crumpled piece of metal. The face behind the mask was the last thing I saw before swerving my car out of the way and tumbling over the edge.

I let out a choked sob as the tears finally fell from my eyes and I didn't bother to wipe them away. Fear etched its way deep into my bones and my body shook uncontrollably. Until a faint shadow in the darkness appeared through the fog and the fear stilled, only for a moment.

"I-I-I'm sorry," I sobbed, cradling my arms to my chest, hoping to hide the injuries from him. "I didn't know who else to call."

Noah stepped out of the thick fog and immediately cradled my face, eyes scanning for every visible injury he could see.

“Are you alright, angel?”

The tenderness in his voice did nothing to ease away the pain weighing my body down. I shook my head, tears still falling.

“I should have called someone else. I know you’re busy and you wanted me to be with a guard but I didn’t want to be a bother,” I rambled on.

Noah’s thumb grazed over a deep wound on my cheek, gathering up the blood. “You always call me, Scar. Always.”

I blinked through the tears but eventually nodded.

“The car came out of nowhere! The only thing I could see was a masked person driving before it crashed into me,” I sobbed but then pointed a shaking finger towards the cliff edge twenty feet from us. “My car hung on the ledge for a few minutes and I climbed my way out, barely making it out before it fell into the water.”

Noah’s grip on my face tightened before he pulled me into his chest, large hands leaving soothing circles against my back as I cried.

“It’s alright, angel. I’ve got you. You’re alright,” he cooed.

“Everything hurts. I think my arm is broken,” I continued to sob. “I should go to a hospital.”

“No,” he pulled away from me slightly so he could glance down at me through the darkness, only illuminated by the lights from his car. “Hospitals will ask questions. I’ve got a doctor on call that will meet us back at the penthouse to look at that arm and stitch up your wounds.”

Suddenly exhausted from the aftermath of the crash, I numbly nodded before collapsing into his arms. Noah cursed before picking me up bridal style to carry me over to Nicholas’ SUV. He arrived seconds after Noah did.

“How is she?” Nicholas wondered while Noah laid me down in the back seat.

“We need to get her back to the penthouse, now. Have the doctor meet you guys there. I’m going to see what I can find,” Noah ordered.

I reached for his hand, keeping him from leaving. He stood in the open doorway of the car and peered down at me with concern in his almond eyes.

“Please don’t leave,” my voice shook.

While I did grow up in the mob life, I never was exposed to it in this kind of magnitude. There wasn’t a doubt in any of our minds that this whole night had been a hit on me or Noah. But we weren't sure who had set it up.

His clenched jaw eased before letting out a tender breath. “I need to figure out what happened. I won’t be long.”

“Folio is already looking,” I explained while slowly sitting up, grimacing at the pain that shot through me.

Just then, Folio popped up behind Noah, a cigar hanging loosely from his lips.

“What did you find out?” He whirled around, fanning out the smoke.

“The driver,” Folio adjusted his leather cut off. “Put up a nasty fight at first, damn near scratched my eyes out.”

At the mention of the scuffle, I did notice three red marks down the side of his face and over the Jesus tattoo on the side of his neck.

“So is he dead or alive?” Noah asked, aggravated.

I could tell in the way his shoulders tensed underneath his jacket that he was ready to take care of this by himself.

Folio smirked before pulling the cigar from his mouth. “She is alive. Got her in the trunk of your car.”

Very quickly, Noah barked out orders to all of his men before they all piled into their respective cars. He motioned for me to lay down again, resting my head in his lap as Nicholas drove us away from the scene. I could hear the rumble of Folio’s bike next to us while Joakim and Matt rode in Noah’s car that had the culprit tied up in the trunk. I knew that there were other cars behind us but I couldn’t care at that moment because Noah’s fingers worked through the blood matted knots of my hair.

“We’ll get you cleaned up and looked at. I’m going to have a conversation with this driver,” he muttered, keeping his eyes locked on the car in front of him.

“I want to be the one to do it.”

Noah’s eyes fell down to mine, heavy with exhaustion, but I forced them open.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

It nearly took me off guard that he didn’t argue with me but I recovered quickly.

