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Chapter Text

The steady rhythm of basketballs hitting hardwood echoed through the gym, a sharp contrast to the low hum of idle chatter from the sidelines. Some girls were dribbling and warming up, while others stretched and watched from the benches.

College basketball had always been Handong’s sanctuary, a space where her precision and control could silence everything else. She stood apart from the rest of the team, radiating a quiet authority. Her sharp focus and reputation as the league’s premier point guard made her untouchable.

She had been the starting point guard for her university since the moment she was recruited as a freshman.

In her first season, she led the team to their first playoff berth in seven years, despite a brutal first-round knockout.

However, she hadn’t been deterred. It only drove her even further. While most star college athletes experienced ‘Sophomore Slumps,’ Handong was not ‘most athletes.’

In her sophomore season, she led her university to its first ever Conference Championship appearance. A devastating loss in overtime had ended her team’s championship aspirations, being knocked out in the semi-finals.

This year, Handong was only hungrier.

She had been so close to the championship that she could practically feel the trophy in her hands. And despite taking two heartbreaking losses two years in a row, not a single soul tuned into college basketball doubted her prowess as a player.

After all, she was known as the league’s best point guard for a reason.

Basketball had always been Handong’s escape—the one thing she could control—ever since her father repeated that perfection was the only path to success until she believed it.

Growing up, he had drilled into her the mantra of perfection: Every pass must land. Every shot must score.

Basketball was a game of inches; a contest of margins. There was no room for error and no excuses for failure. Her parents knew this better than anybody, and never failed to remind her at every opportunity.

Her mother had been a five-time WNBA champion, and one-time Finals MVP. She was widely considered one of the greatest to ever play the game. On top of that, Handong’s father was not only a three-time NBA champion, but also a future Hall-of-Fame inductee. With a reputation as great as his, he’d been asked to coach by top NBA teams every single year since he announced his retirement.

Needless to say, Handong had a lot to live up to. Felt like she had so much to prove.

Sometimes, the pressure was overwhelming, but she never let it get to her. It only ever drove her to be better.

But there was still a small piece of her that wanted to prove she was the best to the players in the league, the world watching, her never-satisfied parents, and most importantly… to herself.

And until she hoisted that trophy… until she won a ring…

She would never be able to.

It felt like the past two seasons plus her entire life’s work had led to this year.

Now that it was her junior season and she was declaring for the draft soon, Handong knew it was time to win now.

And in her family, being the best and winning wasn’t just basketball; it was survival.

She had developed a killer mindset due to her upbringing and the pressure that came with her natural-born talent. It was almost like fate had decided her life’s path, forcing her into this life with her family history, raw talent, and born affinity for ball.

Handong was widely hailed as the best draft prospect the WNBA had ever seen. And as a result of her single-minded focus of being the very best, she often kept distance from her teammates. Though she knew the importance of great team chemistry and took her role as a leader very seriously, she guarded her heart extremely carefully.

Friends only ever tended to complicate things.

The only two teammates she had really allowed herself to grow close with were Siyeon and Gahyun. Siyeon and Handong had played ball together since freshman year, and they had just instantly clicked. Gahyun, who was a year younger, came into the team one year after them.

Handong took quite an instant liking to her, immediately drawn to Gahyun’s youthful tenacity and bright-eyed enthusiasm for the game. She had none of the jaded views that Handong had long since developed from her parents’ unshakeable expectations and constant dissatisfaction with her performances.

In some ways, Gahyun reminded Handong of the player she wished she could be.

And despite all the blaring alarms warning Handong not to get close or be distracted, she had taken the younger girl under her wing the past year and helped develop her into an elite forward.
It was one of the things she was most proud of.

All of her accolades and achievements paled in comparison to the pride and warmth she felt whenever she watched Gahyun kill it on the court.

Before the first practice of the season began in earnest, Handong and her teammate Sooyeon shot around casually, rebounding for each other to help warm up.

The atmosphere was thick with the anticipation that always came with new seasons, uncertain expectations, and much to Handong’s chagrin… new faces.

Handong watched as the team’s younger recruits stretched and warmed up. Among them stood Yoohyeon, the newcomer who’d been the buzz of preseason scrimmages.

As an incoming sophomore—same year as Gahyun—Yoohyeon was not exactly a household name like Handong. Though she was extremely talented, she had never made it out of her small town for big-time college ball, and wasted away her freshman year playing in a lower-tier Division 3 League.

It was only thanks to the university’s most dedicated talent scouts that she had been discovered and given an offer to play for this elite team with championship aspirations and a Win Now mentality.

And Handong didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

There was something about Yoohyeon—a visible chip on her shoulder, coupled with an unrelenting drive—that deeply unsettled her.

Yoohyeon was good.

Too good, Handong thought with an uncomfortable twist in her chest.

She tightened her grip on the ball in her hands, the leather cool against her palm. From the court, Yoohyeon’s laughter rang out as Yubin said something that drew a grin. Gahyun cracked a smile, too.

Handong just felt her jaw tighten.

As the three girls were the only sophomores on the team, they were preparing for practice together in the same area of the court.

The laughter grinded on Handong’s nerves.

And as irrational and petty as it seemed, she felt an intense jealousy that the newcomer seemed to be well-liked by Gahyun.

Meanwhile, despite her laughter, Yoohyeon felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

Though she refused to let it show.

Moving to a new town, joining a prestigious program… it was everything she’d dreamt of back home. Her hometown didn’t have much, but the local community center had a single basketball hoop. She remembered the endless hours spent there, rain or shine, perfecting her form on cracked pavement. Basketball had always been her way out, her way forward.

Yoohyeon adjusted the strap of her practice jersey, nerves and determination battling for space in her mind. As a walk-on transfer here on a conditional full-ride scholarship, she had everything to prove and no safety net if she failed.

She’d get sent back to her tiny town where she’d play a lifetime of mediocre ball, never getting another shot at the big leagues again.

This moment… this season…

It was do or die for her.

Now, facing a group of seasoned players, she was determined to prove herself. She glanced at Minji, her best friend and the one who had vouched for her spot on the team. Minji offered a subtle nod of encouragement.

It meant everything to Yoohyeon.

The two of them had played high school ball together until Minji graduated one year before and was recruited here as a freshman. Having already played with this team for two years, Minji’s encouragement and support meant everything.

It was actually the older girl who had talked the coaches and the recruiters into watching one of Yoohyeon’s games, promoting them to see her skill and give her a chance.

Yoohyeon wasn’t just playing for herself or her dreams, she was also playing to prove that Minji hadn’t been wrong to get this team to take a chance on her.

Across the court, Bora leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Ever the protector, she was already watching Handong with a critical eye.

“She’s acting like Yoohyeon doesn’t even exist,” Bora muttered to Minji.

Minji sighed. “You know that’s just how she is. We both know she takes a while to warm up to people. Hell, it took her two years to even talk to us outside of practice.”

Bora’s scoff said it all. “Well, she’d better start warming up to Yoohyeon, or I’m going to make her.”

While Bora and Yubin didn’t know Yoohyeon from before college like Minji did, they all shared a class together in fall semester and had gotten to know her. Yoohyeon was the easiest person in the world to get along with, and they often hung out as a group of four.

They all became very close, very quickly.

In those times, Yoohyeon frequently shared how much was riding on this season, and how the nerves sometimes overwhelmed her.

How she often feared she’d crack under the pressure.

Bora didn’t want the animosity of the team’s star player to make Yoohyeon’s transition into the team any harder than it already was.

Though they hadn’t known each other very long, Bora had already grown quite fond of the taller girl, and made it her mission to care for Yoohyeon to the best of her ability.

Siyeon, who was standing near the basket, caught Bora’s comment and quirked a brow. She strode over to Handong, who had begun her solo drills.

“You’re being watched,” Siyeon said, nodding toward Bora.

Handong barely spared her a glance. “Let her watch.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Siyeon teased, though her tone carried a hint of seriousness. “That new girl’s got game. She’s not just here on some random scholarship… I heard they offered her a full ride. This school has never done that before for any recruit, not even you.”

Handong didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of annoyance crossed her face. Not at her friend for saying it, but at the mere fact that it was the truth.

She actually quite appreciated Siyeon’s reminder of the stakes. It renewed Handong’s vigor to assert herself as the best on this team.

Siyeon didn’t press any further; she knew better than anyone how Handong’s competitive streak worked. Once her best friend got in the zone, it was best not to say any more.

Nearby, Gahyun headed to the bench to drink some water. She watched Handong, admiration evident in her gaze even after all this time.

The star player’s skill had captivated her from the start. To Gahyun, Handong was untouchable, a figure to emulate.

But even she couldn’t ignore the tension brewing. She slowly headed back to stand next to Yubin as the whistle blew, signaling the start of practice.

“Yoohyeon’s going to shake things up, isn’t she?” Gahyun asked Yubin, under her breath. Though Yubin was evidently close with Yoohyeon, and Gahyun found herself much closer with Handong, the two had bonded over the past year since they had been the only freshmen on the team.

They both wanted to be able to enjoy their friendship and camaraderie without having to get in the middle of whatever rivalry already seemed to be brewing.

Yubin, ever the mediator, sighed as she laced up her shoes. Already, the atmosphere felt laced with an undercurrent of something ominous.

Something heavy.

“Let’s just hope we don’t implode before the season even starts,” she replied quietly.

Once the girls were all huddled and went through brief introductions, Coach Park wasted no time getting down to business.

She immediately emphasized the urgency the university placed on them to ‘Win Now,’ and that there wouldn’t be another window like this with so much momentum on their side.

There was always the unspoken assumption hanging over their heads that if Handong continued to play lights-out as she had been the past two years, she’d be leaving the team at the end of this year to declare for the draft instead of playing her senior year.

She was that good.

And that’s why the university was putting so much pressure on them to win this year.

Without further preamble, Coach split them off into two lines and explained a simple drill. One player from the first line would take the ball from half-court, simulating a one-on-one during a fast break. The other player from the second line would try to defend and prevent a score.

It was a simple drill, really.

But the tension was immediate.

Handong watched the newcomer, who was first in the other line, and sized her up. Then, she put the ball in play.

Usually able to easily establish a rhythm in fast break drills, Handong found herself unable to today. Yoohyeon’s hustle on the defensive side of the ball was disrupting a lot of the usual tricks that worked on her teammates.

Handong’s first possession went absolutely nowhere.

It wasn’t just a talent that Handong sensed, but years upon years of effort and intensity that had given Yoohyeon such a strong defensive foundation.

And though it was rather impressive, Handong didn’t let it show on her face. Instead, the sharp glare she sent Yoohyeon’s way was ice-cold.

To Handong, Yoohyeon’s intensity felt like an intrusion—a challenge to the carefully constructed hierarchy she relied on to keep control. And the older girl resented how much Yoohyeon reminded her of herself: too eager to prove something.

Yoohyeon noticed the coldness almost immediately, but just chalked it up to her opponent trying to intimidate her. She had never backed down from a challenge before, and did not plan to start now.

As they switched sides and she also failed to score on Handong, she bit her lip. She could already feel a budding tension forming, just like everyone else in the room.

A tenuous electricity crackled in the air between them as they went at it.

But at the same time, Yoohyeon couldn’t help but admire Handong’s skill. There was a fluidity to her game that Yoohyeon knew took a lifetime to develop and build.

Having been stuck playing D3 college ball with her small-town teammates, Yoohyeon had never really played with someone of equal skill during her time in college.

It wasn’t a brag, but a simple fact.

But playing against Handong… Yoohyeon had finally met her match.

Someone not just as good as Yoohyeon, but maybe even better.

After the pair moved to the back of the line, the coach made sure to pair them with new partners. Even she could sense the immediate tension brewing between her two players.

Though Coach Park was not responsible for recruiting Yoohyeon or bringing her in, she was obviously very happy with the addition. Having watched her film and discussed with the recruiters who raved about her, it was clear watching her now that the young sophomore had all the right stuff to back up all the hype.

She had the potential to be a star in the league, just as much as Handong did.

And though she felt excitement about that, Coach dreaded the budding rivalry she could already feel building. Her star player had never been challenged like this before, and she wasn’t sure it was going to end well. She resolved to try and separate them, at least for the duration of the first practice.

Tension on the first day would not bode well for any of her players, and at least for today, she needed to set the right tone for the season and have a peaceful practice.

The next drill featured a 3-on-3 rotating scrimmage, where all of the girls took turns playing full-court against each other in teams of three. While Coach had tried to keep them apart after the fast break drill, the rotations ensured that everyone got a chance to play and the two star guards inevitably ended up against each other.

As Handong caught a pass from Siyeon and rocketed up the court, Yoohyeon managed to pickpocket her and stole the ball during a key play. She then effortlessly sprinted back the other direction and nailed a pull-up fadeaway three over Bora’s outstretched arm.

Bora gave her a friendly smack on the butt as they reset for another point, telling her that the shot was absolutely nasty.

And for just the slightest split second, Handong allowed her shocked surprise to give way to a flicker of excitement and warmth.

Though she didn’t like her dominance on the team being threatened, she had to admit it was cool to have someone who could actually match her like this.

It was no shade to her other teammates—who were all clearly excellent in their own right since it was a D1 program—but Handong felt that nobody had ever really been able to match her pound-for-pound the way the newcomer had been doing all practice.

Yoohyeon managed to catch that brief flicker of pride and excitement before Handong quickly hid it behind a scowl.

“Lucky shot,” Handong said flatly, jogging past Yoohyeon.

Yoohyeon’s cheeks flushed. “You wish luck had anything to do with it. Watch me do it again.”

That exchange set the tone for the rest of practice, with Handong growing increasingly irritated and Yoohyeon refusing to back down.

Though nobody really wanted to address it, all of the girls were very clearly aware of the friction. Bora did her best to crack jokes and lighten the mood, as she tried and epically-failed to stop Yoohyeon multiple times during the drill, but there was still an underlying current in the air.

When practice finally ended, Handong lingered on the court, shooting free throws alone.

Her whole life, she had coasted by, relying on her raw talent and exquisite genetics to carry her. It’s not like she needed much more.

Sure, she worked hard. Attended all the practices.

But it wasn’t because she needed to.

If she missed a practice here and there, she’d still be the best player on the team by miles.

She had never felt an urgency to be the best, simply because she almost always just was the best by default.

But seeing the intensity and tenacity of her new competitor made her want to be more.

To be better.

Her precision was predictably razor-sharp, each swish a release of her frustration.

Yoohyeon watched from a distance, conflicted. She didn’t want to idolize someone who clearly saw her as an enemy, but Handong’s drive and skill were undeniable.

The taller girl walked away, steeling herself. If she was going to earn her place on this team, it wouldn’t be by playing it safe.

She knew that.

Once she returned to the benches, Minji pulled her long-time best friend aside.

“Hey, don’t let her get to you,” she said, throwing a glance toward Handong, who was still draining free throws like a machine.

Yoohyeon just half-heartedly shrugged, claiming that she was fine. Deep down, all she had really wanted was recognition from the star player that they were equals. Teammates, even.

The older girl’s dismissal of Yoohyeon and her skill hurt more than she was willing to admit.

Bora protectively muttered, “Someone needs to knock her down a peg.” She hated seeing such a precious friend and teammate so clearly affected and down from Handong’s cold treatment.

Yubin intervened, wanting to avoid a conflict this early into the season. “Bora, not everything needs to be a fight. Just let it play out. In time, they’ll be fine and their skills will speak for themselves.”

Meanwhile, Handong finally finished up and headed to the locker room with Gahyun and Siyeon, who had been faithfully rebounding the free throws for her.

Gahyun’s admiration was obvious as she gushed about Handong’s performance. Though Yoohyeon had been nothing short of impressive at today’s practice, Handong was certainly no slouch. She had scored on Yoohyeon several times, making it look easy even if nobody else had been able to.

Handong always made it look easy. Even if on the inside, she was sweating and stressing from the effort of trying to prove something. Trying to one-up the newcomer.

Siyeon, more practical, noticed Handong’s clenched jaw and quietly tapped her shoulder, “She’s not worth the energy.”

And wordlessly, Handong relaxed her shoulders and released the tension from her jaw with a quiet nod.

Her friends had always been able to read her like a book. Siyeon shared Handong’s volatile competitive streak, but knew when to pick her battles.

Handong had never really been one for trash talk. Though she had always known its value and viability as a strategy, she was so self-assured that she almost never felt the need to use it.

Often, her sheer ability did all the talking for her.

Siyeon unknowingly said something very similar to what Handong’s rival was also being told. “Don’t worry about her, Dongie. In time, your skill will speak for itself. Let’s just count it as a blessing that she’s on our team, and not the enemy.”

Handong just pressed her lips together in a thin line, wordlessly changing and grabbing her bag.

There was a lot to think about.

—

The next day went much the same.

Practice went mostly without incident until the scrimmages began. It was always when the budding rivalry became apparent, even though the team avoided talking about it like the plague.

The first scrimmage of the day started, and the team split into two groups.

Whenever Yoohyeon and Handong were grouped on the same team, it was genuinely just unfair. Though most would have expected them to try and hog the ball from one another, they actually played seamlessly as teammates.

It was only when they were on opposite sides of the ball that things felt tense. But that happened more often than not because the coach saw just how lopsided and unfair it was when she let both of her star players on the same scrimmage team. She had to separate them for the sake of the rest of the girls.

So once again, Handong found herself across from Yoohyeon, their eyes meeting briefly.

This close, Yoohyeon felt the sharpness of Handong’s gaze.

It wasn’t just scrutiny—it was a challenge.

The game was fast and intense.

Handong’s movements were precise, her passes calculated. But Yoohyeon was relentless, matching Handong’s energy with a tenacity that seemed to come from somewhere deeper. An intensity forged by a fire Handong knew so well.

While Handong dominated with sheer athleticism, natural gifts, and raw talent, Yoohyeon thrived from what appeared to be hours upon months upon years of hard work and dedication.

This wasn’t to say Handong didn’t work hard; everyone with eyes could tell that she did.

But Yoohyeon was just the type to have to work twice as hard just to be half as good. Handong had more talent in her pinky finger than many entire teams in the league.

Yoohyeon was the type to use excessive hard work and determination to compensate for what she perceived to be a lack of raw ability.

And the hard work was clearly paying off.

She was one of the best shooting guards any of the girls had ever witnessed play the game. Her range was elite, sometimes shooting near half court just because she could.

On top of that, her three ball was money almost every single time. If it was even remotely open, the girls knew her shot would go in even before it ever even left her hands.

Right at the end of the scrim, Yoohyeon sank a game-winning three-pointer over Handong’s outstretched arm and the court went silent for a beat.

Then, Yoohyeon’s scrimmage teammates erupted in cheers, with Minji clapping the loudest, of course. Bora threw a victorious fist in the air, excitedly clapping Yoohyeon on the back.

To her credit, Handong’s expression didn’t change, but Siyeon caught the slightest clench of her jaw. The same telltale tension she had seen in the locker room just the day before.

Later, as practice wrapped up, Yoohyeon lingered on the court, shooting threes by herself. Minji joined her, lightly punching her shoulder.

“Not bad out there.”

“Not bad? Was kinda hoping for something a little better than not bad,” Yoohyeon grinned, wiping sweat from her brow. “I think I managed to hold my own.”

“You definitely did,” Minji said, glancing toward the locker room where Handong and Siyeon had disappeared. “But you know… don’t take it personally if Handong’s cold. That’s just… Handong.”

“Yeah,” Yoohyeon said, though the sting of Handong’s dismissal lingered.

Minji continued to reassure, “She was just as cold to Bora and me for the longest time. We’ve played together two years now, too. She just doesn’t let people in very easily. Even now, Yubin and her just barely started becoming friendly despite playing together the entire last season. She’ll come around, I promise.”

Meanwhile, in the locker room, Handong sat in silence, untying her sneakers. Siyeon leaned against the lockers, her voice casual but deliberate. “You should cut her some slack.”

Handong didn’t respond immediately.

After a beat, she finally admitted, “She’s good.”

“Yeah, she is,” Siyeon said. “But during practice, you guys play so intensely that I sometimes wonder if you’ve forgotten you’re on the same side. Maybe try seeing her as a teammate, and not a threat.”

Handong didn’t answer, but the look in her eyes said she wasn’t ready to let her guard down.

At least, not yet.

Chapter Text

Practice started with the usual drills: ball-handling, shooting, passing in traffic, and fast breaks. The sounds of squeaking sneakers and the rhythmic pounding of basketballs echoed through the gym.

But beneath the familiar routine, tension simmered, unspoken but ever-present.

It had been a week of practice, with nothing having changed.

Yoohyeon had barely taken a break all morning. Every drill, every sprint, every shot—she attacked them with the same relentless determination that had defined her since the first day she picked up a basketball. Everything on the court was done with 110% effort.

Anything less than that, and Yoohyeon considered it a failure.

By the time Coach Park blew the whistle for scrimmages, her jersey was soaked, and her breathing came hard and fast.

“You’re going to kill yourself out there,” Minji muttered, handing Yoohyeon a bottle of water. Her tone was casual, but the concern in her eyes betrayed her.

“Take it easy, Yooh. Please. It’s just practice and I’m worried about you.”

Yoohyeon wiped her face with the hem of her jersey, shaking her head. “I’m fine. Really.”

Minji frowned, glancing across the court where Handong stood with Siyeon and Gahyun, strategizing quietly before the scrimmage. Yoohyeon’s gaze followed, her jaw tightening.

The older girl sighed. “You don’t have to prove anything to her, you know.”

“It’s not about her,” Yoohyeon shot back, too quickly. Then, softer, “I just… I have to get better.”

“You’re already one of the best players on the team. Everyone here knows it,” Minji said firmly, placing a hand on Yoohyeon’s shoulder. “But burning yourself out isn’t going to help anyone.”

Yoohyeon didn’t respond, her focus shifting to the court as Coach called them into position. She and Minji lined up on one side, with Bora, Yubin, and one other filling out their team.

Across from them, Handong stood at the center of her group, her sharp eyes scanning the opposing lineup like a general before battle.

Yoohyeon caught Handong’s gaze, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something other than disdain in those dark eyes.

Curiosity, maybe? Or perhaps, respect?

But it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the familiar, icy indifference.

—

The scrimmage started with a tip-off, which Siyeon handily won, and Handong immediately took control. She grabbed the ball and ran down the court, setting the pace for her team.

Yoohyeon, guarding her closely, felt the familiar thrill of competition. Whenever she played against the star point guard, she always did.

Handong's movements were smooth and precise, a step ahead of everyone else on the court. She played like a chess master, every pass and shot calculated, never wasting a single movement.

But Yoohyeon wasn't backing down. When Handong drove toward the basket, Yoohyeon was right there, forcing her into a tough mid-range shot.

Of course, the ball swished through the net anyway.

Handong didn’t even glance her way as she jogged back on defense.

Yoohyeon gritted her teeth, her competitive streak flaring. The next possession, she called for the ball at the top of the key, faked a drive, and pulled up for a three. The ball arced high and sank
cleanly through the net, drawing a nod of approval from Yubin.

“That’s how it’s done,” Yubin said, exchanging high fives with her.

The game only continued to intensify from there. And the remainder of the scrimmage was brutal.

Yoohyeon’s body screamed for rest, but she ignored it, driving to the hoop again and again, even when Handong’s defense forced her to miss. On the rare occasions Yoohyeon managed to score, Handong was there, barely reacting, as if it hadn’t impressed her at all.

It was infuriating.

“Pass the ball next time,” Bora hissed after Yoohyeon’s latest failed drive. Her tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried the sharp edge of frustration. She knew this wasn’t Yoohyeon, and it was only Handong’s blatant coldness and dismissal of her that was causing the shooting guard to lose herself.

“We’re a team, remember?”

And Bora was right.

It was uncharacteristic of Yoohyeon to play like this. Though every person on the court knew Yooh was a lights-out shooter, surely to be the best in the league, she had excellent vision and passing prowess. Shooting was never usually her default option, especially if there was a better play to be made.

Yoohyeon nodded, swallowing her pride. But when the ball came to her again, wide open on the three-point line, she didn’t hesitate.

The shot arced high, the gym holding its breath, and swished clean through the net.

“Nice shot,” Minji said, trying to diffuse the tension as Bora muttered something under her breath.

On the other side of the court, Gahyun crossed her arms. “She’s pushing herself too hard. She’s going to burn out.”

“Not our problem,” Siyeon replied, glancing at Handong. “If she wants to overwork herself trying to impress Dongie, that’s her choice.”

Handong, who had been watching Yoohyeon out of the corner of her eye, frowned. “I don’t know why she’s doing it in the first place. She’s already good. There’s nothing left for her to prove, everyone here knows that.”

“She wants to prove she’s better than you,” Siyeon said lightly, though there was a hint of seriousness in her voice. “Or maybe she just wants you to notice.”

—

Handong and Yoohyeon were locked in a battle, trading buckets and defensive stops.

Handong’s team built a narrow lead, her playmaking setting up her teammates for easy points. But Yoohyeon refused to let them pull away. She hit back-to-back mid-range jumpers, her footwork crisp and her form flawless.

By the final minutes, the tension was palpable. Yoohyeon was gasping for air, her legs aching in protest, but she didn’t care.

She wanted- no… she needed to win.

Handong, for her part, remained calm, her focus unshakable. She stole the ball from Minji on a fast break, sprinting down the court and finishing with a smooth layup.

