Su Ah's POV:
If someone had asked her younger self if she would've ever been so engrossed in a football match, of all things, she'd have snickered and called that someone a delusional, sweaty jock with absolutely zero brain cells.
The idea seemed to her a joke, not something she'd be genuinely interested in. In fact, her younger self would rather spend a whole day reading books and playing games in her room than watching a sweaty game where two groups of men (and sometimes women, but that wasn't the point here), chased after a ball.
She wasn't really sure when she had started to find football as fascinating as she was at the moment.
Maybe it was when her little brother showed his affinity for it at an incredibly young age.
Or maybe it was the growth that the boy was showing to this day. The passion and intensity in which he trained. The discipline. He wasn’t just good.
He was great, incredible.
Su Ah's eyes tracked her younger brother as both teams retreated to the locker rooms, a half of the match done with.
Everyone began chatting amongst themselves.
"Hey, what did you think?" Yeong Gu nudged his eldest daughter.
Mia had been out of it recently. Su Ah couldn’t figure it out, even if she spent her whole life trying to decipher her sister's moods. But one thing was clear; the issue lied in the youngest sibling they shared. She just wasn’t sure what exactly the nature of their problem was.
And her Unnie was so damn secretive, she’d rather swallow a thousand needles than ask for her help. Which meant she wouldn’t share unless she was cornered into it.
Then again, why did she care? She sighed, blowing out some hair in front of her face. Her mouth set into a thin line as a bit of her bangs flew upwards before falling down.
What she was seeing now was definitely an overreaction, perhaps caused by the fact that Jae-il was becoming more popular. God, she had seen his Kakao account.
"It's good." Mia muttered.
Yeong Gu frowned, staring at Mia in mild shock. “Good?” His eyebrows shot up, eyes going wide in astonishment. "He's on fire!" He boomed, pumping his fists. "We're gonna win for sure."
Mia rolled her eyes. “You're really embarrassing.” She said, shaking her head. "Stop that. People are watching us."
He scoffed, leaning back in his seat and putting his arm around Eun Ha. “Let 'em watch." He said dismissively, a smile tugging at his lips as he hugged the slender woman sitting beside him. "Our son's about to become a superstar." He said, puffing out his chest.
As if Jae-il already wasn't a local hero of sorts. Su Ah just hoped she wouldn't have to go to college with the paparazzi on her back because of her brother. Still, after around ten minutes, she elbowed that stupid, broody Unnie of hers out of her equally stupid reverie. It had been going on for too long.
"You okay?" Su Ah whispered, making sure to keep her voice down. She wasn’t sure if her Unnie would open up. After all, even between them, there was a certain degree of aloofness that both sisters liked to maintain.
For a split second, she thought Mia would brush it off like she normally did. But then her gaze flicked back to Su Ah, and a faint but noticeable expression of worry crossed Mia's features. She looked unsure, a slight furrow creasing her brow.
That wasn't a typical Mia expression. If Su Ah was trying to read her at this point, it’d be a futile effort. But she didn't miss the fact that her sister's eyes lingered on Jae-il, her expression darkening.
"No." Mia answered, voice hushed and tense. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palm. She looked down, hiding her eyes under the veil of her long lashes.
Su Ah frowned, not knowing if it was okay to probe more. "Is something going on?" She ventured. Was this about Jae-il's meteoric rise to stardom? Was this another bout of jealousy from her sister? She thought they had been over it years ago.
Mia glanced down at her lap, fingers uncurling and flexing nervously. "Nothing you can help with." Mia said, shrugging. "Don't worry."
"I'm not worried." Su Ah quirked an eyebrow, staring at the older sister dubiously.
But the truth was that Su Ah did worry, just a little. Mia wasn't the type to just break down or melt under pressure, and it was unsettling seeing her this way.
Mia snorted, turning her attention back towards the pitch where the teams had begun to reappear. "I just—" Mia started to say something, then cut herself off. Her mouth tightened. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Never mind."
Then as if nothing had happened, Mia did a complete 180 and grinned, getting Su Ah in an affectionate, loose chokehold. “Hoooh, who’d have thought my cute little sister would be this worried about me~?”
Su Ah tried to wriggle out of her grip. “Hah?! Shut the hell up!”
“Ow!” Mia whined, rubbing at her chest where the younger girl had elbowed her. "That's domestic violence, I'll sue you."
"Please do." Su Ah muttered, a bit irritated at her sister. She would’ve continued to pester, but Mia's eyes were suddenly glued on something, or someone, in the field. Su Ah's followed that line of sight.
Ah.
There he was. Cha Jae Il. Wearing the jersey proudly and walking back to position.
Su Ah wasn't unaware of the girls who were unabashedly ogling, whispering, and giggling at the guy—whom she would not refer to as anything other than little brother—and the not so subtle glares her Unnie was sending their way. It was comical to watch.
If the situation had been normal, she'd have enjoyed the moment. Laughed at how absurd it was to her. But watching from an outside perspective, there was just a niggling sense of unease at how intensely Mia was looking at him, holding her chin with both hands, completely lost in her headspace.
‘What's up with you?’ Su Ah wanted to ask. ‘What are you thinking?’
xXx
Jae-il’s POV:
The whistle for the second half pierced the air. Jeonbuk came out of the locker room a different team. The despair of the first half had been replaced by a desperate, wounded pride. They played with a ferocity that bordered on recklessness, pressing high, their tackles sharp and unforgiving.
Their playmaker, Kim Jun-hwan, was the heart of their resurgence. He moved with an intelligent urgency, his passes slicing through our midfield.