“She nearly killed me, Noah,” I squeezed his knee, adjusting myself so I could take a small nap. “I’m going to find out why.”

SCAR

I stood in front of the woman who lay slumped in front of me, her words replaying in my mind over and over again. None of it could be true. There was no way; not possible.

We all arrived to the penthouse about an hour ago and while Noah brought me upstairs to get checked out and cleaned up, the rest of OMNS were busy dealing with her. I had a broken arm that was currently being held up by a sling and a wound on my forehead that needed to be stitched up, covered with a bandage. Besides those and a few bumps and bruises, I would live; much to the dismay of the woman at my feet.

It wasn't easy for me to shower by myself but I made due, not wanting Noah’s help. Even with our moment earlier this evening in bed, I wasn’t ready for him to see me naked yet.

The doctor prescribed me some meds for the pain but I declined, never liking the idea of pain meds after seeing my friends in high school abuse their parents. I’d gladly suffer for a few weeks rather than get addicted. As soon as I was dressed in a pair of leggings and a tank top, I had Noah help me back into the sling before both of us took the hidden staircase down to the underground where my prey sat waiting for me.

Nicholas and Folio had already roughed her up a bit for me and I couldn’t ignore the way it brought a giddy smile to my face seeing the woman a bloody mess. When she saw both Noah and I descended the stairs, pure ice cold fear filled her pupils and began rambling off nonsense.

Nonsense about my mother.

Once we arrived, Noah dismissed Nicholas and Folio, leaving just us three alone.

"Pl-please," she blabbered while spitting out blood. "You have to believe me! I saw it!"

“That’s not possible. She’s been dead for years. You saw her doppelganger or some shit,” I sneered while kicking her in her face, watching her rear back against the chilled concrete floor.

Thankfully I remembered to slip on my black boots before coming down here.

“I know what I saw! She was seen with Vincent!” The woman continued to spew bullshit.

According to Nicholas, he found out some details about this woman. She worked for the Italians and was set out to veer my car off of the road because they were upset that the deal for my hand in marriage was made with Noah and not one of their prospective sons.

As if I would ever get in bed with the Italians.

“You’re saying whatever you can think of to prolong you walking out of here alive,” I rolled my eyes before reaching for the knife that Noah had laid out prior to us coming down here.

I told him that I wanted to be the one to integrate her, he could hang back and watch in case things got out of hand. But before we came down here, he showed me how to properly use a knife.

“Keep a light grip on the handle but firm with the blade against their skin,” he breathed against the back of my neck as he stood behind me in our bedroom.

He held the blade against the sensitive skin of my neck and I held my breath, not due to fear but arousal. The scene also had an effect on him because I could feel Noah’s cock against the swell of my ass.

“It’s all true! Two weeks before Vincent showed up on OMNS doorstep, I saw him with your mother! At some sleazy German bar, they wanted to meet on neutral ground to discuss something.”

I paused twirling the knife in my hand and watched as the woman rose to her knees, holding out her hands.

“Discuss what?” I questioned, absitmindly playing with my wedding ring.

I couldn’t believe that it was still the same day that Noah and I signed the marriage certificate. It felt like days ago.

The woman hesitated before wiping the blood away from her broken nose with the back of her hand. “I don’t exactly know.”

Sighing, I yanked her head back by her hair, exposing her neck to the neon lights adorning the ceiling. I had no plans on killing her, that wasn’t me. Yet again, this whole torturing of a victim wasn’t me either, but given the circumstances I allowed myself this.

But realizing I could only hold her head back with my good arm, unable to hold the knife against her throat, I groaned before pushing her down the ground again.

My eyes snapped over to Noah leaning against the concrete wall, the bottom half of his face covered in the black mask. Dark tendrils of hair fell into his face but his hands were covered in blood so he refused to push them away.

“I’m suddenly bored. There’s no need to question you any longer. Have fun with her, Noah. I’m going to bed,” I grumbled, slamming the knife on the table as I walked past him, who still hadn’t uttered a word or moved a muscle.

“Noah looked into your mothers death! He sent Matt to find out more information,” the woman called after me, halting my footsteps. “It’s all over the Concrete Jungle that your mother was seen with Vincent. In more ways than one, if you catch my drift.