On the next possession, Yoohyeon drove hard into the lane, trying to get past Handong. The two collided, their shoulders bumping as Yoohyeon’s layup attempt rolled off the rim.

Handong grabbed the rebound and pivoted sharply, her elbow finding Yoohyeon’s ribs.

“Hey!” Bora shouted, stepping toward Handong as play continued. “Watch it!”

“It’s basketball,” Handong said coolly, barely even sparing her a glance before running back in transition with her team.

Bora’s frustration simmered beneath the surface, but she managed to keep it in check.

Just barely.

The scrimmage came down to the final possession. Handong’s team led by one point, but Yoohyeon had the ball, her eyes locked on the hoop.

Handong switched onto her, crouching low, her arms spread wide. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said, her voice low enough that only Yoohyeon could hear.

Yoohyeon didn’t respond.

She crossed over, driving to her left, but Handong was there, cutting off her path. Yoohyeon stepped back, rising for a three-pointer with Handong’s hand inches from her face.

The ball arced through the air, the gym silent for a beat.

Then it clanged off the rim, bouncing away.

Handong grabbed the rebound, the sound of the final whistle echoing through the gym. Her team erupted in cheers, Siyeon and Gahyun grinning as they clapped her on the back.

Yoohyeon slumped slightly, her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath.

Handong passed by her on the way to the bench, her voice cutting like a blade. “All that effort, and for what? You’ll never beat me playing like that.”

Admittedly, she felt an immediate pang of regret seeing how absolutely haunted the younger girl looked by what Handong had felt was just some off-handed snarky comment.

There was definitely some nerve sitting deep under Yoohyeon’s surface that Handong had just hit.

Though that flash of hurt was fleeting on the younger girl’s face, Handong saw something else almost imperceptible in Yoohyeon’s eyes.

Was it pain? Inadequacy? Deep insecurity?

Unfortunately for Handong, Bora seemed to catch it too.

And just like that, the star point guard’s walls came right back up as the smaller girl rounded on her.

“You think you’re better than the rest of us?” Bora suddenly defended, as the girls headed off the court. Her frustration, simmering all practice, finally boiled over as she stood in front of Yoohyeon protectively.

Handong turned to face her, her expression infuriatingly blank. Almost calculatedly so.

“Excuse me?”

“All you’ve done since meeting her is treat Yoohyeon like she’s beneath you,” Bora snapped. “She’s killing herself out there, and all you do is act like it’s nothing. Like she’s nothing.”

Siyeon stepped in, her voice calm but sharp. “Back off, Bora. Handong hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? She hasn’t done anything, period,” Bora shot back. “Not a word of encouragement, not a single acknowledgement. Funny, for someone who’s supposed to be the captain and leader of this team. You don’t get to act like you’re better than everyone else just because you’re talented. Or because your daddy drilled perfection into you so hard that you forgot how to be a normal person.”

Handong’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond.

Yoohyeon wordlessly grabbed Bora’s arm and pulled her back. She was grateful for Bora’s staunch defense of her and the way the older girl fought so admirably hard for her, but she hated that it was tearing them apart.

The confrontation seemed to be quickly veering into dangerous territory.

The type of territory where hurtful words would not be able to be taken back.

“Bora,” Yubin interjected, her tone pleading. “Let’s all calm down. We’re supposed to be a team.”

Bora’s gaze burned into Handong. “Yeah? Well, maybe she should start acting like it.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.

Coach’s whistle broke the tension, signaling the end of practice.

The girls began to drift toward the locker room, but the fractures between them already felt so deep that they weren’t sure they could be repaired.

—

Handong lingered on the court, staring at the hoop in silence. Siyeon stood nearby, her arms crossed.

“You know she’s right, in her own way,” Siyeon said after a while. “Bora, I mean. You don’t make it easy for people to feel like they’re part of the team.”

The star point guard at least appreciated that despite Siyeon feeling this way, her friend had stood up for her during the altercation earlier.

Siyeon was ever the loyalist.

Stand up for her in public, then correct her in private.

Handong didn’t look at her. “I don’t care if they feel included. I care if they play well. We all know I’m not here to make friends. We should all be here to win. Doesn’t everybody understand that that’s what matters?”

“Yeah? And how’s that working out for you?” Siyeon shot back. “Yoohyeon’s running herself into the ground just trying to be someone to you, and Bora’s damn near about to blow a gasket. Maybe you should think about why they’re reacting the way they are.”

Handong finally looked up, her expression unreadable. “I don’t understand how it’s my fault that Yoohyeon feels some- some inexplicable need for my validation. I never asked for that! What do you want me to do? Pretend I care about her feelings? Or Bora’s?”

Handong looked at Siyeon, then down at her hands.

She remembered the way her father used to cross his arms in silence after she missed a game-winning shot. Or made a game-losing mistake.

That constant, impenetrable wall of disappointment.

“Feelings don’t win championships,” she muttered, more to herself than to Siyeon.

“I understand that, Handong. Trust me, I do. But being an ass to someone who did nothing to deserve it doesn’t really win championships, either. Maybe just try being a teammate instead of a constant critic,” Siyeon said, quietly.

“It wouldn’t kill you.”

Handong didn’t respond, but as she watched Yoohyeon leave the gym, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, Siyeon wondered if her words had finally hit home.

Chapter Text

Yoohyeon had always admired Handong’s skill.

Even as she bristled at the older girl’s constant criticism, she couldn’t deny that Handong played basketball with a kind of grace that seemed almost unfair. Her movements were fluid and precise, a stark contrast to Yoohyeon’s raw intensity.

But admiration didn’t lessen the sting of Handong’s biting remarks or the way her gaze seemed to linger just a second too long whenever Yoohyeon made a mistake.

The basketball season was now officially in full swing, preseason already long gone.

Four games into their undefeated start, the team had begun to find its rhythm… at least on the court.

The synergy between Handong and Yoohyeon had become the backbone of their success, an unstoppable duo whose connection seemed almost telepathic.

Handong’s surgical precision as a point guard paired perfectly with Yoohyeon’s sharpshooting and knack for finding openings in even the tightest defenses.

Every shot, every pass, every pick play… It was perfect harmony. Two pieces of the same puzzle.

A perfect match.

Like they had been born to play on the court together.

To their teammates, to the fans, to everyone watching, and even to their opponents… the pair of guards was a thing of beauty to watch. The league had never seen anything like them before, and likely would never see anything like it again after they left.

But if their on-court partnership was a masterpiece, their interactions off the court were anything but.

In practice, Handong’s cold demeanor persisted, and their rivalry burned brighter than ever.

Yet, Yoohyeon couldn’t help but notice the fleeting moments in between—the subtle shifts in Handong’s guarded expression, the way her gaze lingered on Yoohyeon when she thought no one was looking.

And somewhere in the quiet spaces between drills and games, Yoohyeon realized that she might be falling for her.

It didn’t make sense, really.

Handong gave her nothing—no encouragement, no praise, not even a hint of recognition for Yoohyeon’s relentless effort.

And yet, Yoohyeon found herself unable to stop watching Handong during practice, her stomach twisting painfully whenever their hands brushed as they swapped the ball during a drill or when Handong passed her in the locker room without a word.

She hated how her heart raced every time their eyes met, and she hated even more that Handong could so effortlessly make her feel like she wasn’t enough.

They were the perfect pair on the court, as if born with the sole purpose of finding each other and playing together.

Yoohyeon had grown a deep admiration and respect for the older girl’s skill and silent drive. But knew it was stupid to be developing feelings for someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with her.

She knew that.

But, even worse than all of that?

A tiny, insistent part of her wanted to believe there was something more behind Handong’s icy exterior.

She allowed herself to foolishly believe that in those lingering glances and touches, there was something in Handong’s eyes that might be something close to desire, too.

That maybe—just maybe—Yoohyeon could be the one to break through.

But, hope…

It was a dangerous thing.

—

The gym was quiet one evening after practice, the echoes of dribbling and laughter long faded.

Yoohyeon lingered, as she often did, the solitude of the empty court calming her frayed nerves. She was midway through a shooting drill when a voice cut through the stillness.

“You’re still here?” Handong’s tone was flat as she walked onto the court, her gaze sharp as ever.

Yoohyeon’s stomach twisted.

She hadn’t expected company, least of all from Handong.

“Just getting some extra reps in,” she said cautiously, wiping her brow.

Handong just leaned against the bleachers. “Don’t you ever take a break?”

“Not really.” Yoohyeon’s response was immediate, almost defensive.

Handong’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Yoohyeon thought she might press further. But instead, Handong tilted her head, as if considering something.

“Why do you try so hard?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost curious.

The question caught Yoohyeon off guard. She hesitated.

“Why do you?” she deflected, her tone tinged with challenge.

Handong’s lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Because it’s all I know,” she admitted, the words slipping out like they hadn’t been meant to. “You’re either the best, or you’re nothing. Simple as that.”

For a moment, Yoohyeon thought she saw something crack in Handong’s armor. There was a vulnerability there, raw and unguarded, that made Yoohyeon’s chest tighten.

She wanted to say something, to reach out, but the moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Handong straightened, her expression hardening once more.

“Your footwork’s still sloppy,” Handong said abruptly, her tone returning to its usual sharpness.

“If you’re going to stay late, at least make it worth your time.”

The words stung more than they should have, and Yoohyeon’s grip on the ball tightened.

Of course, Handong couldn’t let them have just one moment of peace. She had to put Yoohyeon down, like she always did.

But even as Handong turned to leave, Yoohyeon couldn’t shake the image of that fleeting crack in her composure.

It lingered in her mind, haunting and tantalizing, and she hated how much power Handong seemed to have over her.

—

Their fourth win of the season had been a double overtime nail-biter, a game decided in the final seconds. Handong had orchestrated the offense with her near-surgical precision, and made an impossible pass to her in the corner as the clock wound down.

Yoohyeon had delivered, sinking the game-winning three-pointer that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

As the team celebrated, Yoohyeon found herself stealing glances at Handong, who stood off to the side, her expression unreadable.

“Nice shot,” Handong said later, as they walked off the court together.

Her tone was casual, almost dismissive, but there was something in her eyes—something softer than usual—that made Yoohyeon’s heart skip a beat.

“Thanks,” Yoohyeon replied, her voice quieter than she’d intended. She hesitated, then added, “Couldn’t have done it without your pass.”

Handong’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but it disappeared just as quickly.

“Don’t get used to it,” she said, her tone teasing but edged with something else… something Yoohyeon couldn’t quite place.

Another late night found Yoohyeon in the library, her textbooks spread out in a haphazard pile as she half-heartedly flipped through pages.

The team’s rigorous schedule left little time for academics, but Yoohyeon prided herself on staying on top of her studies.

It was a quiet sanctuary, a brief reprieve from the chaos of the court.

Until she looked up and saw Handong.

Handong was seated a few tables away, headphones perched loosely on her head as she scribbled notes into a journal. The soft glow of the desk lamp highlighted the sharp angles of her face, her brows furrowed in concentration.

Yoohyeon couldn’t look away.

She’d never seen Handong like this—calm, focused, almost serene. There was no trace of the cold, calculating player who barked orders on the court or the girl whose sharp words cut deep.

Here, Handong seemed almost... human.

“You’re staring,” Handong said without looking up, her voice breaking the silence.

Yoohyeon startled, her cheeks burning. “I wasn’t- I mean, I was just-”

Handong finally glanced up, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Relax. I’m used to it.”

The comment was casual, but it sent a ripple of frustration through Yoohyeon. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, her voice sharper than she intended.

Handong chuckled, the sound low and unexpected. “You’re so easy to read. It’s almost embarrassing, Yooh.”

The nickname caught Yoohyeon off guard, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

It was the first time Handong had ever used it, and despite the cruel lilt in her voice, it felt... different.

Intimate.

She hated how much it affected her.

As Handong returned her attention to her notes, Yoohyeon found herself watching her again, the ache in her chest deepening.

She hated herself for falling—for wanting someone who seemed determined to push her away—but she couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

Handong had a hold on her, one she couldn’t escape. She knew it’d end poorly. She knew this was no good for either of them.

Yoohyeon wanted it to stop before something happened that they both regretted.

But, here in this moment, seeing Handong’s hair framing her face just right… a beautiful serenity about her that Yoohyeon never otherwise got to see…

She let herself sink into the hold for just one moment longer.

—

Practice was brutal, as always.

Coach Park pushed them harder than ever, reminding them at every turn that their undefeated record didn’t mean they could slack off.

It only meant they needed to work harder. They needed to keep it up, and a target was gradually being painted on their backs by the media and the rest of the league.

Yoohyeon was drenched in sweat, her breathing heavy, but she kept pushing herself through every practice. She was the one lone player on the team who refused to give anything less than her full effort in even the simplest of drills.

Her dedication and work ethic were admirable, but it was clearly taking a toll on her.

The overwork and the exhaustion were painfully evident in everything she did. The way her shoulders slumped after every practice, the way she grimaced because her muscles ached every morning when she woke…

It was hard to watch.

When the team broke for water, Yoohyeon dropped onto the bench beside Minji, wiping her face with a towel. Her chest heaved as she sucked in air and her jersey was soaked in sweat, but her exhaustion was almost never her first thought.

Instead, her eyes just did what they always unwittingly seemed to do and found Handong, who stood across the gym with Gahyun.

More often these days, she found herself seeking out Handong without conscious effort.

The point guard’s arms were crossed, her expression unreadable as always, but her gaze flicked toward Yoohyeon.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

Yoohyeon thought she saw concern there, a faint wrinkle of worry in Handong’s brow, but it was gone so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

“You’re staring again,” Minji murmured, her voice low enough that only Yoohyeon could hear.

“I’m not,” Yoohyeon denied, but the heat rising to her cheeks betrayed her.

Minji didn’t press, but her knowing look was enough to make Yoohyeon want to shrivel up and find a hole to bury herself in.

—

That night, after practice, Yoohyeon found herself alone in the gym, shooting free throws under the dimmed lights.

The rhythmic thud of the ball and the occasional swish of the net were the only sounds, a soothing counterpoint to the turmoil in her chest and mind.

Nothing ever quieted her chronic overthinking quite like the monotonous yet somehow comforting routine of dribbling at the line, draining her free throw, getting her own rebound, and repeating it all over again until her shoulders were sore and her feet ached.

“Should’ve known you’d still be here. You always are.”

The voice startled Yoohyeon, and she turned to see Handong leaning against the doorway, her arms crossed.

“What do you want?” Yoohyeon asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

She remembered the last time they were here.

How Handong had let a crack of vulnerability slip through. Let Yoohyeon believe they could be getting somewhere. Only to rip it away and tear her down once more.

Like she always so masterfully did.

Yoohyeon was just guarding her heart this time.

Handong pushed off the wall and walked toward her, sneakers squeaking softly against the court. “You’re going to burn yourself out if you keep this up,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Yoohyeon laughed bitterly, shaking her head. She wasn’t even quite sure where the sudden overwhelming vitriol came from, but she couldn’t rein it in.

“You don’t have to suddenly act like you care about me, you know. I think we can all tell you don’t give a shit about me. And that’s fine, if that’s how you insist on it being. But if you’re going to hate me, tear me down, and rip into me all the time, then at least have the decency not to pretend you care.”

Handong’s expression flickered with something almost imperceptible.

Was it guilt?

Regret?

But she masked it just as quickly as it came.

“It’s not about that. It’s just that you’re no good to the team if you collapse in the middle of a game,” she said coolly.

“And that’s all you care about, isn’t it?” Yoohyeon snapped, the frustration that had been building for weeks finally boiling over. “The team. Winning. Never mind if I’m giving everything I have just to get a single ounce of recognition from you.”

Handong’s jaw tightened. “You think this is about you? That I owe you something just because you work hard? Grow up, Yoohyeon. The world doesn’t work like that.”

“Maybe not, but you don’t have to be such a-”

Yoohyeon cut herself off, her breathing ragged. The words hovered, unspoken, and for a long moment, the gym was silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights.

“You don’t have to be so cruel,” Yoohyeon finally said, her voice trembling.

“It’s like you don’t even see me.”

Handong’s lips parted, but no words came.

The tension between them crackled like static, heavy and suffocating.

And before Yoohyeon could stop herself, she stepped forward, grabbed the front of Handong’s jersey, and kissed her.

She had no idea what drove her to do it.

She knew it was stupid.

In the middle of a heated argument was not the time to initiate a kiss with the person who constantly made her feel so worthless.

But she did it, anyway.

Didn’t think, didn’t talk.

Just felt.

Finally just allowed herself to feel, and give in to her heart’s desires.

The kiss wasn’t gentle or tentative—it was full of desperation and fire, an unspoken plea that Yoohyeon couldn’t put into words.

Yoohyeon kissed her with an urgency and a needy messiness that she didn’t even know she was capable of feeling.

For a heartbeat, Handong froze, completely stunned.

And then she kissed her back.

She kissed her back with a hunger that made Yoohyeon feel like maybe Handong wanted her, too.

That maybe Handong really did see her, after all.

That maybe…

Yoohyeon was worth the effort. Or just worth something.

The world fell away. The bitterness, the tension, the rivalry—all of it dissolved into that single, perfect moment.

Yoohyeon felt Handong’s hands graze her sides, and for one electrifying second, she thought maybe, just maybe, there was a chance.

Thought that maybe Handong could want this, too.

Could want her.

But then Handong froze again, pulling back.

Immediately, Yoohyeon felt the distance between them like the Grand Canyon even though they were only inches apart. She instantly missed the heat of Handong’s breath and the warmth of their lips pressed together.

Then, Handong roughly shoved her away.

“I- I don’t… This was a mistake,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her expression was unreadable, but her breathing was unsteady, mirroring Yoohyeon’s.

Yoohyeon stared at her, her chest heaving.

Her heart breaking.

“A mistake?” she repeated, the word slicing through her like a blade. “You kissed me back.”

Handong’s gaze dropped to the floor, her voice flat and detached.

“I shouldn’t have.”

She stepped back, her shoulders stiffening.

Then, quieter, but sharp as a dagger, she added, “Don’t ever do that again.”

The words hit Yoohyeon like a physical blow, leaving her breathless. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

The cold finality in Handong’s tone left no room for argument, no room for hope.

Yoohyeon took a shaky step back, her throat tightening with unshed tears. “You can’t just-”

Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “You can’t do this, Handong. You can’t- just mess with my head and make me think you could want this. That I could be worth anything to you. And then push me away and act like I’m the one who’s wrong for
wanting more.”

Handong flinched, but she said nothing.

Instead, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the empty gym.

Yoohyeon watched her go, tears blurring her vision.

The ache in her chest was unbearable, a mix of anger, hurt, and longing that she couldn’t untangle.

She sank to the floor, her hands trembling as she buried her face in her knees.

And for the first time, she didn’t know if she could keep fighting.

—

The door to Minji’s dorm room creaked open, and Yoohyeon stood there, frozen for a moment, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed with tears.

She didn’t say a word, just stood there, the weight of her emotions pressing down on her shoulders.

Threatening to crush her.

Minji, Bora, and Yubin instantly stopped talking and abandoned their half-eaten dinners, sensing the sudden shift in the air.

Minji’s heart sank.

“Yooh?” she asked softly, standing up from the table and immediately walking toward her. “What’s wrong? Talk to us.”

Yoohyeon didn’t respond right away.

Instead, she took a few shaky steps forward, her body trembling with each movement as she closed the door behind her.

And then, without a word, she fell to her knees, sobs coming out in ragged gasps, as though she had been holding them in for much longer than anyone had realized.

Minji quickly knelt down beside her, her arms instinctively wrapping around Yoohyeon. “Yoohyeon, hey, talk to me. What happened? What’s going on?” she asked, her voice gentle but filled with concern.

Bora, though equally worried, felt an overwhelming wave of darkness as she watched her friend fall apart. “What happened?” she asked, her voice sharp, but trying to reign in the anger that surged through her.

“Who did this to you? Who made you feel like this, Yooh?”

Yubin, sensing the distress in the air, stood up and moved over to Yoohyeon’s other side. She placed a gentle hand on her lower back, offering warmth without words.

Just providing a steady presence.

Yoohyeon could barely form words, her chest heaving with the weight of her emotions. She wiped her eyes but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I... I kissed her,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and barely audible.

At the same time, all three of her friends’ jaws dropped.

While they were vaguely aware of Yoohyeon’s conflicted feelings towards Handong, they never imagined she’d actually act on them.

“I kissed Handong. I don’t even know why I did it. It just happened in the heat of the moment... and now everything’s... ruined.”

Minji momentarily pushed her surprise aside, and looked at her friend with wide, caring eyes. “Yoohyeon, you’re not making any sense. What do you mean everything’s ruined? What happened?”

Yoohyeon squeezed her eyes shut, fighting for control, but the tears still came. “She kissed me back,” she said, voice breaking. “Just for a second... but then she pulled away, and she... she told me it was a mistake. She told me to never do it again.”

Bora stiffened.

Her entire body went rigid and her blood ran cold.

“She what?”

Yoohyeon’s body trembled with a mixture of self-hatred and pain as the memory came rushing back.

“I just- she probably thinks I’m some idiot. Some dumb... girl who can’t keep her feelings in check. I wasn’t even sure I liked her like that. I don’t even know what I wanted... I’m just so stupid. And now everything’s going to fall apart. The team’s going to fall apart. Our season’s going to fall apart because of me. I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything… God, I’m so fucking stupid.”

Her voice became smaller with each word, the weight of self-blame and misery suffocating her. She could feel herself spiraling, the urge to apologize over and over, even though she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for.

She could already picture the tension on the court during games, the division between her and Handong, and how it would affect the whole team.

Bora’s chest tightened with fury, but it wasn’t directed at Yoohyeon.

No, it was directed at the way Handong had hurt Yoohyeon like this.

She opened her mouth to say something threatening, but then she saw the depth of Yoohyeon’s pain—the rawness of it—and her words caught in her throat.

Instead, she gently placed a hand on Yoohyeon’s shoulder, her voice softer but still filled with protective concern.

“Yoohyeon,” she said, her tone barely above a whisper. “What are you talking about? You didn’t ruin anything. You didn’t destroy the team. It was a kiss. Yeah, it was impulsive, but that doesn’t mean you’ve ruined everything. You didn’t cause any of this. What Handong said… that’s on her. Not you.”

Yoohyeon shook her head, her tears falling freely again, shaking with the weight of her thoughts. “I was stupid. I knew better. I knew better than to do something like that. But now, the team’s going to fall apart, Bora. You don’t understand. This team is all I have, and I just fucked it all up.”

Bora’s eyes softened as she placed both hands on Yoohyeon’s face, her thumbs gently wiping the tears away. “Yoohyeon, look at me. This isn’t on you. You’re not the one who made things complicated. You took a chance. It didn’t work out. That’s all. But that doesn’t mean you’ve ruined everything or done anything wrong, okay?”

Yubin, who had been quietly comforting Yoohyeon from behind, wrapped her arms securely around Yoohyeon’s waist. Her embrace was firm but tender.

She held Yoohyeon close, pressing her cheek against the back of her head, offering gentle reassurance.

“Yoohyeon,” Yubin murmured softly, though her voice was barely above a whisper. She gently ran her hand up and down Yoohyeon’s back, feeling her tension, trying to soothe it. “You don’t need to carry all of this alone. You’re not alone in this. We’re here, all of us.”

Yoohyeon didn’t respond right away. She simply let herself be held, the weight of the emotions slowly starting to ebb. But then her voice came out small, like a frightened whisper. “But I... I don’t know how to fix it. I’m the one who caused this mess. What if it destroys everything? What if the whole team... what if I ruin everything with them, too? We’re doing so well... I can’t let this be my fault.”

Bora’s heart broke a little as she watched Yoohyeon struggle. Yoohyeon couldn’t even allow herself to feel the full extent of her justified heartbreak because she was worried so much about the damn team.

Yubin, Minji, and Bora couldn’t possibly care less about the team at this moment.

Not when such a sweet and precious friend was falling apart in their arms.

They were horrified that Yoohyeon was spiraling so much about the team implications that she couldn’t even process her own personal devastation and hurt.

Bora cupped her face once more, her expression full of care and empathy. “Yoohyeon,” she said softly but firmly. “This isn’t your fault. You’re not the reason things are complicated.”

She gently wiped away a fresh tear that fell down Yoohyeon’s cheek. “You are one of the most important pieces of this team, okay? What happened with Handong doesn’t change that. Don’t you dare believe for a second that this is all on you.”

Minji nodded in agreement, still holding Yoohyeon closely. “You don’t have to fix anything right now. Don’t worry about the team or the season or anything else. All you have to do is be here, with us. And we’ll take it one step at a time, okay?” She kissed the top of Yoohyeon’s head, offering comfort without words.

Yubin softly asked, “What do you need from us right now, Yooh? Anything. Just say the word so we can help you bear it. Together.”

Yoohyeon sniffled and wiped her eyes again, but she didn’t pull away from the embrace. Slowly, she let herself collapse further into Yubin’s arms, her shoulders shaking with the weight of everything, but the warmth and presence of her friends grounding her.

“Just hold me,” Yoohyeon whispered, her voice small, broken, and filled with so much vulnerability.

Without hesitation, all three of them closed in around her, offering her everything they had.

All the love, warmth, and understanding they could muster.