Around the fifty-fifth minute, he received the ball just past the halfway line, feinted past one of our midfielders, and threaded a perfect through-ball behind our defensive line.
Jeonbuk’s striker, a boy with surprising pace, latched onto it. Our keeper rushed out, but the striker kept his cool and managed a composed finish, slotting it into the corner. 1-2.
The stadium roared its approval, and suddenly, there was life in the match again. The next fifteen minutes were tense. Jeonbuk threw themselves forward, trying to make something from the spark of energy their goal gave them. And it very nearly paid off. Twice, their playmaker came close to threading another perfect ball in behind. Twice, we were there with a crucial block, or a last-ditch tackle.
We were still up, but it didn’t feel like it. They’d clawed their way back into this game.
And I didn't like that.
The air grew thick with a tension that hadn't been there before. The game had become a dogfight. My teammates, who had been playing with the relaxed confidence of a team leading 2-0, were now hesitant. Their passes were a fraction less certain, their runs a half-step slower.
They were reacting, not dictating.
Jeonbuk's growing pressure and relentless determination had turned the game on its head. It had us pinned in our own half. Pass after pass, attack after attack.
And that was when, after battering our defenses for so long, Jeonbuk finally scored.
It was in the 77th minute. The equalizer.
Kim Jun-hwan was again at the center of the storm. He found their striker making a late run into the penalty area. The pass was perfect; the timing impeccable. Their number nine fired a shot that the keeper had absolutely no chance saving.
Jeonbuk huddled in celebration. We watched, silent.
It was a sucker punch, a knockout blow. Our defense was staggering, legs heavy, heads bowed.
This was the turning point.
And I knew exactly what we had to do. The referee blew his whistle, and the game paused. A substitution. Jeonbuk were replacing their midfielder with another fresh set of legs.
The game resumed. We had the ball, ping-pongeing it between ourselves in midfield. Trying to regroup.
That was when I had enough.
I dropped deeper into the midfield, my movements economical. I didn’t shout instructions. I didn't need to. My presence alone was a demand. Give me the ball. Now.
Jong-su saw me. His eyes widened, but he obeyed. The pass was slightly rushed, but it found me. Immediately, two Jeonbuk midfielders swarmed me, smelling blood, eager to dispossess the 'prodigy' and continue their onslaught.
I let them come.
With a simple drag-back, I evaded the first lunge. The second player overcommitted, and I slipped the ball through his open legs—a casual, almost insulting nutmeg—and pivoted into the space he’d abandoned. The field opened up.
The crowd cheered, clapping at the brief display of skill.
I accelerated. Two defenders converged, trying to create a pincer. I didn't use a trick. I used pure, explosive speed, bursting through the gap they thought they were closing.
The sheer momentum threw them off balance, leaving them to chase after me.
As I dove into their defensive line, I noticed Kim Jun-hwan again. This time, his clever positioning had taken him wide to my side. I played it simple, a quick one-two with a midfielder, drawing their defensive shape out of position. The ball returned to my feet. I exhaled, overworking my legs into a blur of unstoppable momentum.
The wind whistled in my ears. The first drops of rain pattered down, their impact cold and sudden, yet barely a hindrance to me.
Now it was just me and their last line of defense.
The defender was tall and looked terrified. He backpedaled, trying to keep me in front of him. I faked a shot, he lunged to block, his body committed. I shouldered past him. In that instant, I had my chance.
I could almost hear the collective intake of breath from everyone at the stadium.
That was it—
My dominant foot was ready to chip that baby in.
—Or that should've been the case.
But a desperate lunge from a defender I had left in my wake came from behind, taking my legs out from under me. My knees buckled, my head went down, and I skidded across the wet ground. The tackle was illegal—high and wild. As I picked myself up, a murmur of anticipation ran through the spectators.
The ref blew the whistle. Sharp and final. A red card flashed at the defender who had taken me down. Then he pointed—straight to the spot. That dramatic arm swing, palm flat like a blade. Classic penalty sign. No room for debate.
I got up, brushing the wet grass off my legs. I was slightly indignant that my solo run had been interrupted. Still, a penalty, huh?
The Jeonbuk's defenders huddled together, their body language stiff and uncertain. Their voices were lost in the stadium noise.
I placed the ball, the penalty's mark.
I glanced up at the goalkeeper. His eyes were wide, the rain dripping off his hair. He was biting the inside of his cheek.
The stadium fell into a strange quiet. The rain picked up, steady but not torrential. I inhaled. My breath felt warm.
I looked at the ball. Waiting patiently on the spot like a loyal dog. If it could speak, the ball would be telling me: 'Please kick me into the net, daddy.'
So I took a few steps back. Ah, good ol' adrenaline.
I could almost imagine the collective breath being held.
The referee’s whistle signaled the all-clear.
No room to doubt.
It's go-time.
My eyes met the keeper's. I stepped. Left. He stepped. Right.
Then my feet moved.
Three strides.
On the third, my right leg came back. I kept my eye on the keeper.
His hands twitched, a small movement. His weight shifted.
Left again. His commitment. His decision. His gamble. His downfall.
My right leg came through, low and hard. The ball went low and to the right.
A clean, simple strike. Perfectly executed.
A beat passed, the longest moment. The keeper landed on his side, his outstretched arm useless, fingers grasping at empty air. The net rippled as the ball hit the back of it, settling deep into the goal. I stared at the net as it slowly returned to normal, the ripples calming.
Then, the crowd erupted into frenzied applause and cheers. The referee raised his hand, then waved.
3-2.