My head snapped over to Noah, ignoring the suddenly sinister laugh falling from the woman's mouth.

"Is it true?" I asked him, venom in my voice.

All he did was blink once but that was answer enough.

Yes.

I scoffed. “Were you planning on telling me?”

One blink.

Yes.

I pointed to the woman. “Does she have anything to do with my mother?”

This time, Noah didn’t blink which again told me his answer.

He didn’t know.

The woman watched the interaction between Noah and I, shaking her head wildly. "You can't believe him! He's lying!"

I cocked my head at her with narrowed eyes. There was a large and warm presence behind me. When I glanced over my shoulder, Noah was now standing behind me; physically and metaphorically.

"Noah's my husband. He has no reason to,” I said.

The woman's face was covered in blood, her right eye swollen shut but I wasn’t sure if it was from our beatings or from the car accident she caused. But I could see the briefest hint of fear in them when my fingers grazed over the handle of the gun Noah extended towards me.

"No, you're not like him. Please!” She begged while wrapping her arms around my hips, holding onto me.

The part of me that didn’t like the dark side of the mob life called to me, overpowering the thrill of seeing her weep at my feet and gently, I removed her grasp around me.

“I’m done,” I spoke flatly, pushing her away from me.

Mentally, I was exhausted from the everlasting day and was ready to call it a night when dark laughter pulled me back to the pathetic excuse of a woman.

“Your mother was right. You never could hack it in this business. I’m shocked your father signed you over to Noah Sebastian. He needs someone that can get their hands dirty. Maybe he’d be better off with me-.”

It all happened so quickly, barely having time to actually register what happened until it was too late. Me scurrying back over towards Noah, who still held the gun outstretched and my finger on the trigger, firing off two rounds directly into the woman's skull; right between the eyes.

The ringing in my ear due to the gunshot was deafening as I stood there motionless, unable to process any coherent thought or word. It wasn’t until I felt callused fingers around my wrist, pulling my attention away from the dead body at my feet and to the dark eyes of Matt, filled with concern.

“Let’s get you upstairs, Scar,” he gingerly led me back towards the hidden staircase, too far gone in a state of shock to realize Noah had begun cleaning up my mess.

NOAH

“Scar?” I called out into the dark penthouse.

After I finished cleaning up the mess in the underground thanks to help from Ash and Bryan, I made my way upstairs to check on Scar. Matt had taken her upstairs over an hour ago but I hadn’t heard how she was doing. It’s never easy, your first kill, so I knew the feeling of disgust and dread she had to have been feeling.

As I walked down the long hallway towards our bedroom, ignoring the one room that always remained locked, I paused momentarily just past the doorway of the bedroom when I heard soft cries echoing from the shower.

“Scar?” I called out again, this time with more fever as I ran into the bathroom, the sight stalling my heart.

She was curled up in a ball, still in her clothes and sling, soaked to the bone as she cried out. There was a frigid chill in the air, indicating she’d run through all of the hot water, but that didn’t stop me from kicking off my boots and stepping into the shower with her; clothes and all.

“Noah!” She cried, immediately pulling me into her, burying her face in my soaked black shirt.

“Shh,” I brushed my lips across her forehead, the bandage covering her stitches barely hanging on. “I’ve got you.”

“Am I?” Scar choked out, fisting at the fabric. “Am I a monster now?”

My heart shattered, pieces falling into the depths of my abdomen but I shook my head. Cupping her cheek, I forced her to look up at me, water droplets hanging onto her long lashes.

“No, angel. You’re a fighter. You did what needed to be done,” I held her closer to me, allowing her to cry out the guilt and anguish she felt.

She might have felt like a monster right now but I knew that she would evolve into something greater, far exceeding the expectations her family set against her. They were right when they thought she couldn’t run the McManus empire. Because she was made to run OMNS with me by her side.

First things first, however, we needed to have a talk with Matt and figure out what he found out about her mother's death.

#noah sebastian #bad omens #noah sebastian x ofc #mafiaboss!noah sebastian #tattooartist!noah sebastian #the coyotes cry noah sebastian #noah sebastian fan fictions

168 notes · View notes