No judgments, no questions… just the safety of knowing they would be there to pick her up, piece by piece, until she felt whole again.

—

In the dim light of Handong’s dorm room, the air was thick with tension as Gahyun and Siyeon sat in stunned silence, watching their usually composed and stoic friend unravel completely.

Handong sat hunched on the edge of her bed, her hands trembling in her lap as she recounted the night’s events.

“I don’t understand. You kissed her back?” Gahyun’s voice broke through the quiet, laced with confusion.

Handong nodded, her gaze fixed on her hands. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her voice brittle. “It just… happened. It felt right in the moment. I couldn’t stop myself. It felt good, Gahyun.”

It was the first time she admitted it to herself.

The kiss… it had felt right.

Her voice cracked, and her hands clenched into fists. “But then I panicked. I pushed her away. I told her it was a mistake. I told her not to ever do that again.”

Gahyun winced, imagining how much it would have hurt if she had heard those words herself.

“Yoohyeon must’ve been crushed,” she said softly, her tone filled with sympathy. “You treated her like she’s nothing. But she’s not nothing. She was never… God… I can’t even- I don’t even know how she must feel right now. Dongie…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Why did you say that to her? Why would you treat her like that?”

Handong shook her head, her lips trembling. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I’ve been nothing but mean to her since the day we met. I don’t even know why she’d have feelings for me. How could she? All I’ve done is push her away, put her down, and act like she doesn’t matter. She should hate me.”

She finally looked up at them, her eyes glassy with tears. “But instead, she kissed me. Maybe it was impulsive, or just in the heat of our argument, but there was a small part of her that trusted me enough to want it. And I… I destroyed that. If she didn’t already, I bet she hates me now. And I can’t blame her.”

Gahyun softened, her expression filled with heartbreak. “Yoohyeon doesn’t hate you, Handong,” she said gently. “She sees something in you. Something you’ve spent so much time trying to bury. And now… now she’s the one who’s hurting because of it.”

Siyeon placed a steady hand on Handong’s shoulder, her voice calm but heavy with emotion. “But you’re hurting too, Dong. I can see it. You wouldn’t be this upset if you didn’t feel something for her. So why are you so scared to admit it?”

Handong let out a hollow laugh, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Because it doesn’t make sense,” she said bitterly. “I don’t understand any of this. Why I kissed her back. Why it felt good. Why I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me, like I was someone worth caring about. Someone worth kissing.”

Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands. “How can I feel something for her when I’ve done nothing but push her away? How can we play so perfectly together, but then I can’t bring myself to give her the time of day otherwise? I can’t- I just don’t… What’s wrong with me?”

Siyeon tightened her grip on Handong’s shoulder, her expression filled with quiet understanding. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said firmly. “You’re scared, that’s all. You’ve spent so long building walls that you don’t even know how to let someone in. But Dongie, you’re not going to figure this out by beating yourself up over it.”

“I don’t deserve her,” Handong whispered, her voice thick with regret. “She’s… she’s everything good, and I’m just… this. All I’ve ever done is hurt her. And now I’ve gone and hurt her worse than ever. She deserves better than this. Better than me.”

Gahyun moved closer, her voice soft and full of care. “Handong, you don’t have to have all the answers right now,” she said gently. “But you can’t keep running from this. From her. If you don’t want to lose her completely, you have to figure out how to make things right.”

Handong let out a choked sob, her body trembling as the weight of her regret consumed her.

Siyeon didn’t hesitate, pulling her into a firm hug. Handong clung to her desperately, her tears soaking into Siyeon’s shirt as she let herself crumble.

Gahyun came over in an instant, joining them. She wrapped her arms around Handong from the other side.

“We’re here,” Gahyun whispered. “Whatever happens, we’ve got you.”

Handong didn’t respond, but she let herself sink into the warmth of their embrace. She cried until her body felt hollow, the pain in her chest too much to bear.

For the first time, she let herself feel every ounce of her confusion. Her longing

Her self-loathing.

When the tears finally slowed, Siyeon brushed Handong’s hair out of her face. “You need to figure out what you want, Dongie,” she said gently. “Not just for Yoohyeon, but for yourself. You can’t keep running.”

Handong nodded weakly, her voice barely a whisper. “I want to apologize,” she said. “I want to tell her that it wasn’t a mistake. That the kiss… it felt good. That it felt right.”

She let out a trembling breath, her voice breaking. “But I won’t. I- I can’t. I don’t even know how to start. How can I even face her after the way I’ve broken her?”

Gahyun shook her head, her voice tender but firm. “Even if you don’t think she can or will forgive you, you have to try. She’s hurting, and she deserves an apology. She deserves honesty.”

Handong looked down, her hands trembling in her lap. “I know,” she whispered. “But I’m too much of a coward to give her that. I ruin everything I touch, and I can’t… I can’t ruin her any more than I already have.”

As the silence settled between them, Handong curled into herself, overwhelmed by guilt and fear. Her friends stayed by her side, their presence steady and unwavering.

But even as their warmth surrounded her, one thought lingered in Handong’s mind.

She wanted to make things right. She wanted to tell Yoohyeon the truth.

She just couldn’t.

Handong nearly laughed mirthlessly at herself.

So pathetic.

Because when people looked at her, they saw strength and determination and resilience and strong leadership.

But really, she was just a coward.

Would they all hate her if they knew the truth? Knew how damaged she really was?

It was her cowardice that made her push Yoohyeon away and hurt her in the first place.

And it was her cowardice that would force her to stay silent. To not make amends, even though she knew she needed to.

She dreaded the thought of showing up to practice tomorrow, having to face Yoohyeon like nothing happened. Like Handong hadn’t just destroyed everything.

But it was somehow still easier than the thought of apologizing and trying to heal what was broken.

Handong was sure she hated herself more than Yoohyeon ever could.

In the end, her cowardice always won.

Chapter Text

Yoohyeon’s sadness, heavy and all-consuming, hadn’t disappeared after that night in Minji’s dorm.

It had simply transformed.

What began as guilt, as whispers of I’ve ruined everything, hardened over the next few weeks into something sharp and bitter.

The anger wasn’t loud, not at first—it was muted, simmering beneath the surface like a storm waiting to break.

She hated it.

Hated the way it curled in her chest and whispered in her ear.

You don’t need her.

But even as the anger grew, Yoohyeon clung to the only thing she still trusted: basketball.

She showed up early and stayed late, driving herself into the ground with drill after drill, sprint after sprint.

It wasn’t enough to just practice—she needed to exhaust herself, to burn away the gnawing resentment threatening to take over.

Her friends tried to help, but Yoohyeon brushed them off with half-hearted smiles and assurances she didn’t even believe in.

The cracks forming in her facade were obvious, though, and everyone could see them.

“You’ve got to slow down,” Yubin told her one night, her voice soft but firm. Yoohyeon was bent over at the baseline, sweat dripping off her chin as she prepared for yet another set of suicides.

“I’m fine,” Yoohyeon said, not even looking up.

“You’re not,” Yubin pressed. “You’re killing yourself out here, and for what? To-“

“I said I’m fine.”

Even Siyeon, never one to involve herself in unnecessary drama, had started watching her with thinly veiled concern.

Gahyun whispered to Bora after practice about how pale Yoohyeon looked, how even her jump shots seemed to tremble slightly now.

And Handong...

Handong noticed most of all.

She watched Yoohyeon’s self-destruction from a careful distance, each practice a new reminder of the damage she’d caused. She wanted to say something, anything, but every time she opened her mouth, the memory of Yoohyeon’s tear-streaked face stopped her cold.

The muted anger in Yoohyeon’s eyes now made it even harder.

What could she say?

What right did she have to try?

So Handong stayed silent, breaking more each time Yoohyeon threw herself to the ground diving for a loose ball, or pushed through another sprint while barely able to stand.

—

One night after practice, Minji caught Yoohyeon in the corner of the gym, lacing up her shoes to stay late again. Her hands shook slightly as she pulled the laces tight, but her expression was steeled with determination.

“I’ve said it a million times before and I’ll say it a million more times if that’s what it takes… But you don’t need to prove your worth, Yoohyeon,” Minji said gently, sitting down beside her.

Yoohyeon didn’t respond at first. She just kept tying her laces, tighter and tighter, until her fingers ached.

Finally, without looking up, she spoke. “I’m not trying to prove my worth.”

Minji frowned. “Then what are you-”

“At least, not to her.” Yoohyeon’s voice was sharp now, cutting through the stillness of the gym like a blade.

Her hands clenched around the laces. “I don’t know why I ever even cared. All she did was ignore me and treat me like I’m nothing. I’m not doing this for her anymore. Not for her recognition or validation.”

She paused, her breath shaking. “I’m doing this for me.”

The words came out harder than Yoohyeon intended, but she couldn’t take them back.

Minji’s expression softened, and Yoohyeon hated the pity she saw there.

She grabbed a ball and stalked onto the court before Minji could say anything else.

—

It was during a scrimmage a few days later that everything fell apart.

Yoohyeon was exhausted, her body screaming at her to stop, but she pushed forward anyway.

When the opposing team launched into a fast break, she was the first to sprint back on defense, her steps uneven from exhaustion, but determined.

She tried to pivot, but her foot landed awkwardly and a sharp pain shot through her ankle.

She crumpled to the floor.

The girls all froze.

“Yoohyeon!” Minji was at her side in an instant, Bora and Yubin close behind.

Even Siyeon and Gahyun hovered nearby, their expressions tight with worry.

Handong stood unmoving at the top of the key, her heart pounding as she watched Yoohyeon clutch her ankle.

“Yooh, stay down,” Bora said gently, her hands on Yoohyeon’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Yoohyeon snapped, her voice laced with pain.

“You’re not fine,” Minji insisted. “You need to-”

“No!” Yoohyeon pushed herself up, her ankle buckling immediately under her weight.

The pain was blinding, but she refused to let it show. “I said I’m fine. Let’s run it again.”

“Yoohyeon, stop,” Yubin pleaded, her voice cracking.

“I said run it again!”

The desperation in her voice echoed in the gym, raw and unfiltered.

The rest of the team watched, biting their lips with concern.

This was not good.

This was not Yoohyeon.

Minji tried to help her up again, but Yoohyeon shoved her hands away, glaring at her friends with tear-filled eyes.

Handong turned away, her fists clenched at her sides.

She couldn’t watch this anymore—the way Yoohyeon was tearing herself apart, the way her friends were hurting trying to help her.

And she couldn’t stop the guilt that washed over her, knowing she was the cause of it all.

—

The first loss came against a team they had beaten handily last season. A team that had barely scraped into the playoffs.

On paper, it should have been an easy win. Handong and Yoohyeon both played well individually: Handong casually recorded a 16-point, 12-assist, 3-steal game like it was nothing. Yoohyeon also racked up a respectable 26-point and 11-rebound double-double.

So it should have been an easy win.

But their synergy, the seamless chemistry that had once made them unstoppable, was gone.

The cracks in their connection were painfully clear to anyone watching.

Where they used to anticipate each other’s moves instinctively, now hesitation crept into every play.

Handong drove to the basket late in the third quarter and expected Yoohyeon to cut baseline for a quick dish-off. But Yoohyeon stayed at the top of the key, waiting for a kick-out pass that never came.

The result was a turnover.

“Where were you?” Handong hissed as they jogged back on defense.

“Where were you?" Yoohyeon shot back, not even sparing her a glance.

On the next possession, Yoohyeon grabbed a defensive rebound and pushed the ball up the court for a fast break. In the past, she and Handong would’ve executed the transition effortlessly, exchanging quick passes until one of them finished at the rim.

But this time, Yoohyeon hesitated just a second too long before deciding to pass. The ball sailed past Handong, who had already moved to fill the lane, and bounced out of bounds.

By the time the game ended, the scoreboard read 74-65.

A comfortable margin for the other team.

But what stung most was the realization that it wasn’t their opponents who had beaten them.

It was themselves.

The second loss was closer, against a more competitive team. For three quarters, the game hung in the balance, the scoreline neck-and-neck.

Yoohyeon and Handong were undeniably talented, and their skills kept the team in contention. Yoohyeon’s rebounding and defensive prowess were as ferocious as ever, her casual half-court threes drawing gasps from the crowd, and Handong’s 16 assists and multiple difficult mid-range shots in crunch time were a thing of beauty.

But their avoidance of each other poisoned everything else.

Late in the fourth quarter, their team was down by two points with less than a minute remaining.

Yoohyeon snagged an offensive rebound and dribbled out to reset the play. Handong, positioned at the three-point line, clapped her hands and called for the ball.

Yoohyeon hesitated, memories of their argument, the kiss, and her hurt all flashing through her mind.

Instead of passing to Handong, she drove to the hoop herself, determined to tie the game.

Her shot clanged off the rim.

“Why didn’t you pass?” Handong demanded during the timeout that followed, her voice low but seething.

Yoohyeon didn’t answer, her jaw tight as she stared at the floor.

The game ended in a narrow loss, but the damage felt immeasurable. The rest of the team barely looked at each other as they filed off the court, the weight of another failure pressing down on their shoulders.

Looking for any type of consolation, they had believed that no loss could be worse than a crushing nail-biter like that one.

That it couldn’t possibly get worse.

But, the third game was a disaster from the start.

Their opponents weren’t even one of the stronger teams in the league, but they played with energy and cohesion that Handong and Yoohyeon’s team sorely lacked.

By the end of the first quarter, they were down by 12 points. By halftime, the deficit had ballooned to 20.

It was their biggest halftime deficit all season.

The tension between Yoohyeon and Handong had reached a boiling point, spilling out into every corner of their game.

On defense, they failed to switch on picks, leaving teammates scrambling to cover open shooters. On offense, they actively avoided passing to each other, forcing their teammates into awkward spots, taking on roles they weren’t prepared for.

A sequence in the third quarter epitomized their dysfunction.

Handong grabbed a steal and sprinted down the court for what should’ve been an easy two-on-one fast break. The two had historically converted in this situation at a 100% success rate.

They could score this in their sleep, with their hands tied behind their backs.

So, the failure only stung more.

Yoohyeon ran alongside her, but instead of passing, Handong drove straight to the hoop. The defender read the play and swatted her layup out of bounds. Yoohyeon threw up her hands in frustration as the whistle blew.

“You had me wide open!” she snapped as they regrouped for the inbound.

“And I didn’t trust you to finish,” Handong shot back, her voice cutting through the air like a knife.

That exchange was the only time they spoke to each other during the entire game.

The rest of the team suffered as a result of the fractured dynamic.

Bora, who had really been trying to rein it in, could barely contain her frustration. During a timeout in the fourth quarter, she slammed a water bottle onto the bench, her voice rising above the coach’s instructions.

“This isn’t working!” she exclaimed, glaring at both Yoohyeon and Handong. “We’re supposed to be a team!”

But no amount of fiery speeches or adjustments could repair the damage.

By the end of the game, the scoreboard showed a 25-point blowout.

The crowd, once electric with cheers for their undefeated streak, had fallen silent.

The whispers started soon after—the team that had once been hailed as championship favorites was falling apart at the seams.

And everyone knew why.

—

The silence hung heavy over the locker room.

Minji sat on the bench beside Yoohyeon, who was still in her jersey, staring blankly at the floor. The others had already begun to filter out after their most recent game—a demoralizing loss that left the team’s spirits in tatters.

Three straight losses, with the last one being a huge blowout…

Morale was truly at an all-time low.

“You okay?” Minji’s voice was soft—careful—as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile shell Yoohyeon had wrapped herself in.

Yoohyeon didn’t respond right away.

She just kept unlacing her sneakers, her movements slow and deliberate. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.

“I don’t know.”

Minji frowned. She’d seen Yoohyeon upset before—after tough losses, during bad practices—but this was different.

This wasn’t just sadness or frustration. It was something darker, something that seemed to eat away at her from the inside.

“I know it’s hard,” Minji said gently. “But you don’t have to do this alone. You know that, right?”

Yoohyeon looked up then, her eyes haunted with exhaustion and a deep pain. “I appreciate it, Minji, but… I don’t think you can fix this.”

Before Minji could respond, Bora entered the locker room, her expression softening when she saw Yoohyeon.

Gone was her usual fiery demeanor; instead, she approached cautiously, like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal.

“Hey,” Bora said, sitting on Yoohyeon’s other side. “I know things didn’t go our way, but you were great tonight. You played hard out there.”

Yoohyeon let out a bitter laugh. “Did I? Because it felt like everything I did just made things worse.”

“That’s not true,” Bora said firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Yooh, we’re all worried about you. I’m worried about you. You’re running yourself into the ground, and it’s…”

She trailed off, clenching her fists. “It’s killing me to see you like this.”

Yoohyeon looked away, her jaw tightening. “I don’t know how else to be. I just-”

She stopped, sucking in a shaky breath.

“Whatever. Just forget it.”

Bora’s hand tightened slightly, her protective instincts flaring. “No, I won’t forget it. You don’t deserve this, Yooh. None of this is on you. You shouldn’t have to be the one breaking yourself apart just to hold everything else together.”

Yoohyeon’s lip trembled slightly. “But it is. It is on me. And this… this all feels like my fault,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“If I’d just stayed focused instead of… if I hadn’t let everything get so-”

She stopped herself, biting her lip as tears welled in her eyes.

Minji leaned in, her voice soft. “Yooh, please. You didn’t do anything wrong. Wanting to kiss someone you have feelings for isn’t wrong. It’s just… human. You know that, right?”

Yoohyeon shook her head, her voice cracking. “I kissed her, Minji. I wanted to, and I did, and now it’s all I can think about. And we’ve lost three games because I let it mess with my head. Because I couldn’t just-”

Her breath hitched, and she buried her face in her hands. “I’ve fucked everything up.”

“No, you haven’t,” Bora said quickly, her voice fierce. “Yooh, stop. You didn’t ruin anything. It’s not your fault the team is struggling. It’s not your fault for having feelings or for being human. Don’t put all of this on yourself.”

Yoohyeon didn’t answer, her body tense under Bora’s steady hand.

She wanted to believe her, but the weight of her guilt was too heavy to lift.

Bora sighed, her voice softer now. “This is all so wrong.”

For a moment, none of them spoke.

The air was thick with a sadness none of them knew how to untangle, the silence pressing down as Yoohyeon sat between them, unraveling just a little more.

—

Yubin lingered in the hallway outside the team lounge, clutching a water bottle she didn’t need. The muffled sound of voices carried through the partially closed door, drawing her attention.

She recognized them immediately: Gahyun and Siyeon.

“Yoohyeon’s attitude isn’t helping anything,” Siyeon said, her tone sharp but not cruel. “She’s so wrapped up in her own feelings that she won’t even give Handong the chance to make things right.”

Gahyun sighed. “I get that she’s hurt, but it’s like she’s punishing Handong for being… Handong. You know how she is. She shuts down when things get too much. It’s not like she meant to hurt Yoohyeon.”

“I don’t know… I’m not saying Handong’s blameless here. I think, in that moment, she really did mean to hurt Yoohyeon,” Siyeon replied, softer this time. “But it just sucks how Yoohyeon’s acting like she’s the only one who’s suffering.”

Yubin’s heart tightened as she listened.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the conversation felt like a thread she couldn’t help but pull.

Slowly, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“That’s not fair,” Yubin said, her voice quiet but steady. Both girls turned to her in surprise.

“Yoohyeon’s not acting out just to be petty. She’s hurt because she let herself be vulnerable with someone who pushed her away. I would be upset too if I put myself out there and the person I trusted turned around and treated me like trash.”

Siyeon’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt. Gahyun looked down, fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“I’m not saying Handong meant to hurt her,” Yubin continued, her tone softer now. “I get it. Handong’s not good at… this kind of thing. Expressing herself. Letting people in.” Her fingers tightened around the water bottle. “But Yoohyeon’s not wrong to feel the way she does either. She thought that maybe Handong could want her too when she kissed her back, but when Yoohyeon allowed herself to finally have hope, Handong crushed her. Do you know how that must’ve felt?”

Gahyun finally spoke, her voice measured. “We’re not saying Yoohyeon doesn’t have the right to be upset. Of course, she does. But freezing someone out completely? Refusing to talk things through? That’s not going to fix anything.”

“But it’s not Yoohyeon’s responsibility to fix it. It shouldn’t have to be,” Yubin said, the words coming out sharper than she intended. “She’s the one who got hurt. Handong’s the one who needs to take the first step.”

“She wants to!” Siyeon’s voice rose slightly, her frustration showing. “You think Handong doesn’t see what this is doing to Yoohyeon? She does. She hates herself for it. But what is she supposed to do when Yoohyeon won’t even look at her?”

The room fell silent, the weight of Siyeon’s words hanging in the air.

Yubin sighed, running a hand through her hair. “This isn’t just about basketball or the kiss. There’s so much more going on here. But this… this isn’t just on Yoohyeon to fix or on Handong to apologize for. It’s on all of us. Because if they keep tearing each other apart, the whole team is going to fall with them.”

—

The next day, practice unraveled just as Yubin feared.

Tension radiated through every drill, every scrimmage.

Handong and Yoohyeon avoided each other completely—refusing even to look at one another as their teammates scrambled to fill the widening gap between them.

A poorly timed turnover during a three-on-three drill caused Bora to snap at Gahyun, which led to Siyeon biting back at Bora, and the whole session spiraled into barely restrained chaos.

When it was finally over, Coach dismissed them with a heavy sigh, but no one moved.

Handong hesitated for a moment before yanking off her practice jersey. Her jaw tightened, as though debating whether to say something.

She didn’t.

Instead, she stormed out without a word.

“She’s going home,” Siyeon muttered, folding her arms as she watched Handong’s retreating figure. “Can’t blame her. I wouldn’t stick around for this either.”

Yoohyeon, still drenched in sweat, stayed behind. She didn’t speak to anyone—just returned to the court and started running suicides in grim silence.

The sound of her lone sneakers squeaking against the hardwood echoed through the otherwise empty gym.

“She needs to stop doing that,” Minji muttered, frowning as she watched Yoohyeon punish herself with relentless sprints.

“She won’t,” Bora said, her voice tight with frustration.

The rest of the team filtered out slowly, uneasy glances exchanged but no words spoken.

By the time Bora, Minji, Yubin, Gahyun, and Siyeon reached the locker room, everyone else had already cleared out.

None of them wanted to stick around any longer than they had to.

Tension clung to the air, heavy and suffocating.

And then, like a match to dry kindling, the explosion happened.

“She’s breaking herself out there!” Bora snapped, her arms crossed tightly. “We all see it. Yoohyeon’s killing herself to keep up because of what Handong did to her.”

“Don’t act like Handong isn’t hurting too,” Siyeon shot back. “You think she’s just fine with how things are? She’s miserable! But Yoohyeon won’t even give her the space to try to fix things.”

“Why should she?” Minji interjected, her tone sharper than they’d ever heard it before. “Handong’s the one who pushed her away. She’s the one who made Yoohyeon feel like she didn’t matter.”

“Come on… that’s not fair,” Gahyun said, stepping forward. “Handong didn’t do it on purpose. She panicked. She’s not good at-”

“I don’t care what she is or isn’t good at. That’s not an excuse!” Bora interrupted, her voice rising. “Do you know what it’s like to watch Yoohyeon turn into someone you don’t even recognize? To see her break down over and over because she thinks she’s not good enough? Because she thinks she’s the problem?”

Gahyun faltered, her jaw tightening, but Siyeon bit back.

“And do you know what it’s like to see Handong tearing herself apart because she doesn’t know how to fix it? She’s been trying! But Yoohyeon won’t let her in!”

“Maybe because Handong didn’t exactly leave her much reason to,” Minji countered. “And how exactly has she been trying? Yoohyeon’s been cold and distant, but I haven’t once seen Handong try to actually talk to her to fix things.”

“She probably doesn’t even feel like she can! Yoohyeon hasn’t given her any reason to believe she’d actually hear an apology.”

“And why do you think that is?!”

“She’s trying, and you’re too blinded by your loyalty to Yooh to see that!”

“No, you’re the ones who can’t see how much Yoohyeon is suffering because of her! Don’t you care about her at all?!”

“ENOUGH!”

Yubin’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip, and the room instantly fell silent.

She looked at each of them, her normally calm expression tinged with a rare fierceness.

“Do you hear yourselves?” she demanded. “You’re all saying the same thing in different ways. Handong’s hurting. Yoohyeon’s hurting. And all of you are so caught up in taking sides that you’re missing the point. We all want the same thing—for them to be okay. For the team to be okay.”

No one spoke, the weight of her words sinking in.

“Stop accusing each other of not caring. We all care. I can see it in the way you guys still try to encourage Handong during rough games, even after everything,” she said pointedly to Minji and Bora. Then, she turned to Siyeon and Gahyun. “And we can all see the way you both bite your lips with worry every time Yoohyeon does something concerning or newly self-destructive. It’s obvious we all care… maybe a little too damn much. So stop with the picking sides and the arguing. You all sound like children.”

The others hung their heads, sufficiently reprimanded.

“This isn’t about who’s right or wrong,” Yubin continued, her voice softer now but no less firm. “It’s about finding a way to help them, because if we don’t, we’re going to lose more than just games. We’re going to lose each other.”

The silence lingered, heavy but no longer suffocating.

One by one, the girls exchanged guilty glances, the tension slowly giving way to an unspoken understanding.

Of course, Yubin was right.

Deep down, at the root of it, they all just wanted a chance to be a team.

A real team.

They just had to figure out how to get there.

Chapter Text

The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of sneakers pounding against the wood. The team had been practicing for hours, pushing themselves beyond their limits.

They knew they had a game the next day, and one more loss would mean they went straight from undefeated to a disappointing 0.500. They would go from 4-0 to 4-4 in one fell swoop.

A pathetic fall from grace.

Pressure from the university and the media had started getting to them, and they could also feel it from Coach Park, who had them practicing like their lives depended on it.

There was no longer any room for fun, jokes, games, or anything. Coach had begun running practice like the military.

No banter, no laughs.

Just work.

The team was working harder than ever, the air thick with sweat and determination.

The only person who’d been able to keep up with this new and much more intense regimen was Yoohyeon. She had been pushing her body for so long that it was genuinely nothing new.

But, that was the crux of the issue.

Where she was normally strong and able to withstand such great physical exertion, she had been pushing her body too far, for too long.

Today, something was off. Her body was no longer cooperating, and the world felt horribly off-kilter.

Despite knowing something felt wrong, Yoohyeon didn’t stop.

She didn’t know how.

And in the middle of the frenzied energy, Yoohyeon felt like a shadow, invisible to the others, swallowed whole by her own thoughts and insecurities. She couldn’t keep up—not today, not after all the sleepless nights and the constant pressure to be the best she could be.

But she kept going, pushing herself harder, telling herself that she had to.

It was always like this.

Every time Yoohyeon stepped onto that court, it was as though she had something to prove, something to earn.

She wasn’t just playing for the team anymore.

She was playing for Handong, for that approval, that validation that had been ripped away from her so carelessly.

The very things Yoohyeon had sworn didn’t matter to her.

Handong had hurt her. Badly.

And yet, Yoohyeon couldn't let go of that desperate need to be good enough for her, to make her see that she was more than the girl who'd been rejected.

She had convinced herself that she didn’t care anymore.

That Handong’s opinion didn’t matter.

But her actions, the way she drove herself harder with each passing practice, told a different story.

It was evident to everyone that Yoohyeon had not been the same since that night—the night the kiss had happened, and the night Handong’s words had shattered her.

Calling her a mistake.

There were barely any words exchanged between them since, filled instead by mostly cold distance and empty space.

Yoohyeon had tried to pretend she was fine, tried to convince herself that it didn’t hurt, but it did.

Every day, every hour, every moment.

And now, it was starting to break her.

They had been practicing for nearly three hours, rotating between drills and scrimmages. It had started with timed sprints, then defensive slides, followed by full-court work. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion—it was the emotional toll that had been gnawing at Yoohyeon for weeks.

She felt like she was drowning under the weight of it all, and yet, the only thing that kept her going was the hope that Handong might see her, might notice her.

Still, even after everything… all the hurt, all the attempts to convince herself that she resented Handong and didn’t need her recognition…

Yoohyeon still fought tooth and nail for something she had tried to convince herself she didn’t want or need.

The exhaustion had started creeping in during the defensive drills. Her steps felt sluggish, and each pivot took more effort than it should.

Her arms felt heavy as she reached to block, each movement slower, like she was pushing through thick mud.

It wasn’t just a lack of energy—there was something deeper, a dull ache in her bones that she couldn’t shake.

Still, she refused to stop.

When they moved into the scrimmage, it only got worse.

Yoohyeon had always been quick and agile, easily the fastest on the team, but today, her movements felt stiff and clumsy.

She lagged behind the others, every step a little slower, every breath a little shallower. She ignored the signs, kept pushing herself as the rest of the team flowed through the game effortlessly.

But she couldn’t keep up. Not anymore.

The constant sprints, the relentless drills, the constant push to be better—none of it was enough. Nothing would ever be enough to make Handong look at her the way she wanted, the way she so desperately needed.

The final straw came when she sprinted down the court, chasing after a loose ball. She pushed off hard with her legs, but they wouldn’t respond.

She couldn’t move fast enough.

The court seemed to stretch further away with every step, her legs crumpling beneath her as her vision blurred.

The floor suddenly rushed up to meet her, and for a split second, she thought she was falling into darkness.

Yoohyeon collapsed.

And her body hit the ground hard.

It was sudden.

One moment, she was weaving through teammates, her feet barely touching the ground, and the next, she was crumpled on the floor like a ragdoll.

The air seemed to suck out of the gym as her body hit the hardwood with a sickening thud.

“Yoohyeon!” Minji's voice cracked, barely rising above a whisper. She was the first one to reach her, kneeling at her side, her hands hovering over Yoohyeon’s limp form, not sure where to touch first.
How to help.

Yoohyeon’s breathing was shallow, uneven. Her skin was clammy, pale under the fluorescent gym lights.

There was no sign of the fiery energy that usually burned in her eyes—just empty space where it used to be.

Bora was the next to rush over, but there wasn’t any of the usual anger in her eyes, no sharp retort ready on her tongue.

Instead, there was panic.

Real panic.

She crouched beside Minji, her eyes scanning Yoohyeon’s face as if trying to find something, anything that would tell her she was okay. She grabbed Yoohyeon’s shoulder roughly, shaking her slightly, hoping for some kind of response.

"Yoohyeon! Come on. Wake up!" Bora’s voice cracked, breaking under the weight of something deeper than just concern.

Yoohyeon stirred only slightly, eyes fluttering for one moment.

The gym was filled with a tense silence now, broken only by the sound of the others rushing to help. Yubin pushed through the crowd of teammates and coaches that were gathering, kneeling beside Minji, her face pale.

She was calm as always, calculating.

But she couldn’t hide the worry in her eyes.

Yubin was already pulling out her phone, dialing for help. “We need medical assistance, now,” she said, her voice steady but clipped as she spoke into the phone, her eyes never leaving Yoohyeon’s pale form.

Siyeon arrived next, her usual stoic expression replaced with genuine and extreme distress. Gahyun was just behind her, her hands wringing together in fear.

Together, the group worked quickly, easing Yoohyeon into a seated position, but she barely registered their movements. She was so far gone, so distant from the world around her, that it was as though she were floating outside of her own body.

Minji’s hands gently cupped Yoohyeon’s face, panic seeping into her words. “Yoohyeon, please. You have to wake up. You’re scaring me.”

Handong stood at the far side of the gym, her heart hammering in her chest as she watched the scene unfold.

She had been watching Yoohyeon for weeks—watching her push herself harder, watching the strain on her face, the exhaustion building in her every movement. Handong had seen the signs but had chosen to ignore them.

She had kept her distance, afraid of opening wounds that hadn’t fully healed, too afraid to face the feelings she had buried deep inside.

And now, standing there, she felt the weight of her inaction press down on her like a physical blow.

This is my fault.

The thought kept repeating in her mind, drowning out everything else.

Yoohyeon had been reaching out in her own way, had been silently pleading for recognition... for validation.

Silently asking Handong to meet her halfway.

All this time. Since the very first time they’d met.

And Handong had known all that… she had just chosen to let her suffer in silence.

Protecting her own pride and her own heart had caused this.

As the other teammates swarmed around Yoohyeon, Handong felt paralyzed. Every instinct told her to rush over, to do something, but she stood frozen.

Her body refused to move.

She wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the overwhelming guilt she felt deep inside.

But whatever it was, she couldn’t bring herself to cross that line again, not when it felt like every part of her was breaking apart.

Bora’s voice broke through the haze of Handong’s thoughts, sharp and full of frustration. “You’re just going to stand there?” she snapped. “This is happening because you didn’t see it, Handong. She’s been pushing herself too hard, and you just let her. You could have put a stop to this if you had just… had just talked to her. Now, look.”

Handong flinched, the words hitting her harder than she expected. She wanted to speak, to explain, but the words lodged in her throat.

Yubin placed a silent hand on Bora’s shoulder, imploring her not to take things any further.

Right now, Handong was not the priority.

Bora looked at Handong coldly one last time before turning back around and gently brushing her thumb over Yoohyeon’s cheek, tenderly trying to rouse her.

The star point guard felt something inside her crack wide open, like the dam that had been holding her together for weeks finally giving way.

It was all too much.

But before she could do anything, the gym doors swung open, and the medical staff arrived. They rushed to Yoohyeon’s side, carefully assessing her condition.

One of them began to take Yoohyeon’s vitals while another carefully lifted her onto a stretcher.

“She’s severely dehydrated and overexerted,” the medic explained, voice calm but tinged with urgency. “She’ll need immediate care. We need to get her fluids and then get her oxygen ASAP, but she’ll be okay. We’re taking her to the infirmary.”

Yoohyeon’s body was limp, her face drained of color, but there was a faint pulse, a steady rise and fall of her chest.

The sight of her like that, so vulnerable, made Handong’s chest tighten, the weight of everything finally settling in.

She had ignored all the signs.

Disregarded Yoohyeon like she didn’t matter.

She had chosen to protect herself instead of being there for Yoohyeon when she needed someone the most.

When Yoohyeon had been doing all those self-destructive things… pushing herself too hard…

It had been a cry for help.

As Yoohyeon was wheeled out of the gym, Handong felt the crushing sense of guilt consume her whole. The team was still gathered around, but she couldn’t bring herself to go over, couldn’t bring herself to look at any of them.

She knew she was to blame, and she couldn’t face her teammates in the wake of this devastation.

Just before the doors closed behind Yoohyeon, there was a flicker of movement.

Her eyelids fluttered open for a brief moment, her gaze wild and unfocused.

And even like this… in this condition…

Yoohyeon’s eyes did what they always did.

Moved to find Handong.

When she found Handong’s gaze, she relaxed and accepted the oxygen mask that the medical staff was trying to put around her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered open and shut weakly, as she fought to stay conscious.

The image of Yoohyeon’s gaze desperately seeking out hers while she struggled to stay awake… it was all Handong could see.

The guilt crashed over her again, suffocating and all-encompassing.

And then the doors shut, and Yoohyeon was gone.

In that moment, Handong knew she would never forgive herself.

—

The infirmary was quiet, save for the soft beeping of the machines monitoring Yoohyeon’s vitals.

It had been a few hours since the incident.

She was awake and sitting up in the bed, though she still looked pale.

Her once lively energy was drained, replaced with quiet contemplation. Minji stood at her side, arms folded, her expression a mixture of relief and lingering concern.

"So, I guess we’ll just have to win tomorrow’s game without our star player," she said, trying to lighten the mood, though her voice trembled slightly.

Yoohyeon smirked, her voice hoarse but steady. "Guess so. Can’t believe they’re actually making me miss one whole week of games and practice. But I’m kind of hoping you guys lose again. Because if we break our losing streak the one game I don’t play, I’ll know for sure that I was the Bad Luck Charm," she teased, but her usual spark was dimmer, a forced smile on her lips.

Gahyun just frowned slightly. “Not funny, Yooh. You know it could have been a lot more serious. One week is the least you deserve for terrifying us.”

Yoohyeon sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Bora was pacing near the door, her brow furrowed, unable to shake the anxiety that still gripped her. She stopped, her voice suddenly sharp. "Yoohyeon, seriously. You can’t ever let it get like that again. You scared the hell out of us. You scared me."

Her eyes were intense, not the usual fiery anger, but something more raw.

More real.

A deep sadness and concern that she felt in her bones.

Yoohyeon looked down at her hands, guilt settling in, her previous lightness now completely gone. "I didn’t mean to. I just... I thought I could keep pushing, you know? I didn’t think it would... I didn’t think I’d-"

"That’s the problem," Siyeon interrupted, her voice softer but filled with concern. "We all see how hard you work. We get it. We know you push yourself. But you can’t keep doing this to yourself. Not like that. You’re not invincible, Yoohyeon." She stepped closer to the bed, her gaze unwavering, as if trying to hold Yoohyeon’s attention with her words.

Yubin, usually the calm one, was now standing near the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, not like this. You have us. You have the team. We’re a team for a reason, Yoohyeon. So please… just stop with this crusade. Whatever it is. We already know who you are without you having to constantly show us. No more, please."

Her voice was softer now, tinged with a vulnerability that only seemed to slip out when the situation was dire.

And this?

It was as dire as it could possibly be.

Gahyun, who had been standing at the foot of the bed, stepped forward, her hands clasped in front of her. "Please, Yoohyeon. You scared us. I don’t care about the game or winning. I care about you. I don’t ever want to see you like that again. You’re more than just basketball."

Her voice cracked slightly, the fear still fresh in her eyes. It was the young and honest vulnerability that spoke volumes.

Though she had been upset with Yoohyeon over recent events, loyalty to Handong taking precedence, they were all still teammates who loved each other at the end of the day.

And despite everything, Yoohyeon had been nothing but kind to Gahyun ever since they first stepped on the court together.

Even after everything that happened, Gahyun’s care for her was genuine.

Yoohyeon opened her mouth to respond, but the weight of their words hit her all at once.

You’re more than just basketball.

She had never been told that before.

And she could feel the sincerity, the raw emotion in each of their voices.

Her voice took on a heavy sense of responsibility.

A quiet resolve.

She nodded slowly, swallowing hard as she spoke, her tone far more solemn now.

"I know," she whispered. "I won’t let it get that bad again. I promise. I’m… I’m sorry for everything."

The room was filled with a tense silence after that, as everyone absorbed her words.

For a moment, there was a slight sense of peace, but it didn’t really seem to last.

Yoohyeon wasn’t sure if the promises were more for them or for herself, but the weight of it all felt like too much.

The guilt, the pressure, everything.

Handong had been standing in the doorway this entire time, her hands gripping the frame so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

She had wanted to step forward, wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. She could feel her heart pounding, but there was nothing she could do.

Handong wanted desperately to reach out, to express her concern, to show that she cared, but she just… couldn’t.

She stood there, a silent observer, as the others spoke for her.

As they filled the void she wasn’t brave enough to address.

Yoohyeon’s eyes flickered toward the door, and for a moment, their gazes met. Handong’s throat tightened, and she quickly looked away, pretending like she hadn’t seen. Yoohyeon didn’t say anything, but there was a fleeting moment between them, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had been left unsaid.

The others didn’t notice the exchange.

Minji reached forward, placing a hand gently on Yoohyeon’s shoulder. "You will be okay, right?" she asked, her voice still filled with concern but softened now, as if she wasn’t quite sure of the answer herself.

Yoohyeon nodded, her smile returning, though it was small, and fragile. "Yeah, I’ll be fine. Doctors said I’d been pushing my body for too long. Over-exerting myself. They think I collapsed because I was short on fluids and oxygen from doing too much. They have me on IV drips right now and already gave me oxygen through a mask. Now, I just need a little time and rest.”

Siyeon sighed, soft concern in her expression. "Good. I don’t want to have to watch you get carried off the court again."

"Just… don’t scare us like that again, okay?" Gahyun asked, timid and fearful, as if she couldn’t trust the response.

Yoohyeon nodded again, more firmly this time. "I won’t. I promise."

As the group slowly began to relax, still watching Yoohyeon with lingering concern, Handong remained where she stood, rooted to the spot.

The words she wanted to say burned in her chest, but she couldn’t make herself speak them.

There was too much… too much that she had missed.

Too much she couldn’t fix, at least not right now.

For a brief moment, Yoohyeon’s gaze flickered back toward the door, catching Handong’s eyes again. This time, neither of them looked away.

But in the silence that followed, neither of them spoke.

—

Handong’s leg bounced outside the infirmary room as she waited for the rest of the girls to finish saying goodbye. Medical personnel were kicking out visitors for the night.

The sound and image of Yoohyeon hitting the floor played over and over again in her head on repeat, like some sick movie.

Her chest tightened as the dull thud rang in her ears. As she repeatedly endured her mind’s torture of watching Yoohyeon crumple to the ground again and again.

It wasn’t just the emotional exhaustion.

It was everything—basketball, their rivalry, the weight of their unresolved tension, and now this.

But as she stood waiting, she felt her breath getting shorter. Her throat closing in. Her heart beating wildly as her chest tightened.

And she felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to just get out.

The air in the infirmary felt suffocating, heavy with emotions that were too big for the small space. Handong couldn’t stay in there anymore, couldn’t breathe with the intensity of the moment pressing down on her.

She stood up abruptly, her legs shaky as she made her way to the door.

She needed to get away.

Handong didn’t know where to go, but her legs just carried her away.

Anywhere but here.

Yubin and Siyeon followed her without a word, not letting her retreat into herself like she always did.

They followed her all the way to the place her legs unconsciously took her.

The gym loomed ahead like a refuge, cold and quiet.

Handong pushed open the door and let it slam shut behind her, the sound reverberating in the vast, empty space.

Her breathing was still uneven, coming in shallow bursts.

She pressed her hands to her temples, her fingers threading through her hair as she paced back and forth.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, her voice cracking.

She just wished for it all to stop.

Handong paused abruptly in the middle of the court, staring at the hoop in front of her, the backboard blurring as tears welled in her eyes.

The sound of footsteps behind her made her whirl around.

Siyeon and Yubin stood in the doorway, both of them watching her carefully.

“Not now,” Handong snapped, her voice colder than she intended. She turned her back to them, her arms crossing over her chest as though that might hold her together. “I don’t want to talk.”

“We’re not leaving,” Siyeon said, her voice steady and resolute.

Handong let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Of course you’re not.” She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing. “Because that’s what you two do, isn’t it? Always meddling, always trying to fix things.”

“We’re not here to fix you,” Yubin said gently. “We’re here because we care about you.”

“Care about me?” Handong repeated, her voice laced with disbelief. “You don’t even know me.”

“We know enough,” Siyeon said, stepping closer. “We know you’ve been carrying this weight for years, and it’s killing you.”

“I’m fine,” Handong snapped, her voice rising. “I’m always fine. I’ve had to be fine. What other choice do I have?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she turned away, pressing her trembling hands against her face.

“Handong,” Yubin said softly, “you don’t have to be fine all the time. Not with us. Please… just help us understand. Let us in.”

Handong shook her head, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “You don’t want to understand. Trust me. It’s not worth it.”

“We’ll decide what’s worth it,” Siyeon said, her tone firm. “You can keep shutting us out, but we’re not going anywhere.”

Handong’s jaw clenched as she turned her back to them again, her hands curling into fists.

“I don’t need this,” she muttered. “I don’t need you.”

“Yes, you do,” Siyeon said, simply. Matter-of-fact.

She had loved Handong for so long that she knew exactly how to reach her. Even if Handong thought she was good at keeping people at arms’ length, Siyeon had always known her.

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and Handong’s composure cracked just enough for her voice to shake when she spoke.

“You don’t understand,” she said quietly, her back still to them. “You don’t know what it’s like to…” Her voice broke, and she inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself. “To never be good enough.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and she shook her head. “Forget it. Just leave me alone.”

“No,” Yubin said, her voice soft but unyielding. “We’re not leaving.”

“Why?” Handong demanded, whirling around to face them. Her voice rose, her words trembling with anger and desperation. “Why do you even care? I’ve done nothing but push you away. I’ve been horrible to all of you. To Yoohyeon.”

“Because you’re not horrible,” Yubin said firmly. “You’re hurting.”

The words hit something deep inside her, something she’d buried so far down she’d almost forgotten it was there. Her shoulders shook as she exhaled, the breath ragged and uneven.

“It’s no excuse for the way I’ve acted... but I don’t know how to not be fine,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Start with the truth,” Siyeon said. “Whatever it is, just say it. We’re here.”

The truth.

Where could she even start?

The one emotion that Handong had always known… was fear.

She so deeply kept all of her trauma hidden under lock and key because she was petrified to let herself finally be seen.

To be known.

There would be nothing left to hide behind if she told them all of her worst demons, the skeletons in her closet that haunted her and made her feel so trapped.

But the emotional toll of the day made her weak.

Really, it wasn’t just the emotional toll of the day. But, it was the weeks since the kiss.

The months since she’d met Yoohyeon and been forced to confront some of the worst parts of herself.

Seeing her collapsed on the ground limp in Minji’s grasp, wheeled out on a stretcher… It was all too much.

Handong was too weak to hold it in anymore.

She didn’t have the strength to hold up her fragile walls any longer.

“I used to think…” Handong began, her voice trembling. She stopped, shaking her head. “I used to think I just needed to be better. That if I was perfect, everything would be okay.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound tearing from her throat like broken glass. “But it was never enough. Nothing I did was ever enough.”

Siyeon and Yubin exchanged glances, but remained silent and gave her the space to finally confide in them.

To finally share the parts of herself she was petrified to let loose.

She stared down at the floor, her breathing uneven. “When I was seven, my dad was supposed to come to my first tournament. He promised he’d be there. But when I looked up at the stands before the game, he wasn’t there. He never showed up.”

Her voice wavered, and she clenched her fists. “When I asked him about it later, he said he forgot. Just... forgot.”

Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “And the times he did show up, all he did was point out what I did wrong. Every missed shot, every mistake—he never let me forget it.”

Her breathing quickened, and she pressed her trembling hands to her temples.

“I told myself it didn’t matter,” she continued, her voice breaking. “That I didn’t need his approval. But I did. I wanted it so badly. I wanted him to look at me and say he was proud of me. But he never did.”

She sank onto the nearby bench, her hands shaking as she covered her face.

“I was fifteen when I ruptured my achilles during a game,” she said, her voice distant. “I was in so much pain I couldn’t even stand, but my dad just stood there on the sidelines, yelling at me to get up. He didn’t even come to check on me. He just kept shouting, ‘You’re fine, Handong. Get back in the game.’”

Yubin sat down beside her, close but not touching. “That’s awful,” she said softly.

Handong shook her head. “That wasn’t the worst of it,” she said, her voice breaking. “After the game, when I was lying in bed with my foot swollen to twice its size, I heard him on the phone. He was congratulating another player’s parents... telling them how impressed he was with their kid. He never said anything like that to me. Not once. He didn’t even take me to a hospital until days had passed without me being able to walk.”

The tears came then, hot and relentless, and she didn’t bother wiping them away.

“The injury took me out for the rest of the season. Multiple surgeries. Never once did either of my parents try to comfort me.”

Handong said it almost lifelessly. Like she had wanted to forget about that moment, where she was forced through so much pain and the recovery all alone.

Siyeon knelt in front of her, hands resting lightly on Handong’s knees. “That’s not fair,” she said gently. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Handong just sighed, chest heavy with heartbreak. She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself before continuing.

“My mom…” she continued, her voice muffled. “She didn’t even care. As long as I wasn’t causing trouble, as long as I was winning, she didn’t even notice I existed.”

The weight of it all pressed down on her, and she felt herself spiraling. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfect. Trying to be good enough. And no matter what I did, it was never enough for them. It’s still not enough.”

Yubin did her best to console her, but Handong shakily resisted the comfort, pulling out her phone instead.

She opened up her Messages app and then thrust the phone into Yubin’s hands.

“You said you wanted to understand? Go on. Read it.”

Yubin started from the first text bubble she saw.

“dad. ik you’ve been super busy with coaching the nba cup rn and im not sure you’ve been keeping up, but wanted to update that we’re 4-0!! lots of scouts talking ab my high draft prospects. i think we can rly win this year!! miss you, love you ❤️”

dad 🏀: i watched a little. that yoohyeon girl is really good. look for her more, her off-ball movement is near pro-level. but watch your back. she’s making you look worse out there. the scouts are going to start talking about her instead if you don’t pick it up. be better in next week’s game. shoot more mid-range. right now, she’s the star of the team, not you. fix it.

Yubin saw that Handong didn’t reply to that.

Siyeon just stared in horror. It was such a cold and detached response to a daughter than any man would be proud to have.

Truly, most parents would have been over the moon to know their child was a prodigal basketball star who was undefeated.

She couldn’t even comprehend such cruelty.

All Handong had wanted was to hear some type of encouragement. A “Good job!” or an “I saw, and I’m proud.”

Instead, she just got… this. Nothing.

Actually, in some ways, it was worse than nothing.

Handong must have felt so crushed.

Then, Siyeon was suddenly hit with a realization.

“4-0…? He sent that when we were still undefeated…?”

Handong just nodded, lips pressed in a thin line.

“Yes. He sent that during practice that night. Right before Yoohyeon kissed me.”

And suddenly, everything seemed to finally make sense.

Her reaction to Yoohyeon, her hurtful words, her rejection, her detachment… Everything started slowly falling into place.

Yet, at the same time, nothing at all made any sense.

How could Handong’s father talk so coldly and dismissively to her? When Handong just wanted to express love and share her excitement over her successes?

Handong just smiled wryly. “Oh, you can keep reading. It gets better.”

Yubin looked back down at the phone sadly, not sure if she even wanted to.

There were only three texts after that, all from her father. Handong hadn’t been texting back.

She recognized the dates on the texts as the same days they had lost each of their three games.

dad 🏀❤️: just heard about the loss from the news. watched the game. what the fuck was going on with you? i did NOT teach you to turn over the ball like that. and your shot selection was so poor. whatever happened… fix it. before next week. you are embarrassing us.

-

dad 🏀❤️: again? that was one of the worst crunch time performances i’ve ever witnessed. you’re supposed to actually be good, handong. not whatever the hell i just watched. the media is dragging you through the mud. they’re even questioning me and your mother, saying you’re a fraud. that you only got here because we’re your parents. well, are they right??! your shitty play is starting to reflect badly on us. ruining our reputations and our legacies. get better NOW before you ruin everything. fix your shot, fix your ball movement, and fix the turnovers. you’re playing no better than a high school freshman.

-

dad 🏀❤️: three in a row. disappointing. get it together and start fucking winning or don’t bother coming home for break. you’re embarrassing our whole family.

Yubin slowly looked up and saw the angry tears in Handong’s eyes, even though the older girl wore a resigned smile.

“Understand now?”

“That’s… horrible,” Siyeon breathed.

Handong just nodded, breath coming to her shorter now.

“Every day. Every day of my life. That’s what I’d hear. I don’t remember him ever saying anything nice or caring or loving to me. Not ever. Even when I was the best on the court, it’d never be enough.”

And as she thought about all the ways she had been hurt, left alone with nothing but hatred for herself at not being enough, she began spiraling.

Her chest heaved as she suddenly struggled to breathe, her hands clutching at her knees.

Her breaths started coming in short gasps, chest feeling like it was collapsing.

The world around her felt both hot and cold as she tried to take in air that wouldn’t come.

“Handong,” Yubin said gently, kneeling beside her. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

“I can’t,” Handong choked out. “I can’t do this. I’ve tried so hard to be better, but I’m not. Nothing will ever satisfy them. And I can’t-”

She interrupted Handong’s panicked tirade by taking her hand and placing it soothingly against Yubin’s own heart.

“Okay, okay. Just follow my breath, feel my heartbeat. Breathe with me, Dongie.”

Handong took a second to slowly breathe along with Yubin, feeling Siyeon’s hand soothingly drawing circles on her lower back.

She exhaled sharply and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to stop the tears.

Then, almost inaudibly, she whispered the admission into the air. The admission that had tormented her so deeply for so long.

“I’m just like them.”

And as soon as she said it, those four words hung in the air.

Thickly blanketed the atmosphere, heavily weighing down on all three of them.

Before Handong could feel the mounting pressure in her chest again, Siyeon tried to interject.

“No, you’re not,” Siyeon said firmly, her voice cutting through Handong’s spiral. “They were cruel and horrible and… so, so neglectful of your feelings and your needs. You- Handong, you are nothing like them. “

“Yes, I am!” Handong shouted, her voice raw and desperate. “Don’t you see?! Look at how I’ve treated Yoohyeon. I pushed her, criticized her, tore her down, just like they did to me. I’ve become everything I hated about them.”

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. “I told myself I was doing it to make her better. To make her stronger. But that’s not true. I was just trying to make myself feel better. To feel like I had some control over something… I did it because I couldn’t stand to see her happy. To see her have what I never did.”

The shame was overwhelming, crushing her under its weight.

“I’m just as cruel as they were,” she whispered. “I became the thing I hated and feared most in the world. And I hurt someone the same way I vowed to never be hurt again.”

Her voice broke. “I fucking hate myself for it.”

“Hey,” Siyeon said forcefully. “You are not your parents. The fact that you can say this, that you feel this guilt... it proves that you’re not them.”

“I just… I just don’t know how to fix this,” Handong whispered. “I don’t know how to be better.”

“You start here,” Yubin said, squeezing her knees. “With us. With Yooh. You’re not alone, Dongie. Not anymore.”

Siyeon nodded in agreement. “You’re safe with us.” After a beat of hesitation, she added, “And I know you might not believe this, but you’re safe with Yoohyeon, too. I know you think she hates you or that you’ll ruin her if you get too close. But, she…”

Her voice trailed off as she remembered the way Yoohyeon collapsed today and how scary it had been.

Yet, as she was being wheeled off on a stretcher by a team of medical trainers, she was fighting to keep her eyes open.

And her eyes only wanted to find one person.

The whole team saw it.

“Yoohyeon will accept you,” Yubin finished for her. “You were the only person she wanted to find when she woke up. And I can’t explain how, but she has such strong feelings for you. Whatever you were trying to do to push her away, she never… Just give her a chance, Handong. Tell her the truth. She deserves to know.”

Siyeon sighed, wrapping her arms around her friend gently. Handong had finally shared all the parts of her she felt were ugliest. All the parts she never wanted to let out.

She had bared her soul for them, and Siyeon just wanted nothing more than to protect her from feeling the same hurt ever again.

“Dongie,” she whispered, tenderly. “You… you’ve fought your whole life just trying to be somebody. To mean something. But you never had to be anything for us. You just had to be you.”

Handong looked up at her friends, her face streaked with tears.

Her heart stuttered for just one moment.

Did Siyeon know that she had just spoken the exact words Handong’s heart had been yearning to hear her whole life?

Did Yubin know that her quiet reassurances and steady presence had just healed the part of Handong’s heart that had been broken since she was a child?

“Thank you…”

She whispered it so quietly that she was almost certain the others wouldn’t hear.

But they did.

“No need to thank us, Dongie. We were… You- I think you’d be surprised how many people you have in your corner. The people who really care wouldn’t let you push them away, no matter how hard you tried. We were just…”

Siyeon finished when she saw Yubin at a loss for words. “Thank you for finding the bravery to share with us. To bare your soul to us and lay out all your hurt. I know it’s not easy. But, you have us. Okay? Forever. You don’t have to fight your demons and the voices in your head telling you that you’re not enough. You don’t have to do it alone anymore. Let us fight them for you. With you. We’re here, and we’ll stay. Always.”

Handong allowed herself one more tear as she sat in the warmth and safety of her friends.

She had done nothing to ever deserve them.

But now that she had them, she refused to let them go.

Maybe, this was the beginning of learning to let people in. Learning that to love is not to push away, but to pull closer.

And for the first time, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she could allow herself to be loved because of her flaws, not in spite of them.

Chapter Text

The week following Yoohyeon’s collapse passed in a blur.

She had been forced to sit out—doctor’s orders—and though her pride stung watching from the sidelines, it turned out to be exactly what the team needed.

For the first time in weeks, they broke their losing streak and pulled off a win. Managed to escape the dreaded 0.500 record they thought was inevitable.

Yoohyeon sat on the bench, her hoodie pulled tight, as she watched Minji, Bora, Siyeon, Gahyun, Handong, and all their other teammates dominate on the court. The victory had been bittersweet.

She was thrilled for her team, but seeing them succeed without her had exposed a truth she couldn’t ignore: she and Handong had been holding the team back.

Their dysfunction, their constant pushing and pulling, had poisoned the team dynamic.

Without it, the others thrived.

But there was something liberating, too, about sitting on the sidelines.

For once, Yoohyeon wasn’t the one carrying the burden. She could cheer freely, screaming for every three-pointer Bora sank, every steal Minji grabbed, and every rebound Siyeon and Yubin fought for. She didn’t care if it embarrassed Gahyun everytime she yelled with joy whenever the younger girl drew a foul, cheering like a proud mom at their child’s first soccer game.

And then there was Handong, cool and composed as ever, leading the team with sharp passes and elite-level poise.

“You proud of them?” Minji had asked afterward as they celebrated in the locker room.

Yoohyeon had smiled softly.

Yeah. I really am.

Now, a week later, Yoohyeon was finally cleared to return to the court. Her pride still carried a small bruise, but there was a fire in her chest—a determination to not only prove herself but to make things better.

For herself. For the team.

To mend the damage to the team that her and Handong’s dysfunction had caused.

As the team filtered out after practice, Handong stayed behind, pretending to check her shoelaces while Yoohyeon gathered her things.

It was a nice change to see Yoohyeon leaving with the rest of the girls. Handong had gotten used to seeing her stay back every night to get in extra reps.

Had gotten used to the pit of concern she’d get in her stomach everytime, wondering when Yoohyeon would eventually reach her limit and burn out.

It seemed the shooting guard really had taken the team’s pleas to heart after her scary collapse last week.

Handong’s heart raced when she saw Yoohyeon heading toward the door.

This was her chance.

“Yoohyeon!” Handong called, the name coming out rougher than she intended.

Yoohyeon paused mid-step, turning to face her with a guarded expression. Her eyes were wary, and Handong couldn’t blame her.

Not after everything.

“Uh…” Handong rubbed the back of her neck, her throat suddenly dry. She had practiced what to say in her head all day, but now, faced with Yoohyeon, it all felt inadequate.

Come on, just say it.

“I noticed something in your game,” Handong said finally, her voice softer. “You’re good at shooting, obviously, but when you drive to the rim, you’re not as fluid. Your ball handling in certain situations… it could be sharper. Do you want- Can I… Can I help you with it?”

Yoohyeon blinked, surprise flickering across her face. *Help?*

Of all things, she wasn’t expecting that.

“You… want to help me with… my handles?” Yoohyeon asked carefully, enunciating every word.

Like she was testing the waters.

Handong nodded. “I just… I thought it might help you get past double-teams easier. And we both know you always eventually end up getting double-teamed every game. I know you hate losing control on a drive, and sometimes the different defensive looks mess with your rhythm.”

She tried to sound casual, but the nervous edge in her voice betrayed her.

It was at least nice to know that despite her utter insistence not to recognize or acknowledge Yoohyeon, Handong had always been paying attention.

Even down to the smallest and most minute details of how a different defensive look changed the way she dribbled and attacked drives.

Yoohyeon looked at her for a long moment, searching for hidden motives.

But all she saw was genuine effort. Awkward and unpolished, but effort nonetheless.

Finally, she sighed and shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Relief washed over Handong, and she quickly masked it with a curt nod. “Meet me back here at nine. Just us.”

Yoohyeon raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “Fine. But if you pull any of your usual stunts, I’m leaving.”

Though she was still hurt by what had happened between them, she was able to recognize this for what it was: Handong was extending an olive branch.

Finally, after all this time.

And Yoohyeon, despite her hurt, at least had the grace to accept it.

That’s what made her Yoohyeon.

No matter how much she hurt, she would still find a way to put that aside for the sake of the other person.

Handong only further realized that her friends were right to have such faith in the young shooting guard as someone she could trust and feel safe with.

Handong allowed herself the faintest smile as Yoohyeon left.

“Fair enough.”

—

The gym felt eerily quiet at this hour of the night, the absence of shouting and chaos leaving only the soft echoes of the ball hitting the court. Yoohyeon dribbled absently, waiting for Handong, wondering what had suddenly changed and driven her to reach out.

When Handong walked in, holding her own ball under one arm, the usual tension between them hung in the air.

But tonight, it felt different... less sharp, less hostile.

“Alright, let’s see your drive,” Handong said, setting her ball aside. “Take me one-on-one.”

Yoohyeon raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Handong nodded. “I need to see what you’re doing wrong first.”

Yoohyeon hesitated, but shrugged and lined up. She dribbled toward Handong, trying a quick crossover and moving to her left, then stopping quickly to go behind-the back towards the right.

Handong shuffled easily into position, blocking her path with minimal effort.

“Too predictable,” Handong said, catching the ball when Yoohyeon fumbled. “Your rhythm’s actually really clean, but you telegraph your moves. I can read you like a book.”

Yoohyeon scowled. “I thought this was supposed to be helpful.”

Handong smirked faintly but softened her tone. “It will be. Let’s work on some combos.”

For the next half hour, Handong drilled Yoohyeon on tighter, more complex ball-handling combinations.

“Crossover into a hesitation. See? Keep your defender guessing.”

Yoohyeon practiced it several times until Handong nodded in approval.

“Good. Now try adding a spin move when they bite on the fake. It gives you space.”

Yoohyeon grunted through the drills, sweat forming on her brow as Handong pushed her to refine each move.

But this… this was exactly the reason they were so special.

While Yoohyeon was unquestionably the top of the league in shooting and perimeter defense, Handong had her beat in terms of vision and ball-handling. Where Yoohyeon was strong in rebounding and off-ball movement, Handong excelled in getting steals and making impossible passes in traffic.

Where one was weak, the other was strong.

It’s what made them so magical. So dynamic. So electric.

Or…

What had made them so special.

Before everything fell apart.

But here in this moment, what surprised Yoohyeon most was how patient Handong was.

She didn’t criticize or belittle.

She just taught.

It was so unlike her usual sharpness that Yoohyeon couldn’t help but feel thrown off.

“Good. Now again, but faster,” Handong said, bouncing her own ball.

“You really love this stuff, huh?” Yoohyeon muttered, half-teasing as she swiped sweat from her forehead.

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at,” Handong replied quietly.

“And when I play, I don’t think about… anything else. It’s just me and the ball. No noise.”

The honesty caught Yoohyeon off guard.

She studied Handong for a moment as Handong turned away, focusing on a shot.

“Must be exhausting, though,” Yoohyeon said softly. “All that pressure to be perfect. I’ll bet the media was on you from the moment you were born, considering who your parents are.”

Handong paused, the ball balanced on her hip. “It is. Exhausting, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever… not felt the pressure.”

Yoohyeon hesitated before smiling faintly. “Well, Coach… glad you don’t feel the need to be perfect around me because wow, one of those spin moves earlier was… questionable.”

She knew it was dangerous to test the waters with a quip like that. But she couldn’t resist.

Handong turned to her sharply, her eyes narrowing, but then…

She laughed, a wide smile blossoming on her usually critical and stoic features.

The laugh wasn’t loud or dramatic. But it was real.

“Guess I’m human after all,” she replied. “Alright, come on. Now, it’s your turn to tell me what’s wrong with my jumper. My mid-range and corner threes hit every time, but I can’t seem to ever get my threes from the wing to go. Is it my angle, my arc…? Something else?”

Yoohyeon couldn’t help but grin back, before setting her ball down to observe Handong’s jump shot.

The sight of Handong smiling like that made something warm bloom in her chest.

A fragile but undeniable hope.

—

The following night, Yoohyeon sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by Minji, Bora, and Yubin.

It had become routine for them to unwind in Yoohyeon’s dorm after tough practices, sharing snacks and reliving the day’s moments with playful teasing and laughter.

Tonight, though, the energy was softer. Warmer.

“You’re smiling more lately,” Bora teased as she unceremoniously dumped herself onto Yoohyeon’s comforter, opening a bag of chips.

“I mean, you’re still grouchy and exhausted as hell, but that’s progress. Let me guess…” Her voice took on a sing-song lilt. “Has our ice queen Handong finally decided to thaw for you?”

Yoohyeon stiffened at the question, cheeks reddening.

She hadn’t yet told anyone about her (now) nightly escapades with Handong after practice.

She tried to play it off with a scoff, reaching to grab the snack bag from Bora’s hand. “You wish. It’s not like that.”

Minji, sitting by the window, narrowed her eyes knowingly. “But something’s changed. You don’t have to tell us, Yooh. But you can, if you want to.”

And that was Minji.

Gentle, patient, and always leaving the door open.

Yoohyeon swallowed hard, looking down at the edge of her blanket as she clenched the fabric between her fingers.

It wasn’t what was going on with Handong that had her feeling so contemplative these days.

So lost in thought and caught in her own head.

It was something else entirely.

Something much sadder.

But she didn’t know how to tell them.

For a moment, the room was quiet save for the faint hum of her dorm heater.

“Yooh?” Yubin prompted softly, leaning forward on the desk chair she’d claimed.

Perceptive as ever, Yubin had instantly noticed something shift in Yoohyeon.

She wanted it to feel like a safe space to share.

Yoohyeon looked at her, and the safety and security she found in Yubin’s eyes emboldened her to finally say it.

“You guys ever feel like… no matter how hard you try, you’re still losing?”

Yoohyeon’s voice was so quiet, it barely reached the others.

The joking atmosphere evaporated instantly.

Bora sat up straighter, Yubin stilled, and Minji’s expression softened.

It came out of nowhere, really. Yoohyeon wasn’t even sure why she said it.

She had been reflecting so much on her life after the recent events, but she never expected herself to just blurt it out like this.

Even though she liked to think of herself as generally open and warm, there were still some parts of her that she’d always kept private.

This was one of them.

And maybe it was just the fragility of everything that had happened recently.

Maybe it was the fact that she felt like things could finally be going well for her.

Maybe it was just that her friends were so constantly caring and loving that she trusted them even with her deepest scars.

But once she put those words out, she knew there was no going back.

“What do you mean?” Bora asked carefully.

Yoohyeon exhaled shakily.

She could feel the cracks forming inside her, a pressure she’d kept buried for years rising to the surface.

Don’t cry.

Don’t cry.

“My parents,” she began, her voice trembling. “They’re the kindest, hardest-working people in the world. But we… we never had enough. Ever. They worked all the time—two, sometimes three jobs each. I barely saw them, and even when they came home, they were too exhausted to do anything but collapse. But they… they still found ways to make me feel loved.”

Minji shifted off the windowsill and perched herself next to Yoohyeon on the bed, placing a steady hand on her back.

Yubin and Bora remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“I remember being just a kid,” Yoohyeon whispered. “And being so hungry I couldn’t sleep. We’d only have two meals a day sometimes, and my mom… she would say she wasn’t hungry so I could eat. I was a kid, but even then, I knew. I knew. I watched my dad fall asleep standing up because he was working his third consecutive double shift. But they never complained. They loved me so much even though I knew we were in an impossible situation. And I… I used to sit there at night, wondering how I could fix things. How I could make things better.”

Her voice cracked, tears threatening to spill. “I was nine. I was already trying to figure out how to save them. I’d write down ideas in a notebook... like, stupid little plans. Maybe I could sell lemonade or wash cars. Maybe if I just worked harder, I could do something. Anything. I just wanted to help.”

Yubin came over and put a hand on her knee. She gently squeezed, silently showing Yoohyeon that she was there.

She had no idea Yoohyeon had gone through any of this.

It was heartbreaking to imagine a nine-year old Yoohyeon, already all grown-up, dreaming of the day she could save her parents from this hell.

That should have never been a child’s job.

She had been forced to grow up so much faster than she should have. Forced to become a child so wise and mature beyond her years.

Yoohyeon wiped roughly at her tears. “They always tried to hide it from me, you know. They were amazing, and they never wanted me to know we were struggling. But I always knew. And I thought we’d be stuck forever. No way out. But- then… then basketball happened, and it felt like hope.”

Her voice faltered for one second, as she relived all the hopeful dreams of young Yoohyeon, who only ever wanted to take away her parents’ pain. A young Yoohyeon who knew she was a financial burden, another mouth to feed, another person to clothe with money they didn’t have.

A young Yoohyeon who only ever wanted to alleviate her parents’ suffering, instead of feeling like the cause of it.

“If I could just get good enough… if I could make it big… I could get us out. My parents would never have to work another day in their lives. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To take care of them the way they’ve always taken care of me.”

Bora’s voice was quiet, but firm. “But that’s not fair to you, Yooh. You were just a kid.”

“I didn’t feel like I had a choice. I just didn’t want to be a burden anymore,” Yoohyeon whispered. “Having a kid’s not cheap. Even back then, I knew that. When I saw my mom slowly lose parts of her dignity to beg our neighbors for hand-me-down kid clothes,orwhen my dad nervously checked his wallet everytime I asked to get an ice cream… I was young, but not stupid. I knew they were going through so much hardship partially because they were always trying to take such good care of me. I just… I didn’t want them to have to sacrifice for me anymore.”

Minji’s heart clenched.

She had known Yoohyeon the longest of anyone. Had played alongside her and been her best friend all the way through high school.

But even she had never known this.

She couldn’t help but cup Yoohyeon’s cheek, gently using the pad of her thumb to wipe away the tears. There was nothing more she could do as her friend broke right in front of her.

Yoohyeon leaned into the comforting touch, letting out a choked laugh.

Bitter and hollow.

“And now I’m here… but what if I fail? What if I’m not good enough to keep my scholarship? My parents cried for hours when they found out… They were so proud. I didn’t- I was too scared to tell them that it was conditional, based on my performance. That one bad game could get it taken away forever. I mean… how- how could I tell them that when they looked so happy? So… relieved? I- If I’m not the best I can be for even one second, I’ll have to leave school and move back. I won’t get drafted. It’ll all fall apart. All the sacrifices my parents made… for nothing.”

Yubin felt her heart clench.

She finally understood why Yoohyeon worked so hard—ground herself down to the bone—to be the best she could be.

Failure was absolutely not an option for her.

And sitting here on this bed together, watching her fall apart and face her most petrifying fears and insecurities, it felt like she was finally seeing Yoohyeon for the first time.

“I can’t- I can’t let them down. I can’t let everything they did for me mean nothing. I have to be able to… to help them. Pay them back and give them a good life like they worked so hard to give me. And... she- if I fail, she’ll have been right.”

Bora visibly flinched at the sheer vitriol with which Yoohyeon spat that word. “Yooh… who’s- who’s she?”

Yoohyeon hesitated for just a beat too long.

It was one of her deepest wounds. A scar she wasn’t sure she was ready to let bleed again.

But Bora’s concerned and soft gaze gave her the courage to carry on. To feel like she had finally found people who could help her carry her burdens, instead of having to drown under them alone.

“In high school…” Her throat tightened. “There was this girl. I thought she cared about me. I thought she understood me. Her name was Dayeon.”

Minji tensed beside her, already knowing where this was going.

While Yoohyeon had done everything in her power to preserve her parents’ dignity and keep so much of their struggles at home hidden, this part of the story was one Minji knew intimately.

Knew all too well.

Because she was the one who had held Yoohyeon through multiple breakdowns, comforted her through countless tears, and worked tirelessly to mend the broken pieces of her heart and put her back together.

Yoohyeon inhaled sharply, trying to steady her breathing. “At first, she was everything. Kind, funny… she made me feel special. Like I wasn’t alone. But then… it changed. She started making me feel like… like I was a burden. Which- after everything with my parents… it was my biggest fear. Dayeon would tell me I cared too much about basketball—that I was selfish for prioritizing it. Selfish for prioritizing my family. She said she couldn’t understand why I was letting basketball come between us. She never even tried to understand.”

Yoohyeon’s tears fell harder now. She knew these next words by heart. Heard them over and over every night when she tried to sleep.

“One night, she told me that she didn’t even know why I was trying so hard. Because everyone knew I would never make it pro. She told me I wasn’t good enough, and that I was chasing a dream I could never achieve for some stupid reason she couldn’t understand. Dayeon… she said that my parents would be angry and disappointed if I let them believe I had what it took to go pro, only to fail in the end like I inevitably would. That I would be a bad daughter for doing that to them… getting their hopes up that we could be saved… instead of pursuing a normal job and making their sacrifices to put me through school worth it.”

Minji flinched as if the words had been aimed at her.

It hurt just as badly to hear everything again now as it had back then when Yoohyeon first told her.

She remembered the visceral rage she had felt when Yoohyeon first broke down in her arms, repeating those horrible words.

Minji was not usually one to resort to anger, but Dayeon’s careless and cutting words had made her want to do unspeakable things at the time.

She saw that same rage now mirrored in the way Bora’s face hardened and jaw clenched.

Yubin’s mouth parted too, her expression stunned.

Yoohyeon was a soul far too kind and gentle to ever deserve to be talked to like that.

Truthfully, nobody deserved to be talked to like that, but certainly not Yoohyeon.

It was genuinely infuriating to imagine a young and vulnerable Yoohyeon, determined to save her parents from the hell they’d endured for so long, to finally trust someone enough to share her feelings of guilt. And then, to be shut down like that? To be told she wasn’t enough, told it was only a matter of time before she failed. That in her effort to finally help her parents, she would not only fail epically, but disappoint them beyond repair in the process.

She must have been so devastated and heartbroken.

Ruined.

“Yooh…” Bora’s voice trembled with fury. “You know that’s not… I’m going to fucking kill her.”

“She- she said I was too much. That I had too much baggage to be loved,” Yoohyeon continued, her voice small and broken. “Too intense. Too emotional. She told me I’d never be enough for anyone. That nobody would ever see me in all of my hurt, and think I was worth it. And the worst part is…” She let out a choked sob. “I believed her. I still believe her. Every time I step on that court, I’m trying to prove I’m not as worthless as she made me feel.”

Minji didn’t hesitate. She pulled Yoohyeon into a tight hug, holding her as her sobs wracked her body.

“She was wrong,” Minji whispered fiercely. “You’re not worthless, Yooh. You never were. She doesn’t get to decide your worth. And I swear to God, if I could go back and fix it… if I could take that pain away… I would.”

“We all would,” Bora added, her voice thick with anger. “She’s so fucking lucky I don’t- God… Yooh. I- You deserved so much better than that.”

Yubin scooted closer, her voice soft but steady. “Yooh, look at me.”

When Yoohyeon finally lifted her head, Yubin’s gaze was unwavering.

“You’re enough. You always have been. None of this is your fault—not your family’s struggles, not that girl’s cruelty. You’re the strongest, most caring person I know. And we love you for it. Do you hear me? We see you in all of your heartbreak, with all of your hurt, and we love you anyway. So, she was clearly wrong when she said no one could think you’re worth it. She was wrong about all of it. I look at you and I see someone worth so much more than anything I could ever say. I see someone with such a good heart that I feel I could never deserve you. Okay? So, just know… I don’t… she’s a fucking bitch. I’m so sorry you ever had to hear those words said about you. And I’m even more sorry that she made you believe them. I’m just so sorry.”

And for a long time, Yoohyeon just cried.

Those words cut through all the voices of self-hatred, wrapping around her like a warm blanket. A protective shield from all the self-loathing she had fought for so long.

Her friends stayed with her, holding her together as years of pain and self-doubt poured out. She’d spent so long pretending to be perfect, carrying burdens too heavy for anyone to bear.

But here, surrounded by their warmth and unwavering belief in her, she let herself fall apart… because she finally had people she could trust to carry it all with her.

People who would hear her struggles and support her, instead of throwing it all back in her face. Instead of trying to strip away every ounce of self-worth she had.

“Thank you,” she whispered finally, her voice small but steady.

Minji hugged her tighter. “Always, Yooh. Always.”

Bora smiled softly. “You’re stuck with us. So if you ever feel that doubt again… please talk to us. We’ll remind you just how much you’re stuck with us. Forever.”

After a beat, she continued casually. “Oh… and I wasn’t lying about what I said earlier. I’m going to find her and make her deeply regret ever even looking in your direction.”

Yoohyeon let out a shaky breath, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through her tears.

“I know you would. And I love you for it. But please… no criminal activity. She doesn’t deserve our time and effort. Not anymore.”

And here, in her friends’ arms, she felt a little piece of her heart healing.

Chapter Text

The gym was humming with energy as the team ran their final drills. Sneakers squeaked against polished wood, and the rhythmic thuds of basketballs echoed off the walls.

The faint scent of sweat and determination hung in the air—not unpleasant, but evidence of how hard they’d all been working.

Yoohyeon was tired, but in a good way.

A satisfying exhaustion, the kind that came from pushing herself but not teetering into collapse.

She had been more careful. Her teammates wouldn’t let her be otherwise.

Minji had made sure to shoot her pointed glances anytime she pushed too hard, and Bora and Gahyun hadn’t been above physically dragging her off the court earlier in the week when she stayed for extra reps.

Still, Yoohyeon felt good today. Light. The ball felt natural in her hands, her shots fluid and clean.

“Alright, bring it in!” Coach called, blowing her whistle to signal the end of practice.

Yoohyeon let out a breath, bending forward with her hands on her knees to steady herself. Around her, the girls moved into a loose huddle at center court, gathering for the usual wrap-up.

She straightened just as someone nudged her arm.

“Here,” Handong said quietly, holding out a water bottle.

Yoohyeon blinked, surprised by the small gesture.

She stared for a moment longer than she should have, registering the subtle way Handong averted her eyes like she didn’t want this noticed.

It wasn’t much—just a water bottle—but coming from Handong, it was something.

A peace offering.

“Thanks,” Yoohyeon mumbled, taking it from her. The water was cool against her palm.

Handong didn’t respond, only gave the faintest tilt of her chin before turning her focus to the huddle.

“Good work today,” Coach started, his voice carrying across the gym. “You’re finally moving as a unit. We’ve got the game against Ridgewood coming up, and if we keep up this momentum, they won’t know what hit them. Let’s get our win streak back.”

Yoohyeon listened half-heartedly, still acutely aware of the water bottle in her hand.

And who had given it to her.

It wasn’t much, but it sat in her chest like a small, flickering warmth.

After Coach finished talking, the girls dispersed, some heading for the locker room while others lingered to shoot around.

Yoohyeon moved to grab her duffel bag, wiping sweat from her face with a towel when a shadow fell over her. She looked up to see Handong standing nearby, holding a basketball under one arm.

“You still pushing too hard?” Handong asked, her voice low but clear.

Yoohyeon frowned lightly, caught off guard. “No. I’m fine. For real this time.

The other girl just raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Stretch. Your calves are tight. I could see it in your last sprint drill.” Handong gestured to the ground, as though her logic were obvious.

Yoohyeon hesitated, glancing around. The others were busy chatting or shooting; no one seemed to notice the two of them.

“You don’t have to baby me,” Yoohyeon said with a faint edge, but there was no real bite in her voice.

“I know. And I’m not,” Handong replied evenly. “You’re just now coming back from the literal brink of collapse. I’m just making sure you stay that way. I want to make sure all of our players are playing at their best. Come on, sit.”

With a huff that sounded more like reluctant amusement than frustration, Yoohyeon sank to the floor, extending her legs out in front of her. Handong knelt opposite her, setting the basketball to the side. She placed her hands gently on Yoohyeon’s left calf, pressing carefully into the muscle.

Yoohyeon tensed instinctively.

It wasn’t Handong’s touch itself that startled her, but the softness of it.

The care.

“Relax,” Handong murmured. “You’re wound up like a rubber band.”

“I don’t like people touching my legs,” Yoohyeon grumbled, though she didn’t pull away.

Handong smirked faintly, her thumb pressing into a particularly tight spot. “You’re just mad I noticed it before you did.”

Yoohyeon let out a small groan, half in pain and half in reluctant agreement. “Fine. Maybe. A little.”

“Predictable as ever,” Handong said, her tone softer now—a teasing edge, but not unkind. Her hands worked skillfully, easing the tension from Yoohyeon’s calf before moving to the other leg.

“You never stop. Even when you should.”

Yoohyeon’s throat tightened slightly at that. The truth of it.

“What about you?” she countered, forcing her voice to stay light. “You’re one to talk.”

“I know my limits,” Handong replied simply. “You just don’t listen to yours.”

Yoohyeon glanced down at Handong’s hands as they finished working over her muscles, releasing a pressure she hadn’t even realized was building. Her lips twitched faintly.

“Well, that’s because I’m stubborn.”

Handong sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on her shorts. “No argument there.”

For a moment, the two of them sat there in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable… just quiet.

Yoohyeon studied Handong out of the corner of her eye.

The hard lines of her expression were softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Thanks,” Yoohyeon said softly.

It felt strange coming from her, directed at Handong of all people.

But she meant it.

Handong’s gaze flickered to her, something unreadable passing through her dark eyes before she nodded curtly.

“Yeah… sure.”

—

The next day, Handong drained her entire water bottle as the team walked toward the locker room.

She felt the lingering tension in her shoulders from practice and considered whether to stay and get a few extra reps in when a voice broke through her thoughts.

“Sit.”

Handong blinked, turning to look at Yoohyeon, who stood nearby with her hands on her hips. “What?”

“You’re always stiff after drills. Stretch. I’ll help with your back.”

Handong raised an eyebrow, surprised. “I’m loose…. I already stretched.”

Yoohyeon rolled her eyes. “Oh, so I’m stubborn, but you what… don’t need my help? Sit down, Handong. Let me help you, too.”

Handong let out a reluctant sigh, but she couldn’t stop the faintest tug at her lips.

“Fine.”

She lowered herself onto the bench, and Yoohyeon stepped behind her. She felt Yoohyeon’s hands press gently into her shoulders, thumbs digging just enough to release the tightness she hadn’t even realized was there.

“You’re worse than me,” Yoohyeon muttered softly. “Always carrying everything by yourself.”

Handong stilled for a beat, her chest tightening at the words.

She said nothing, but something in the way Yoohyeon worked—steady, careful—unraveled something inside her.

It wasn’t just the physical knot in her shoulder that Yoohyeon unraveled, but the one of tension and pain that had made its home in her stomach.

She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself to lean into the care being offered to her for once.

“Better?” Yoohyeon asked after a moment.

Handong opened her eyes, exhaling a slow breath. “Yeah.” She looked up at Yoohyeon, her voice quieter. “Thanks.”

Yoohyeon gave her a small, almost shy smile, before grabbing her own bag. “Don’t mention it.”

It shouldn’t have been a big deal... Yoohyeon helping her relax, returning the care Handong had offered earlier.

But as Yoohyeon moved to grab her bag, Handong found herself watching her with something unreadable in her chest.

Maybe it was surprise.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Something she wasn’t ready to name yet.

—

Handong lingered for a moment near the benches, bouncing the basketball lightly against the floor as Yoohyeon packed up.

They had still been keeping up with their late-night meet-ups to re-develop their connection and help each other improve.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable anymore—just quiet, like they were both trying to adjust to this new rhythm.

Yoohyeon, bag now in place, paused and turned to her. “Are you sticking around for extra shots?”

Handong raised an eyebrow. “Why? You worried about me overworking now?”

Yoohyeon shrugged, though her expression was teasing. “I’m just trying to return the favor.”

Handong tilted her head, her gaze thoughtful. “I was going to. It’d be less exhausting if you could rebound for me.”

Yoohyeon just nodded, dropping her bag without hesitation.

The two of them moved naturally onto the court, Yoohyeon retrieving rebounds while Handong took a series of long-range jump shots.

Her form, as always, was picture-perfect, though a few shots clanged off the rim, missing their mark. Yoohyeon let one ball bounce toward her foot, catching it with a grin.

“I thought you were supposed to be our star player and team captain,” Yoohyeon teased lightly, tossing the ball back. “I’ve seen you hit those a hundred times.”

Handong shot her a dry look but didn’t seem irritated. If anything, her lips quirked into a faint smirk. “I don’t see you making anything either.”

“Because you’re hogging the ball,” Yoohyeon shot back.

“Then prove yourself.”

Yoohyeon tossed her bag aside with exaggerated drama. “Fine. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Handong passed her the ball, and Yoohyeon sank into her shooting form with practiced ease. Her first shot from the arc swished cleanly through the net, as if to emphasize her point. Handong huffed, though a corner of her mouth betrayed amusement.

“Alright, show-off.” Handong grabbed the rebound and lobbed the ball back. “Let’s make this interesting. First to make fifteen wins.”

“Oh, you’re so on.”

For the next ten minutes, they traded shots back and forth, the quiet gym echoing only with the sound of bouncing balls, sneakers scuffing the floor, and the occasional good-natured insult when one of them missed.

Yoohyeon drained her last three-pointer with a grin, throwing her arms up triumphantly.

“Game. Told you.”

Handong snorted faintly, shaking her head. “Whatever.”

But her tone was far from annoyed.

There was a small part of her that knew she’d lose. Challenging Yoohyeon in anything shooting-related was a fool’s errand. She wasn’t sure why, but there was a part of her that yearned to have any excuse to spend a little extra time with the shooting guard.

Instead of the usual annoyance that had so easily marked her face in times past, there was now a kind of ease there.

Instead of annoyance, there was a kind of ease there.

Like she’d forgotten to keep her walls up for once.

By the time they finally left the gym, it was almost midnight.

They walked in companionable silence toward the locker rooms, Handong spinning the ball idly between her fingers.

“So, you really think I’m overworking myself?” Handong asked after a beat, her voice light but probing.

Yoohyeon glanced at her sideways. “Sometimes, yeah. You work so hard to be the best that you sometimes forget to take care of yourself. But that’s probably hypocritical coming from me. Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Handong slowed slightly, absorbing the words. She didn’t reply right away, and Yoohyeon didn’t push her.

Instead, she let the statement sit between them like a quiet truth.

They were so deeply similar in so many more ways than they realized.

The two were almost at the doors when a familiar voice broke through the quiet.

“Well, well, well. Look at this. Imagine my surprise when Yoohyeon hasn’t returned to the dorm for hours, so Minji and I come here to make sure she isn’t passed out on the floor, only to find that you’re now best friends?”

Bora appeared out of nowhere, leaning casually against the locker room entrance.

Her usual sharp edge was missing, replaced by something closer to teasing curiosity. “What happened? Did someone hit you both over the head with a basketball? Repeatedly?”

Yoohyeon groaned immediately, pulling her hood up. “Why do you always appear at the worst times?”

Bora grinned, clearly enjoying Yoohyeon’s discomfort. “Oh, I live for moments like this.”

She shifted her attention to Handong, her smirk turning just a little more playful. “And you. Stretching people out after practice? Running late-night shooting drills? In all our years playing together, I’ve never heard of such things. Are you going soft on us?”

Handong’s gaze flicked toward her coolly, though her expression betrayed nothing. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Bora?”

“Oh, I’m right where I need to be,” Bora said lightly, looking suspiciously smug. “Anyway, I’m just glad to see our captain finally acting like part of the team. Who knew it would take Yoohyeon of all people to get you to soften up?”

Yoohyeon opened her mouth to protest, but Minji’s sudden arrival cut her off.

She looked relieved to finally find them and see everything was okay, but there was an obvious energy in the air.

“What’s going on here?” Minji asked, her eyebrows raising as she looked between the three of them. Her sharp eyes landed on Bora first. “Are you stirring up trouble again?”

“Who, me?” Bora asked, feigning innocence. “Never. I’m just celebrating this beautiful new teamwork I’m witnessing.”

Minji gave her a skeptical look before turning to Handong and Yoohyeon, noting how neither of them denied Bora’s observations outright.

“You know what? I’ll allow it. Keep this up, and maybe we can actually make playoffs.”

“Can we not talk about this?” Yoohyeon grumbled under her breath, tugging her hood further down.

Handong, for once, didn’t bite back. Instead, she brushed past Bora with a faint smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bora called after her as Handong left to head home. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

Minji shook her head, falling into step beside Yoohyeon as they started heading to the dorms. “I’m just saying… it’s nice seeing you two get along. Don’t let Bora scare you off.”

Yoohyeon shot her a look but didn’t respond.

And as she stepped through the locker room doors to leave, she caught Handong’s eye from a distance. For just a moment.

It wasn’t much—just the faintest look, a shared understanding—but it lingered in her chest longer than she expected.

—

The team had just finished another grueling week of practice.

Luckily, they had managed to put another game in the win column.

The playoff race was finally in full swing, and the girls needed to win as many as they could so they could be the highest seed.

That urgency had been reflected in the intensity of their practices.

By the time Yoohyeon and Handong returned to the dorms after their now customary late-night session, most of the girls had already gone to bed.

The air was crisp with the remnants of autumn, and the walk back had been unusually quiet between them.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, by any means. They had been developing a tenuous camaraderie as of late. But it felt fragile, like something too new to define.

Yoohyeon lingered in the common lounge, idly spinning her basketball on her fingertips as Handong paused near the elevator.

“You good?” Handong asked, breaking the silence.

Yoohyeon looked up, startled. “Yeah. Just unwinding.”

Handong hesitated, leaning against the wall. “You don’t unwind much.”

Yoohyeon shrugged, her gaze flicking back to the ball. “Not really my thing.”

For a moment, Handong considered leaving it at that, but something made her stay.

Maybe it was the way Yoohyeon had carried herself all week—pushing harder than usual, her determination bordering on desperation.

With the playoffs in sight, she had almost been regressing to her previous ways.

Handong had no idea why Yoohyeon always pushed like that, so set on working herself to the bone.

“You were good today,” Handong said, her tone deliberately casual. “Better control on your drives.”

Yoohyeon’s head snapped up, her surprise evident.

Compliments from the star point guard were extremely rare, and very hard to come by. Yoohyeon, especially, had not been on the receiving end of very many.

“Thanks.”

Handong nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching into the faintest smile.

But then, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she added, “You know, if you stopped overthinking every move, you’d probably be unstoppable.”

It was meant to be constructive, maybe even encouraging, but the words landed wrong.

She could immediately tell that what she said was a mistake.

Yoohyeon’s expression morphed to one of confusion for just a moment.

Then, it darkened.

“Overthinking?” she repeated, her voice low.

Handong straightened, sensing the shift. “Wait, I didn’t mean-“

“No, I get it,” Yoohyeon interrupted, her tone sharp.

“You think I’m too in my head. That’s the problem, right? It must be. Surely not the fact that I have to work twice as hard just to be half as good as someone like you.”

Handong was taken aback by the sudden vitriol.

She felt like they had finally been building something.

Something good.

And with one wrong word, it suddenly was crashing down all around her.

Again.

Her brows furrowed as she desperately tried to recover the tenuous peace they had been building. “Whoa, hey… that’s not what I-”

“You know what? Just save it,” Yoohyeon snapped, rising to her feet.

The basketball rolled off her fingertips and thudded softly against the floor.

“You don’t get it, Handong. You never will.”

She tried to turn away, but Handong grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.

“No. You don’t get to just walk away from me. What is it that I don’t get? Go on, tell me,” Handong said, her voice rising slightly.

“Is it that you’re under pressure? That you’re fighting for something? Newsflash, Yoohyeon, we’re all fighting for something.”

Yoohyeon’s laugh was bitter, almost hollow. “Oh, really? And what exactly are you fighting for, Handong? Another trophy for your perfect little shelf?”

Handong’s jaw tightened. “Don’t act like you know me.”

“I know enough,” Yoohyeon shot back. “You’re the prodigy. The golden child. Everything comes easy for you. Your parents, your talent, your natural ability—you don’t know what it’s like to fight for every inch. To have to claw your way up from nothing.”

The words were harsher than Yoohyeon expected, but she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

“You stand there, judging me, pushing me, making me feel like I’ll never be enough… and for what? So you can feel better about yourself?”

Handong’s fists clenched at her sides, her voice dropping to a dangerously low tone.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Yoohyeon hissed, stepping closer. “You’re terrified. You’re so scared of letting anyone in that you’d rather tear them down first. You hide behind this perfect image because you can’t handle the fact that you’re just as broken as the rest of us.”

Handong’s eyes flashed, something sharp and venomous rising to the surface.

She didn’t know how they had gone from teasing and joking not even ten minutes ago, to this ugly mess they had become.

But she was no longer worried about restoring the peace, like she initially had been.

She hated the way Yoohyeon talked like she knew anything about the hardship that Handong had to grow up with.

Now, Handong just wanted to say words that hurt.

She took a step forward, her voice cold and cutting. “You think you know so much about me, don’t you? Well, let me tell you what I know about you. You’re a burden, Yoohyeon,” she spat, the words dripping with disdain. “You don’t belong here. And deep down, I think you know that. You’re dragging everyone down.”

Yoohyeon’s breath hitched.

Her heartbeat stuttered for just one second, the words ripping through her.

She wanted to stop this. Wanted to leave before it got worse.

But she had too much hurt stuffed up inside to go, not when Handong was trying so hard to tear her down.

She wanted to be the bigger person, but she just couldn’t stop herself.

Not after Handong used the words she knew would cut deepest.

“And there it is. The truth finally comes out, doesn't it? What you really think of me. I always knew you looked down on me. How can anyone not born a prodigy be worthy of your presence?” Yoohyeon mocked, eyes bright with anger. “You’ll push away anyone and everyone you don’t deem worthy or good enough to be alongside the Great Handong. Isn’t that right?”

Handong’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening further.

Yoohyeon didn’t know her.

She didn’t know anything about her.

The fact that she believed so whole-heartedly that Handong’s entire life had been so easy… handed to her on a silver platter.

That Handong had never suffered or had to work for anything…?

The thought of it drove her over the edge.

If only Yoohyeon knew just how much Handong had suffered, maybe she’d be able to get off her self-righteous high horse and realize she had it all wrong.

“Look at you, Yoohyeon. Still fighting!” Handong said, sardonically. “Maybe there’s a good reason for pushing you away. Do you just need to hear me say it? Fine then! You’re not worth it, Yoohyeon. Worth acknowledging or knowing or getting close to. You never will be. That’s all it is, okay? Just get over it.”

Yoohyeon froze.

She felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her.

Her heart stopped, the breath knocked out of her lungs like she’d been sucker-punched.

The pain of those words shattered her and cut her in ways she never thought possible. The agonizing heartbreak was immediate and devastating.

Deep down, she knew that Handong wasn’t like this. She knew that the older girl was just pushing her buttons and trying to get under her skin with words she knew would devastate.

But, even if Handong didn’t really mean them, those words landed.

Deep and hard, like a bullet straight to the chest.

They were the same words that had once ruined her.

Yoohyeon’s breath hitched again, her chest tightening painfully as the harsh comments hit their mark. But the fire in her eyes didn’t dim.

If anything, it just burned hotter.

“You think I wanted this? To always feel like I’m never enough? You think I enjoy chasing after your approval just to be crushed every single time?”

Handong’s expression was steely. “Then stop chasing it. If you hate it so much, why does it matter to you what I think?”

“Because!” Yoohyeon snapped. “Because you’re the best, okay? And if I can’t measure up to you, then what the hell am I even doing here?”

“Measuring up?” Handong repeated, her tone icy. “Measuring up…? Yoohyeon, I thought you would have learned by now that hard work alone isn’t enough.”

She paused to let the words land, then continued ruthlessly. “You’re right about one thing… I am the best. So I can guarantee that you’ll never be good enough to play with people like me. You work so hard just to feel like you’re someone important, but the truth is, you’ll always fall short of people who are actually born for this game. Born with talent and ability in ways you never were. One day, hard work isn’t going to be enough and your inadequacy will cost us. So, just save us that pain and go.”

Yoohyeon took a step back, physically wounded by the words. She didn’t even have time to gather herself before Handong piled on.

“I think I finally see it now. This is what you don’t understand, isn’t it? This is why you’ll never be great or make it big. Because what you try so hard to compensate for in effort, you lack in natural ability and talent. And maybe that was fine in your little Division Three League, but it won’t cut it here and it certainly won’t cut it in the big leagues. You’ve spent all this time worrying about measuring up, but the truth is, you never did. And you never will.”

Yoohyeon’s face twisted in pain, but she refused to back down. “At least I’ve worked for everything I have! You have no idea what that’s like. You’ve had your entire life handed to you. You call it talent and ability, but I call it what it really is. Privilege. You just can’t stomach the fact that if my life was as perfectly and nicely set up as yours, I’d be just as good as you. Maybe even better!”

Handong’s voice lowered to a deadly whisper. “You think this was all just… handed to me? You think my parents’ reputation made this easier? Do you know what it’s like to have your every move scrutinized from the moment you can walk? To have expectations so high that even perfection isn’t enough?”

Yoohyeon’s eyes were brimming with tears, but her voice didn’t waver. “At least you had a head start. At least people expected something from you. I had nothing. No resources, no connections. Just me, fighting tooth and nail for every inch. You don’t know what it’s like to be invisible.”

Handong’s jaw clenched, her expression cold and detached.

“And maybe there’s a reason you were invisible. Maybe you should’ve stayed that way.”

All of the air rushed out of Yoohyeon’s lungs, as she stood there completely stunned.

Her heart clenched, the weight of all the hurtful words they’d exchanged finally settling in.

Tears streamed freely down her face now, but she didn’t care.

“Fine,” Yoohyeon whispered, her voice trembling. “If that’s how you feel, then I’ll save us both the trouble.”

Handong’s face faltered for the briefest second, guilt and deep regret flashing across her eyes.

She immediately wanted to take it back.

But once they had started, she just couldn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop herself, even though they were words she didn’t mean.

Words she knew would ruin them.

Handong opened her mouth, her voice unsteady. Apologetic.

“Yoohyeon-”

“Don’t,” Yoohyeon cut her off, her tone breaking under the weight of emotion.

“Just don’t.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Yoohyeon grabbed her bag, her hands trembling, and stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Handong alone in the crushing stillness.

Handong stared at the closed door, her chest tightening with regret.

The words she had hurled in anger replayed in her mind, each one sharper than the last. She hadn’t meant them—not really.

But now, with Yoohyeon gone, the weight of what she’d done was unbearable.

And with all the progress they’d just destroyed in one fell swoop, Handong wasn’t sure this could ever be fixed.

—

An hour later, Handong sat in her dorm room, the only light coming from the small lamp on her desk.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand for the fourth time in as many minutes, but she ignored it.

The screen lit up with Siyeon’s name.

Again.

She buried her face in her hands, the echoes of the fight replaying in her mind on an endless loop. The venom in her own voice, the way she’d been hurt by Yoohyeon’s words, the tears streaming down Yoohyeon’s face as she spewed venomous insults that hurt worse than any physical blow ever could…

It all felt so suffocating.

A knock on the door broke the silence.

Before Handong could say anything, Siyeon let herself in, closing the door quietly behind her.

She didn’t speak right away, just crossed the room and sat on the bed beside Handong.

“Minji called me,” Siyeon said finally, her voice firm but measured. “Yoohyeon’s a mess. What happened?”

Handong flinched, her throat tightening.

Siyeon’s tone wasn’t harsh or accusatory, but there was an urgency to it that made Handong’s shame burn hotter.

“We fought,” Handong admitted hoarsely. “I- I said things I didn’t mean. Horrible things. Things I shouldn’t have said. And it got… ugly.”

“How ugly?” Siyeon’s voice softened slightly, but her brows drew together with concern.

Handong swallowed thickly, her head falling into her hands. “Ugly enough that she might never want to speak to me again. I told her she was a burden, Siyeon.” Her voice cracked on the word.

“I told her to quit. That she’d never be good enough. And I saw her break right in front of me. I saw it, and I didn’t stop. I- I couldn’t.”

Siyeon inhaled sharply, her hand clenching slightly on the edge of the bed. “Handong,” she said, her voice low but tight with emotion. “Why would you say that?”

Handong’s head snapped up, her eyes red and raw. “I don’t know! Okay? I don’t… I don’t know!” she cried.

“We were talking. Just talking. It was almost nice, you know? And then suddenly, everything shifted. I could see it coming, like a car crash in slow motion, and I still couldn’t stop myself.”

Siyeon’s shoulders relaxed slightly, her expression softening as she saw the torment in Handong’s face. “Dongie…,” she said, her tone gentler now. “You can’t keep doing this to her. Or to yourself.”

“I wanted to hurt her,” Handong admitted, her voice trembling. “She said some harsh things that were just… she had everything so wrong. I just wanted her to feel as miserable as I do, and I knew exactly what to say to make it happen. And I said it.”

Her voice broke completely, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I’m such a fucking coward, Siyeon. I push everyone away because I’m too scared to let them in. And she was… she was trying. She was trying to let me in, and I destroyed her.”

Siyeon reached out, placing a comforting hand on Handong’s shoulder. “That’s what you do, Dongie. You have to realize this,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration but not unkind. “You push her away, then decide you’re going to fix it. That you’ll finally tell her the truth. But you don’t. You never do. Instead, you ruin it all over again.”

Handong’s breath hitched, her voice breaking. “I was trying this time,” she whispered. “After the last time, after… after the kiss, I promised myself I’d fix it. I was going to tell her the truth. I wanted to. And we were finally building something. I felt… safe enough to try. I put in the effort, Siyeon. The little things, the trust, the peace offerings… I thought maybe we could get to a place where I could be honest with her. And then I… I fucked it all up.”

Siyeon sighed, her frustration tempered by concern. “Yeah, you did. But do you think Yoohyeon’s going to wait around forever? She’s hurting, Dong. It sounds like she lashed out because you’ve never given her any reason not to. And she’s not going to keep trying to break through your walls just to get hurt over and over again. She’s not just some punching bag who can stand around forever and take your hits. At some point, she’s going to break. You don’t have time to spiral about how you ruined it. You need to fix it.”

Handong looked down at her hands, her tears flowing freely. “She doesn’t deserve this,” she whispered. “Not from me. Not after everything she’s been through. Why can’t I stop doing this?”

“Because you’re scared,” Siyeon said simply. Her voice was soft but firm. “But you don’t get to use that as an excuse anymore. You owe her better than this, Dong.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Handong said, her voice breaking again. “I don’t know how to stop ruining everything.”

Siyeon’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “You apologize. You tell her the truth. For real, this time. You stop hiding behind that mask and let her see you. The real you.”

“What if it’s too late?” Handong’s voice was small, almost childlike.

“Then you still try,” Siyeon said firmly, her eyes softening with care.

“Because she deserves that. And so do you,” she paused before shaking her head. “God, Dongie… aren’t you tired? Because I’m so fucking tired of watching you both go through this same cycle. Just end it already. Be brave enough to free yourselves from this. Please.”

Handong’s tears flowed faster, the weight of her regret and fear crashing over her like a tidal wave. Siyeon pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly as she broke down completely.

“You’re not alone, Dongie,” Siyeon whispered. “You don’t have to figure this out by yourself. But you have to take the first step. You have to try.”

Handong nodded against her shoulder, her sobs quieting but her heart still heavy.

She didn’t know if she could fix what she’d broken.

But she owed it to Yoohyeon to try.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in practice was dark.

Where there used to be a constant buzz of energy and camaraderie, a heavy silence now hung over the team.

Everyone felt it.

It wasn’t just the absence of Yoohyeon’s usual brightness or dominance on the court—it was the way her friends moved with an unmistakable weight, their expressions drawn and tired, like they were carrying something far too heavy for them to bear.

Like they were grieving something.

Yoohyeon’s sadness was palpable, even when she tried to mask it.

Where she had once been fiery and angry after their first argument and the kiss, now she just looked hollow.

Her energy was gone, replaced by a dullness that clung to her like a shadow.

It was the way her shoulders sagged during practice. The way she barely spoke to anyone.

The way her eyes, once so vibrant and determined, now seemed unfocused and far away.

And yet, she still showed up.

Every practice, every game prep, she was there.

She gave everything she could, even if her movements lacked the spark they once held.

For Handong, it was a cruel reassurance—a tiny thread of hope that maybe there was still a path back.

That Yoohyeon hadn’t fully given up, even if she was on the edge.

It was enough to make Handong believe she might still have a chance to fix things, no matter how impossible it seemed.

But what struck Handong the most was how that sadness seemed to ripple outwards, pulling everyone else down with it.

Minji, once the most dedicated to keeping team morale up during warm-ups, now barely spoke.

Her usually cheerful demeanor and raucous laughter had been replaced by a grim and strained silence.

Bora, always sharp-tongued but playful, had become irritable and harsh, snapping at teammates for the smallest mistakes.

And Yubin, usually their rock, the one who always seemed to hold it together no matter what, now looked shattered. Her eyes were rimmed red, her movements sluggish, like she was barely holding herself upright.

Perhaps that was the most jarring part.

It was this sharp contrast—the way Yubin, their constant pillar of strength, now looked utterly devastated—that made Handong’s stomach churn with unease.

It felt like there was more to their sadness than she was aware of, like something bigger was unfolding that she hadn’t fully grasped yet.

They weren’t just feeling sadness for their friend and her hurt… they were actively mourning something.

Grieving something.

And Handong felt the weight of their collective sadness press down on her like a physical force.

She knew she was the cause.

She saw it in the way Yoohyeon’s gaze darted away whenever they were near each other, how she never stayed behind to practice anymore, never lingered long enough for Handong to even try to apologize.

Handong wondered if she had finally, truly done something unforgivable.

Pushed the younger girl all the way over the edge.

But what really broke her was when Yoohyeon didn’t show up to their next morning practice.

The team was gearing up for one of their biggest games of the season. Even with all the lingering tension, Yoohyeon had always been there—early, focused, determined.

No matter what was going on in her life, Yoohyeon had never once missed a day.

Sick or healthy, rain or shine… Yoohyeon always showed up.

Always.

So, her absence sent a ripple of unease through the entire team, and Handong felt it like a punch to the gut.

She waited as long as she could, hoping Yoohyeon would walk in late, but when the clock ticked past any reasonable delay, she couldn’t keep it in any longer.

Bora was the closest one to her, lacing up her sneakers with an aggressive focus that matched the stormy expression on her face.

Handong hesitated before stepping closer, her voice low and uncertain.

“Bora,” she started. “Where’s Yoohyeon?”

Bora looked up sharply, her eyes blazing with something close to hatred.

Handong flinched but didn’t back away.

“Why do you care?” Bora asked coldly, standing up to her full height and crossing her arms. Though Handong was several inches taller, she felt so much smaller than Bora under her hateful gaze.

“No, really. Haven’t you done enough?”

The words hit like a slap, but Handong forced herself to stay calm.

“Please,” she said quietly. “I need to know.”

Bora’s lips curled in a bitter sneer. “Oh, suddenly she matters to you? Now that she’s finally breaking? You don’t get to act concerned after everything you’ve said to her. You don’t get to act like you’re surprised that she’s...”

Her voice wavered, and she swallowed hard before continuing.

“She’s submitting transfer applications.”

Oh.

Oh.

Handong froze, the words hitting her like a freight train.

“What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Bora’s eyes narrowed, her anger boiling over. “You heard me. She’s leaving. And why wouldn’t she? You told her to quit. You told her she didn’t belong here. That she should’ve stayed invisible. And guess what? She listened. You pushed and pushed until she finally broke. You constantly drove her away, thinking she’d keep coming back. But now you’ve made us all lose her. Are you happy now?”

Handong stumbled back, her ears ringing.

The memory of her own words crashed over her, the venom she’d spewed and Yoohyeon’s reaction replaying in her head.

“And maybe there’s a reason you were invisible. Maybe you should’ve stayed that way.”

“If that’s how you feel, then I’ll save us both the trouble.”

She had been angry, defensive, hurt… but she had never thought Yoohyeon would actually…

Bora’s voice cut through her spiral, sharp and unrelenting. “Do you even know what you’ve done? Do you know what leaving means for her?”

Handong blinked, her throat dry. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s only here on a conditional scholarship,” Bora snapped.

“Her parents can’t afford to send her anywhere else. If she leaves and can’t find another school to give her a full ride, she’s done. No basketball, no degree… just nothing. She’s risking everything because of what you said to her. How fucking worthless and unwanted you made her feel.”

The weight of Bora’s words hit like a sledgehammer. Handong staggered, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

She had known Yoohyeon was here on a full ride, but she had no idea about any of the other parts.

“I- I didn’t know,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Of course you didn’t know,” Bora hissed. “You don’t know anything about her. All you’ve ever done is tear her down to make yourself feel better. And now you’ve finally pushed her far enough to leave.”

Handong’s chest ached, the enormity of what she had done crashing over her.

She thought of Yoohyeon’s quiet sadness, the way her friends had looked at her like they were mourning something...

They were.

Mourning her presence on this team, her future, her basketball career, her chance at a college education…

Her family.

Handong had destroyed it all.

Every word, every action, every moment of cruelty... it had all led to this.

But now, a cold wave washed over her as she realized she couldn’t let it end like this.

She had spent so long standing on the edge, teetering between pushing people away and wanting desperately to pull them closer.

But this was it.

This was the moment where she had to decide who she wanted to be.

Her fists clenched, and she straightened her back, trembling with resolve.

She couldn’t let Yoohyeon leave.

Not like this.

Not because of her.

Every step Yoohyeon had taken toward her, every ounce of trust she’d given Handong, couldn’t be erased by this.

Handong wouldn’t allow it.

“Where is she?” Handong demanded, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.

Bora looked at her for a long moment, something flickering in her eyes. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t know. Probably her dorm. But don’t think for a second that I’ll ever forget the things you said to her. If you fuck this up again...”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

Handong nodded, the weight of Bora’s unspoken warning settling heavily on her shoulders.

She knew the only reason Bora even told her—despite her clear disdain—was because she knew deep down that Handong was the only person who could fix this.

Without another word, she turned and ran, her heart pounding as she left the gym.

She didn’t care about the whispers of her teammates that followed her, the shock of her sudden departure.

None of it mattered.

Her mind was singularly focused, every fiber of her being driving her toward one goal: getting to Yoohyeon before it was too late.

Fixing the mess she had created.

Fixing them.

She couldn’t let Yoohyeon go.

—

The dorm hallway was eerily quiet as Handong stood outside Yoohyeon’s door.

Her fist hovered in the air, trembling slightly as she tried to summon the courage to knock.

Her mind raced, replaying every bitter word, every cruel comment, every moment where she had chosen to push instead of pull.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

When she had finally run from practice, determined to fix what she had broken, the weight of it all had crushed her.

She knew she was terrible at this—at apologies, at vulnerability.

At saying what needed to be said.

But the thought of letting Yoohyeon leave, of letting her walk away from everything without at least knowing the truth…

It was unbearable.

So, she knocked.

A soft shuffle came from the other side, followed by silence. Handong waited, her pulse pounding in her ears. She wondered if Yoohyeon was even there.

But then the door creaked open, and there she was.

Yoohyeon looked like a ghost of herself.

Gaunt and pale… lifeless.

Her eyes were glassy and puffy, her hair messy, and the heaviness in her expression was nearly paralyzing.

But what struck Handong most was the resignation in her gaze, like she had already given up.

“What do you want?” Yoohyeon’s voice was hoarse, but it lacked the anger Handong had come to expect. Instead, it was quiet and tired, like she didn’t have the energy to fight anymore.

“I need to talk to you,” Handong said, her voice low and hesitant. “Please.”

Yoohyeon hesitated, her hand still on the edge of the door. For a moment, Handong thought she might slam it in her face.

She honestly wouldn’t have blamed Yoohyeon if she did.

But instead, the younger girl stepped aside, letting her in.

The room was small and sparse, with a neatly made bed on one side and a desk covered in papers on the other. Handong’s eyes fell on the papers.

Transfer applications.

Her stomach twisted painfully, but she forced herself to focus.

Yoohyeon sat on the edge of her bed, her arms crossed defensively. “Say what you need to say.”

Handong took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she clasped them in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she began, the words feeling foreign and clumsy in her mouth.

“For everything. For the things I said. For the way I’ve treated you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Yoohyeon’s expression didn’t change, but her gaze dropped to the floor. “Then, why?” she asked softly. “Why did you do it? Why have you always treated me like I’m nothing?”

Handong swallowed hard, her throat tightening.

“Because I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfect, trying to live up to expectations that feel impossible. And then you came along, and you were so good. So determined. You made me feel like I wasn’t enough. And instead of dealing with that, I took it out on you. I’m so sorry, Yoohyeon. I was wrong.”

For a long moment, Yoohyeon didn’t respond.

Then she let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You think I’m good? Handong, I’ve spent my whole life fighting just to keep up. I’ve had to claw my way here, step by painful step, because nothing has ever come easy for me.”

Her voice cracked, and she looked up, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Do you know what it’s like to come from nothing? To watch your parents work themselves into the ground just to keep food on the table? To wish you could do anything to help them instead of being just another burden to them? To know that every second I’m here, I’m carrying their sacrifices on my back? And then to have you…” Her voice broke completely.

“To have you tell me I don’t belong and throw it all back in my face? To say that I really am a burden? That I was everything I feared the most?”

Handong’s heart shattered at the raw pain in Yoohyeon’s voice.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, her own tears threatening to fall.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know any of that. At practice this morning, Bora told me… she told me everything. About the scholarship and about you transferring- because of… me.” Her breath hitched on that last word.

Confronting the reality that this was her doing.

“I had no idea until she told me, but when she did, I couldn’t… I- Please understand… how much I regret it all. I didn’t mean to- I never stopped to think about what you were going through. I’m so sorry.”

Yoohyeon wiped her eyes angrily, her hands shaking. “And what about the other things? The things you said about hard work not being enough? About how I’ll never measure up? Do you have any idea how much that cut me?”

Handong’s chest ached. “I didn’t mean it,” she said urgently. “I was just trying to hurt you because I was hurt. It was cruel and stupid, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. But I didn’t mean what I said. Any of it.”

Yoohyeon’s voice wavered, but her words carried the weight of all her scars.

“You weren’t the first person to tell me that, you know. My ex used to say things like that all the time. That no matter how hard I worked, I’d never be good enough. That I was selfish for chasing basketball, for putting my dream and my family above her. That I was a bad daughter for wanting to succeed in this to take care of my parents, instead of pursuing a normal career where I would actually ‘have a chance.’ That I was throwing away their sacrifices because it was obvious to everyone but me that I’d fail.”

Yoohyeon’s eyes watered and she squeezed them tightly shut, resisting everything in her wanting to let the tears fall.

“She made me feel so small, Handong. So worthless. Like I was hard to love. Like I had so much baggage that no one would ever see how hard it was to love me, and think it was worth it. So when you said those things to me, it felt like I was right back there, fighting just to breathe.”

Handong felt like she’d been punched in the gut. “Yoohyeon… I didn’t know. If I had known…” Her voice trailed off as the implications of what she’d said finally rained down on her.

She didn’t know about Yoohyeon’s pain or her scars.

She had pushed buttons, not realizing how badly they’d hurt.

Silence settled between them as Yoohyeon bit her lip, using every ounce of effort to resist breaking down.

“But you didn’t. You didn’t know. And you couldn’t have,” Yoohyeon finally said after a long pause.

Her voice was quiet but firm.

“Because we never tried to understand each other. We were so caught up in our own pain that we didn’t stop to see what the other was going through.”

Handong nodded, her tears falling freely now. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That’s on me, too. I couldn’t- I just made whatever assumptions about you that made me feel better about myself. I tore you down in my mind to build myself up. And you never… you never deserved that. You- I’m so sorry. I should have made more of an effort to understand you. To make you feel seen.”

Yoohyeon just stood, unsure what to do. She was so overwhelmed with emotion.

The crushing weight of reconciliation.

She didn’t know what to say, or how to feel about Handong’s apologies.

Handong let out a shaky exhale, as if summoning the courage to finally let herself be seen.

“Yoohyeon… you- you deserve to know the truth about me, too. I hid it from you… from everyone. Because I couldn’t be weak. I couldn’t be vulnerable or imperfect in anyone’s eyes. But I realize now that was unfair. I’ve never really given you the chance to understand either.”

Yoohyeon didn’t respond, but her silence felt like permission.

Handong took a deep breath and began, steeling herself.

“My parents,” Handong started, her voice trembling, “they’re two of the greats. Everyone knows that. But to them, I was never their daughter. I was their project. Their next masterpiece. From the moment I could hold a basketball, they drilled me like I was- like I was some… some soldier. I was never allowed to just… be a kid.”

Yoohyeon’s brow furrowed as she listened, her heart already aching at the rawness in Handong’s voice.

“They had this motto: ‘Weakness is failure.’ And failure wasn’t acceptable. Not ever. I remember once, I was eight years old, and I sprained my knee during a practice. My mom told me to stop crying because tears wouldn’t fix it. My dad made me play through it anyway. I could barely run, but he didn’t care. He told me that pain was temporary, but winning is forever. And you know… if that happened now, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Because I can take it. I can play through the pain and I can be what they need me to be. But back then…? I was just a kid. I was only eight. I wanted their love and comfort, not their harsh critiques and indifference. I mean… I was crying in pain and they just- they just didn’t care.”

Yoohyeon’s eyes widened in horror, but Handong wasn’t done.

“When I was ten, I missed a layup during a regional tournament,” she continued, her voice cracking. “One layup. Box score said I had a triple-double. Shot 95% from the field. It was the most perfect game I’ve ever played, even to this day. All I had was that one missed layup. We still won the game, but it didn’t matter to them. That night, my dad brought out a hammer and smashed the trophy right in front of me. Until it was just scraps. And he- he laughed when I cried. I was only ten. Most kids in the league were just there to have fun or because their parents wanted them to socialize. But for me, it was never about having fun or making friends. My parents never allowed it to be. My dad just… he just kept smashing my trophy. Threw the remains in the trash and told me I didn’t deserve it. My mom just stood there, nodding like he was right. And I… God, I believed them. I thought I didn’t deserve anything unless I was perfect.”

Yoohyeon’s hands clenched tightly, her knuckles white.

She couldn’t fathom ever going through an experience like that.

“Handong… that’s…”

“Oh, no. There’s more,” Handong interrupted, her tone bitter. “When I was thirteen, I lost a game because I couldn’t hit my shots. Nothing was going in. My dad was furious. When we got home, they wouldn’t let me inside. They locked the door and told me I needed to ‘sit with my failure.’ I cried on the doorstep, banging on the door, begging them to let me in. I told them I’d be better, that I’d never fail again. But they didn’t care. They left me out there overnight. I spent the whole night curled up by the door, trying to stay warm, crying until I couldn’t anymore. Begging and begging them to forgive me. And the next morning, they let me in and just acted like nothing happened. No hugs, no apologies, no checking if I was alright or warm. Anything could have happened to me alone out there at night, but they didn’t care. Weren’t even worried. All that punishment… for what? One off day?”

Yoohyeon’s throat tightened, her own tears threatening to fall.

She had always seen Handong as untouchable, someone who had everything handed to her.

She never imagined this.

“And then there was the championship,” Handong whispered, her voice hollow. “Junior year of high school. It was supposed to be my big moment, the one that cemented me as the best player in the league. But I missed a free throw in the final seconds. We lost by one point.”

Yoohyeon shook her head, her heart breaking as she anticipated what was coming.

“When we got home that night,” Handong continued, her voice trembling, “my dad didn’t say a word. He just walked past me and slammed the door to his office. He didn’t speak to me at all for the entire next week. My mom, though… she stood in the hallway and looked at me like I was the biggest disappointment she’d ever seen. She told me I had embarrassed the family name, that I wasn’t worthy of carrying their legacy. And then…”

Her voice cracked, and she looked down at her hands. “She slapped me. Hard. Told me that if I was going to fail like that again, I might as well not bother coming back. She never did it again. Never touched me or laid hands on me. But I never forgot how much it hurt. Not the physical pain of it, but the pain of everything else behind it.”

Yoohyeon gasped, her hand covering her mouth as the tears she had been valiantly trying to hold back finally escaped.

She felt an inexplicable rage coil in her stomach at the thought of Handong’s parents doing all of this. Putting her through all this.

In that moment, all Yoohyeon wanted to do was scream.

Scream at them for ruining their daughter like this. Hit them back until they finally felt the same pain they had forced Handong to live with for so long.

“Handong…”

“The worst part?” Handong let out a bitter laugh, her tears falling freely now. “I believed her. I spent the rest of that year trying to prove her wrong, trying to be better, trying to be worthy of love that they were never going to give me. And every time I thought I
was getting closer, they’d find another reason to tear me down. It took me a long time to realize that they’d just never… never love me in the way I hoped they would. But even now… I sometimes allow myself to hope that I’ve finally earned it. Their love. And when I inevitably get proven wrong, I feel so stupid every time.”

Yoohyeon couldn’t hold back anymore. Her tears streamed down her face as she whispered, “Handong… I didn’t know. I thought… I thought your life was so perfect, so easy. I said all those things, but I didn’t- I… I’m so sorry… I had no idea.”

“I know,” Handong said softly, her voice thick with emotion.

“That’s what I let everyone think. Because if they saw the cracks, if they knew how broken I am… they’d see me for the failure my parents always said I was.”

Yoohyeon shook her head vehemently. “You’re not a failure, Handong. You’re not. You’ve been through so much, and you’re still here. You’re still fighting. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Handong let out a shaky breath, her gaze meeting Yoohyeon’s for the first time since she started speaking.

“And you… you’re not a burden, Yoohyeon. You never were. I said those things because I was scared. Scared of letting you in, scared of being vulnerable, scared that if I let myself care about you, it would only end in more pain. But I was wrong. I see that now. And I’m so sorry for everything I said, everything I did. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Yoohyeon nodded, tears streaming down her face. “And I’m sorry, too. For thinking I knew you, for saying all those things that must have made you feel so misunderstood. I was… I was so caught up in my own pain that I never stopped to think about yours.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, their breathing the only sound in the room.

Finally, Yoohyeon reached out, her hand trembling as it rested on Handong’s.

The touch burned, but not in a bad way.

It was filled with so much care and tenderness that Handong almost broke.

Not many people had ever touched her with a love so palpable and gentle.

She had always been afraid to let people in. That if they knew the truth, they’d never understand.

But Yoohyeon did.

She understood. Accepted her in all of her brokenness, even when she had given Yoohyeon no reason to.

Handong’s breath hitched.

The kindness in Yoohyeon’s touch was burned into her brain. Seared into her skin.

“What do we do now?” Yoohyeon asked softly.

Handong squeezed her hand, her lips trembling into the faintest of smiles. “We try… We stop hurting each other. We stop assuming the worst. And we… we move forward. Together.”

Yoohyeon nodded, a small, tentative smile breaking through her tears.

“Together.”

For the first time, the air between them felt lighter, the weight of their shared pain no longer suffocating.

No longer something so heavy and unbearable.

They had finally seen each other.

Truly seen each other.

And it was enough to make them believe that maybe…

They could heal.

Chapter Text

The team hit its stride in a way that just felt... right.

Where the first few games of the season had been riddled with tension, their recent matches were nothing short of perfect.

Victory after victory piled up, and by the time the playoffs rolled around, they had established themselves as the undisputed championship favorites again.

Their once-fractured dynamic now felt like an unspoken promise on the court—a connection so intuitive that their opponents simply couldn’t keep up.

It was impossible to ignore how Yoohyeon and Handong had finally started to trust each other again.

Every fast break, every pick-and-roll, every pass…

It all just clicked.

In the first playoff game, the energy in the arena was electric.

Yoohyeon was on fire, sinking threes from every corner of the court, while Handong orchestrated the offense with the precision of a maestro. Late in the third quarter, Handong whipped a no-look pass to Yoohyeon, who drained the shot without hesitation.

The crowd erupted, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met as Yoohyeon jogged back on defense.

It was fleeting—just a shared glance—but it said everything.

They were finally in sync again.

Yoohyeon’s lips quirked into a small smile, and Handong’s lips twitched in response, almost imperceptibly. To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing.

But to them, it was everything.

The second playoff game was even more intense. The opposing team had studied their every move, determined to disrupt their rhythm. But Handong and Yoohyeon were unstoppable.

Right before halftime, Yoohyeon drove to the basket, drawing a double team. In a dizzying rush, all the memories of Handong helping her with different combos came to her and her muscle memory took over. She put on a shockingly impressive display of handles, breaking the double team, and without looking, dished the ball back to Handong who was now wide open for a clean mid-range jumper.

She sank it, of course.

On the next possession, Handong returned the favor, threading a bounce pass through two defenders to Yoohyeon, who nailed a fadeaway jumper from the baseline.

The synergy was undeniable, and the crowd easily fed off the energy of their dazzling display. By the time the final buzzer sounded, their team had secured another decisive win.

In the third playoff game, their chemistry only grew stronger.

With the game tied and only seconds left on the clock, Handong dribbled past two defenders and lobbed the ball to Yoohyeon, who soared for a perfect alley-oop layup. The crowd erupted in cheers, and their teammates swarmed them as the buzzer signaled their victory.

For a moment, Yoohyeon and Handong were caught in the middle of the celebration, their eyes locking in mutual understanding.

“You were amazing,” Yoohyeon murmured as they broke apart from the group, her voice just loud enough for Handong to hear.

“So were you,” Handong replied, her tone carrying a rare warmth.

For the first time, she allowed herself to really smile, the kind of smile that made Yoohyeon’s chest feel both light and full all at once.

And in the quieter moments between games, the romantic tension between them was impossible to ignore.

During one practice, Handong adjusted Yoohyeon’s shooting stance, her hands lingering a second too long on Yoohyeon’s arms. Yoohyeon’s breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world faded away.

Their gazes met, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air until Coach’s whistle snapped them back to reality.

Both flushed, quickly turning back to the drill, but the charge between them remained.

Off the court, their interactions grew softer, easier. During practices, they began teasing each other lightly, their voices carrying over the sound of bouncing basketballs.

Handong would ruffle Yoohyeon’s hair after a successful drill, and Yoohyeon would poke fun at Handong’s rare missed shots.

Their teammates noticed the shift, but no one dared to comment.

Not outright, anyway.

It was all still too fragile. Too new.

Nobody wanted to jinx it.

After another playoff victory, the team gathered in the locker room, a symphony of laughter and celebration. Yubin played music on her phone, and Siyeon led a ridiculous dance-off with Gahyun, leaving everyone folding over in laughter.

Minji teased Bora about her overly dramatic dive for a loose ball during the game, and Bora shot back with a smirk, “That dive saved your assist stats, so you’re welcome.”

Yoohyeon sat on the bench, a towel draped over her shoulders, when Handong walked up with a sports drink in hand.

“For you,” Handong said, her tone casual, but her eyes lingered on Yoohyeon’s for just a moment too long.

Yoohyeon accepted it, their fingers brushing briefly.

The warmth of the touch persisted, and when their teammates began a new round of their dance battle, neither of them noticed immediately.

They were too caught up in the quiet, unspoken connection that had slowly begun to rebuild between them.

The night before the semifinals, the seven of them crammed into Yubin’s dorm, the air filled with the smell of takeout and the sound of laughter.

Gone were the sharp edges and cold silences that had once defined their group.

Now, there was only warmth, camaraderie, and the undeniable feeling of the family they had found in this team.

“Okay, so who’s most likely to airball in the clutch?” Gahyun asked, grinning mischievously.

“Not me,” Bora shot back immediately, pointing at Minji. “But definitely you.”

Minji gasped in mock offense, clutching her chest. “Excuse me? I am the definition of composure under pressure!”

“Composure?” Yubin teased. “Remember that time you tripped over your own feet during a free throw? You know… the one shot in all of basketball where your feet don’t have to move?”

“That was one time!” Minji protested, but her laughter betrayed her.

Handong sat on the edge of the couch, watching the banter unfold with a small, almost wistful smile.

She felt Yoohyeon’s gaze on her and turned slightly, catching her eye. There was something unspoken in the way Yoohyeon looked at her, something that made Handong’s chest tighten and her walls threaten to crumble.

Across the room, Siyeon nudged Bora. “Hey, look at them.”

She nodded subtly toward Handong and Yoohyeon, who were now quietly talking in the corner.

Bora’s eyes narrowed, but there was no malice in her expression. Only a grudging acknowledgment.

“Maybe she’s not the devil after all,” Bora muttered, earning a chuckle from Siyeon.

As the night wore on, the group’s laughter grew louder and the barriers that had once divided them crumbled completely.

Minji and Gahyun ended up in a heated debate over the best pre-game rituals, while Bora, Siyeon, and Yubin reenacted their most embarrassing on-court moments, leaving all of their teammates laughing and feeling incredibly loose.

Yoohyeon found herself sitting beside Handong on the couch, their shoulders brushing. The contact was subtle, but it sent a warmth through Yoohyeon that she hadn’t felt in so long.

Handong didn’t pull away.

Instead, she leaned in slightly, her voice low as she murmured, “Ready for tomorrow? Big game… it's do or die.”

Yoohyeon turned to her, eyes soft. “Ready to dominate, as long as you’re with me.”

Handong’s heart stuttered for just one second before she nodded, her voice barely audible.

“Always.”

And as the night went on, surrounded by their teammates and the laughter of the people they cared most about in the world, it felt like everything was finally falling into place.

—

The arena was alive with an almost deafening energy.

The crowd roared as the team jogged out onto the court, the noise echoing like thunder.

This was it.

Semifinals.

The stakes were higher than ever, and the air was thick with a nervous tension that made every breath feel heavier. One win launched them to a glorious shot at a championship, while a loss would have them eliminated completely.

Yet, amidst the chaos, the team carried a quiet confidence.

This was their time.

Yoohyeon was locked in from the moment she stepped onto the hardwood.

The ball was practically automatic in her hands as she sank warm-up shots effortlessly, each swish adding to her growing momentum.

Across the court, Handong’s sharp gaze was glued to her teammate.

It wasn’t just admiration. It was something deeper.

Something that made her chest blossom with pride.

The game tipped off, and Yoohyeon wasted no time.

She weaved through defenders with the grace of a dancer, her movements fluid and precise. Her first three-pointer soared through the air, clean and confident, igniting the crowd.

By the end of the first quarter, she’d already tallied 15 points, her hands steady and unrelenting.

“Keep feeding Yooh,” Bora called out during a timeout, her eyes blazing. “She’s untouchable right now.”

Not a single soul in the huddle disagreed. Usually, players would feel upset if the ball was only going to one person, but right now Yoohyeon was on fire.

Everyone was on the same page of getting her the ball. The star shooting guard simply couldn’t miss.

Handong nodded, her jaw tight with focus. She was the one setting Yoohyeon up, threading impossible passes through defenders and creating space for her to shine. Each assist felt like a small victory, a quiet affirmation that they were finally finding their rhythm again.

The synergy between them was thrilling—hand-offs, pick-and-rolls, perfectly timed cuts.

It was as if the turmoil of the season had melted away, leaving only the game and their connection.

By halftime, Yoohyeon had dropped a stunning 41 of the team’s 52 points.

She had the golden hand today. Every time she touched the ball, it just seemed to find its way into the net. Everyone in the arena knew it would keep going to her, yet nobody could stop her.

This type of performance was impossible to gameplan for. The type that made good players into great ones.

Regardless of the outcome, this would be hailed as Yoohyeon’s career game.

In the first half alone, she had already shattered every first-half women’s college basketball shooting record that existed.

When the buzzer sounded to signal the end of the second quarter, the entire team was hyping Yoohyeon up as she went to the bench to get her water. Bora slapped her on the butt playfully, commenting that she was killing it. Siyeon was rubbing Yoohyeon’s shoulders, imploring her to stay warmed up so she could continue this red-hot streak in the second half.

Yoohyeon just smiled and laughed, trying not to let the pressure of the moment get to her. The team’s excitement for her was admittedly very endearing, and she was grateful beyond words that they trusted her so explicitly to finish this.

The scoreboard showed a comfortable lead, and the team was riding high on adrenaline and camaraderie.

But as they headed to the locker room, Handong’s sharp eyes caught something unsettling.

The opposing coach was huddled with the opposing center, gesturing toward Yoohyeon and speaking in hushed tones.

Handong frowned, her instincts prickling.

“Probably just planning to double-team her,” she muttered to herself, shaking off the unease.

But the image lingered, gnawing at the back of her mind.

—

The third quarter started with the same intensity, the team firing on all cylinders. Yoohyeon was unstoppable, cutting through defenders like a knife through butter.

But Handong’s unease grew with every play.

She couldn’t shake the memory of that whispered conversation, the way the coach’s eyes had lingered on Yoohyeon for just a half-second too long.

With something that looked terrifyingly like malice in her gaze.

And then, it happened.

Yoohyeon received the ball at the top of the perimeter, her eyes scanning the court. She spotted an opening and darted toward the hoop, her movements a blur of precision and speed.

As she leapt high into the air for a layup, everything seemed to slow. Her form was picture-perfect, her focus unshakable.

But then, out of nowhere, the opposing center leapt up and used both hands to push Yoohyeon’s chest as hard as she physically could, clotheslining her mid-air.

Yoohyeon immediately panicked in that split second as she felt her upper body get rammed downwards, rocketing her straight to the floor.

Completely defenseless.

There was no effort on the defender’s part to block the shot or make a play on the ball.

Just a vicious attack.

Yoohyeon’s momentum was stopped completely as if she had hit a brick wall. She was driven to the floor, back first, unable to get her legs under her.

The shove had been violent, a full-body slam that sent Yoohyeon straight to the ground in a nasty fall, no way to brace herself.

The crowd’s collective gasp was deafening as she hit the ground with a sick thud. It was a fall so harsh that every corner of the large gym heard it.

The sound echoed through the gym—a horrifying impact of her entire back colliding first with the unforgiving hardwood.

Yoohyeon’s back instantly arched upon slamming into the ground, legs writhing in pain as the air was forced from her lungs in a single, agonized gasp. Her hand immediately came up to her chest as she struggled to breathe.

Landing straight on her back like that had driven all the wind straight out of her and she heaved desperately, struggling for air.

For a moment, everything froze.

The crowd, the players, even the referees seemed paralyzed by the brutality of the foul.

Yoohyeon lay writhing on the floor, eyes screwed tightly shut as she fought for air. Her body was clearly in so much pain and distress that it didn’t know what to do with itself.

She rolled from side to side, hand still clutching at her ribs and chest, unable to get the hurt to subside.

Her face was twisted in a grimace of pain when she finally rolled all the way over, staying face-down. She at least managed to get to her knees, but her head was still down on the floor, unable to process anything other than the blinding pain and breathlessness that was consuming her.

One hand remained squarely on her chest to try and breathe, while her other forearm laid flat on the ground, weakly propping her up as her forehead rested on it.

Handong’s heart stopped and her blood ran cold.

The world around her blurred, the noise of the crowd fading into a distant hum.

She looked over at Yoohyeon, breath caught in her throat.

And in that moment, she saw the opposing player snarling over Yoohyeon’s agonized and defenseless form, wearing a smile of pride as she beamed back at the opponent coach.

It was the same girl that the other team’s coach had been talking to right before the half.

The defender stood glowering down at Yoohyeon, taunting the star player who was still suffering and writhing in obvious pain underneath her.

And then, something inside Handong just snapped.

She saw red.

Her legs moved before she could even think about it.

Handong was on the opposing player in an instant, shoving her hard enough to send her stumbling.

She didn’t let up; only continued pressing the attack. Like a lion preparing to deliver the killing blow.

Handong didn’t care that the other girl stood an entire foot taller than her, or that the center had twice the width and muscle.

She was sure that with this amount of sheer rage and adrenaline coursing through her, it didn’t matter who was on the other side.

They would have hell to pay.

“Fucking bitch! You did that on purpose!” Handong’s voice rang out, raw and furious.

She clenched her fists tight, continuing to advance toward her.

And then before anyone could stop her, she lunged.

The girl barely had time to react before Handong’s hands were on her jersey, yanking her forward with a force that promised violence.

Upon seeing this, the world finally seemed to unfreeze around them.

Chaos erupted and a fight immediately broke out.

The players on both sides instantly cleared the benches and ran out, half to join the brawl in support of their respective teammate, and the other half to try and stop it.

Medical personnel from both teams raced out to tend to Yoohyeon, surrounding her before the inevitable brawl could injure her further. They used their bodies like shields, circling her as she continued to gasp in agony, still face-down.

When both teams’ trainers immediately ran out like that, it was never a good sign.

Bora and Yubin were the first to grab Handong, their arms wrapping around her tightly as she struggled against them.

“Let me go!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “She could have seriously injured her!”

Bora’s grip tightened as she whispered fiercely, “I know, but Yooh needs us more right now. This isn’t the time or place.”

Her eyes were blazing with just as much fury as Handong’s, jaw clenched as she glared coldly at the offending player.

It was clear that the hit had been intentional all the way through. The opposing player hadn’t even tried to hide it.

If Yoohyeon had landed even just a centimeter further back… on her neck or head… it would have been potentially career-ending.

Even if the player had hit Yoohyeon by accident, Bora would have still wanted to tear her to pieces.

So to do it on purpose was nearly unthinkable.

To stand over a clearly pained Yoohyeon, taunting her and smiling smugly… it made Bora genuinely consider committing a crime.

And if looks could kill, the absolute unadulterated hatred in Bora’s glowering eyes would have done the job.

The girl would surely have been six feet under with the way Bora was staring absolutely lethal daggers into her.

But she also knew they couldn’t afford an all-out brawl.

And more importantly, she knew this would not be what Yoohyeon wanted.

She would want them to take the high road.

For her.

“Handong, stop!” Bora shouted louder now, trying to pull her back as Handong thrashed against her hold.

It took eight girls, one referee, and two coaches to successfully drag her away and get in between the two players.

But she didn’t make it easy.

Her feet skidded against the floor all the way to the sidelines as she continued to thrash and violently resist, hurling accusations at the other player.

“You’re pathetic!” Handong spat, her voice shaking with rage. “You couldn’t stop her, so you tried to hurt her instead! Fucking coward!”

The referees stepped in, their whistles cutting through the chaos.

The player who committed the foul was ejected for targeting, her expression showing only smug defiance. Not an ounce of guilt.

Handong was also ejected for getting violent and attempting to start a fight.

But her fury wasn’t sated. For the opposing team, an ejection was not enough.

Handong wanted them all to pay.

As the officials tried to escort the star point guard toward the tunnel, she turned her wrath on the opposing coach.

“Is this how you win games?” she shouted, her voice echoing in the stunned silence of the gym. “By telling your players to hurt people? You’re a disgrace! You don’t belong in this sport!”

Her words cut like knives, the coach’s face flushing as she tried to maintain her composure.

Handong didn’t care.

Her only thought was of Yoohyeon, who was still lying on the court, surrounded by trainers and teammates.

Even some players on the opposing team exchanged uncomfortable glances and knelt down near Yoohyeon with their heads bowed as a sign of respect, clearly unaware of this plot and visibly disapproving of their teammate’s actions.

Breaking free from the officials escorting her out, Handong pushed through the crowd of people, dropping to her knees beside Yoohyeon.

Her hands trembled as they hovered over her, unsure how to comfort her.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m here. I’m right here. Please, just look at me.”

Yoohyeon’s eyes fluttered open, glassy with pain.

She finally allowed herself to crumple to the floor, rolling onto her side.

Handong gingerly laid a hand on Yoohyeon’s arm, not sure where else to put it. It at least seemed that the younger girl had managed to recover her breath a little.

Yoohyeon tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, replaced by a pained whimper. She weakly clutched at her lower back, unable to stop the excruciating pain.

Handong’s heart shattered, her tears spilling freely as she whispered, “You’re okay, Yooh. You’re so strong. You’re okay, you’re okay.”

She repeated it like it was the only phrase holding her very fragile pieces together.

With the help of her teammates’ gentle hands and tender care, Yoohyeon slowly sat up, wincing as the trainers assessed her.

The tension in the gym was palpable, but when Yoohyeon finally gave a faint nod and thumbs up, signaling she was okay, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd.

Raucous applause and cheers lit up the arena as she shakily got to her feet, held up by Minji and Siyeon.

Handong hovered close, her eyes never leaving Yoohyeon.

She didn’t care about the consequences of her actions, the inevitable ejection, or the noises from the crowd.

All that mattered was Yoohyeon.

As the trainers took Yoohyeon from her teammates and carefully helped her to the bench, Handong was finally pulled away by the team managers to heed her ejection, her body still trembling with fear and uncontrollable rage.

She glanced back one last time, catching Yoohyeon’s faint, pained smile as she tried to reassure her team, the cameras, and the crowd that she was okay.

Doing everything in her power to mask her pain.

Handong felt her heart clench.

The action was so inherently Yoohyeon. No matter the circumstances.

But even as Handong was pulled away, forced to watch the rest of the semifinals from the locker room, she didn’t feel one singular bit of regret for the way she had defended Yoohyeon.

She knew she’d do it all again.

—

Yoohyeon sat on the bench, a towel draped over her shoulders as she watched the third quarter slip away.

Her back and chest ached with every breath, a sharp reminder of the brutal foul that had taken her out of the game.

The comfortable lead they had built was now shrinking, and the team was visibly struggling without its two star players. Handong’s absence loomed over the court like a shadow, her ejection leaving a gaping hole in the team’s rhythm without either star guard there to fill it.

Yoohyeon clenched her fists, her frustration mounting as the opposing team chipped away at their lead. The cheers of the crowd were muffled, drowned out by the pounding of her own heart and the blood rushing in her ears.

By the end of the third quarter, their lead had dwindled to just five points.

Yoohyeon stood abruptly, wincing as pain shot through her back.

“Yooh, sit down. Please,” Bora urged, her voice firm but concerned.

“I’m fine,” Yoohyeon snapped, shaking her head.

She wasn’t.

But she didn’t care.

One of the trainers hovered near her, looking ready to intervene, but Yoohyeon didn’t give him the chance.

She was already pulling off her sweater and heading toward the scorer’s table to check herself in.

Coach looked torn between stopping her for her health’s sake, and letting her back in because they were on the brink of losing.

As selfish as it was to let Yoohyeon check in against medical advice, Coach Park could not deny that the team needed her.

Desperately.

“Yoohyeon,” Minji called, her tone imploring. “It’s not worth it. You don’t have to-”

“I do,” Yoohyeon interrupted, her voice resolute. “We’re not losing this. Not today. I am not letting them win by playing dirty. We’re finishing this.”

The start of the fourth quarter was grueling.

Yoohyeon moved slower, her usual agility dulled by the lingering pain. But her determination was sharper than ever.

She pushed through, like she always did.

Every time the opposing team scored, she answered.

A clean jumper. A hard-fought drive to the rim. A step-back three that brought the crowd to its feet.

With two minutes left, the score was tied. The gym buzzed with tension, the energy almost suffocating.

Every possession felt like life or death.

And in this semi-final game, every possession really was.

Yoohyeon wiped sweat from her brow, her chest heaving as she caught her breath during a timeout.

“Yooh,” Yubin said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got your back. Just stay smart out there.”

Yoohyeon nodded, her eyes steely. “Let’s end this.”

The final possession belonged to them. Twenty seconds on the clock.

Down by one.

Yoohyeon dribbled just past the half-court line, her eyes scanning the defense.

And she saw a lane.

The defense closed in, two players shadowing her every move.

In this tense moment, they knew Yoohyeon was going to shoot. She had been hot all game, and without Handong there, she was the logical option to take the clutch game-winner.

As the clock ticked down, a third defender left their assignment, collapsing on Yoohyeon as she drove into the lane.

They had known all along that Yoohyeon would take this shot. So they sent the entire house at her.

And for a split second, she considered forcing the shot.

But then her eyes caught Gahyun, wide open on the baseline.

Without hesitation, Yoohyeon kicked the ball out at the last second, her pass crisp and perfect. Gahyun caught it, her form flawless as she released the shot.

The ball sailed through the air, the gym holding its collective breath.

And then…

Swish.

The crowd went absolutely ballistic, the buzzer signaling the end of the game as Gahyun’s game-winner secured their victory.

Yoohyeon collapsed to her knees, the relief and the weight of the moment crashing down on her.

Her teammates swarmed her and Gahyun, their cheers deafening.

They had done it.

They were going to the finals.

The girls screamed along with the crowd all the way into the locker room. Tears of joy and relief were shed.

Handong, who had been watching from the locker room, greeted her teammates enthusiastically as they all ran in.

Only one more game and they would be national champions.

A feat this team had never achieved before.

Their celebration was in full swing when Coach Park pulled Handong aside, her expression stormy. The locker room noise faded as Handong followed her into a quieter hallway.

The coach turned, arms crossed, her voice low but sharp.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Coach Park began, her tone cutting. “Picking a fight? Getting yourself ejected? This is the semifinals, Handong! Do you understand how irresponsible that was? How close we came to losing because of you? If Yoohyeon hadn’t decided to come back in, we would have lost and been eliminated because you weren’t there. You’re fucking lucky they stopped it at a one-game ejection. They could have easily chosen to suspend you for finals. Never mind the team, but what would your own individual career turn into if you got yourself irresponsibly suspended for the most important game of your life? No team would want you and your reckless behavior! No team would draft you! Do you not get that?!”

Handong stood silent, her arms crossed as the coach’s furious tirade washed over her. She heard Coach’s words, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment Yoohyeon hit the floor.

The sound of the impact, the sight of her writhing in pain…

It had been unbearable.

The rage had come to her instantaneously. Washed over her like nothing ever before.

And when Coach Park reprimanded her about the costs of her decision to the team and the risk to her individual career, it was with great shock that Handong realized she didn’t care.

“You’re supposed to be a leader!” Coach continued, her frustration mounting. “Leaders don’t lose their heads like that. Even Bora had the restraint to realize what was important. You know… the same Bora who protects Yoohyeon with her life and has the temper of a volcano ready to erupt? She was more of a leader than you today. What if we hadn’t won? What then, Handong?”

Handong blinked, finally meeting the coach’s gaze.

Her voice was calm, quiet, and unwavering.

“I’d do it again.”

Coach Park froze, her eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“I’d do it again,” Handong repeated, her tone firmer. “If I had to choose between letting that girl get away with hitting Yoohyeon or being ejected, I’d pick this every time. I would stand up for her. Every. Single. Time.”

The coach stared at her, incredulous. “Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t just about her or you, Handong. This is about the team.”

Handong shrugged, her expression unreadable. “I know. And the team includes Yoohyeon. I’m not going to stand by and let someone take cheap shots at her. You saw that hit; it could have ended her career if she landed even a little differently. It was already bad enough the way she did land. I wasn’t going to let the other team play dirty—let my teammate get hurt like that—without a fight. That’s not who I am. That’s not the type of leader or teammate I want to be.”

Coach Park let out an exasperated sigh, throwing her hands up. “Unbelievable. You’re impossible, Handong. Do you know that? Bora and the rest of the team could see what really mattered! They were playing for the bigger picture. Fighting for what was important! You should have been doing the same.”

In her mind, Handong knew the truth.

She had fought for what was important.

But for once in her life, the most important thing to her in that moment had not been winning.

Her whole life had been about basketball and proving herself and being the best.

But in that moment, watching Yoohyeon rolling on the ground as the opposing player glowered over her, she had finally found something bigger.

Something bigger than basketball.

Something bigger than winning.

Handong said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes. The coach shook her head and stormed off, leaving Handong alone in the hallway.

Leaning against the wall, Handong exhaled deeply, her hands shaking slightly.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight of what had happened lingered. Her mind returned to Yoohyeon, to the way she had looked so small and vulnerable on the court.

The way Handong’s body had moved on instinct, without thought or hesitation, to defend her.

Handong closed her eyes, the realization settling over her like a wave.

She hadn’t cared about the consequences—not then, not now.

Because in that moment, nothing had mattered more than Yoohyeon.

Protecting her.

Fighting for her.

And now, standing alone in the quiet hallway, she felt it hit her with startling clarity.

She was falling in love with Yoohyeon.

It wasn’t just admiration or loyalty.

It was something deeper, something that scared her as much as it consumed her.

Handong’s chest tightened, the weight of her feelings pressing against her ribs.

But as overwhelming as it was, she couldn’t bring herself to push it away. For once, she allowed herself to feel it fully, to accept what had been building all along.

Whatever happened next, she knew one thing for certain.

She would always fight for Yoohyeon.

Always.

—

The dorm was quiet, the late hour casting everything in a muted stillness. Yoohyeon sat on the edge of her bed, gingerly dabbing at the bruise blooming across her back with a cold compress. She gingerly tried—and failed—to reach the spots that were really killing her.

A sigh of frustration left her. This was the harsh nature of back injuries.

The game had been over for hours, but the tension in her muscles and the echo of the crowd still clung to her.

She winced as she continued trying to ice her back. The cold met tender flesh, and she bit her lip to keep from making a sound.

The knock on her door was sharp and abrupt. Before she could respond, Bora’s voice cut through the silence.

“Yooh, it’s me. Open up.”

Yoohyeon sighed, debating whether she had the energy to talk.

But Bora knocked again, more insistent this time. With a resigned groan, Yoohyeon shuffled to the door and cracked it open.

Bora’s sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on her hunched posture and the compress clutched in her hand.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bora muttered, pushing the door open further and stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her gaze swept over the room, tsking in disapproval. “You’re hurt, Yooh. Why didn't you just ask one of us to come over?"

“I’m fine,” Yoohyeon protested weakly, but the look Bora shot her could have silenced an army.

Her glare was absolutely withering.

“Sit,” Bora ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. She grabbed the compress from Yoohyeon’s hand and gestured to the bed.

Yoohyeon obeyed, too tired to put up much of a fight.

Bora sat beside her, carefully examining the bruise. She sharply sucked air in through her teeth as she observed the mottled black, blue, and purple mess.

Her hands were gentle. Her expression, however, was anything but.

“You should’ve let the trainers take a better look after the game,” Bora said, her voice laced with frustration. “And you definitely shouldn’t have gone back in. What were you thinking?”

Yoohyeon shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. “That we needed to win.”

“And we did,” Bora shot back. “But at what cost? You were already hurt, Yooh. What if you’d made it worse? Hm? What then? It wouldn't have been worth it. There’s always going to be another year to play, another tournament to compete in, another chance in a new season. But there’s only one you. Don’t you get that?”

Yoohyeon didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on the floor.

There was a tiny sliver of her that felt shame, sufficiently reprimanded.

But most of her still stood by her decision to go back in.

Bora sighed, the anger in her voice giving way to something softer, more tired.

“You’re impossible,” Bora muttered, gingerly pressing the compress back against Yoohyeon’s bruise. “But I guess that’s what makes you so... infuriatingly you.”

For a few moments, the only sound was the faint hum of the dorm’s heater.

Yoohyeon had to admit that it was nice letting herself be cared for.

Even if she had to endure some scolding for it.

“Do you even know what happened after you went down?” Bora asked, her tone careful.

Yoohyeon frowned, glancing at her. “Not really. I was kind of… out of it.”

Bora’s expression saddened.

Yoohyeon must really have been hurting in that moment to now have zero recollection of the chaos breaking out around her.

“Yeah, I figured.”

And so she proceeded to fill Yoohyeon in.

Spared no detail.

How Handong had erupted when Yoohyeon hit the ground, the fury in her eyes like nothing anyone had ever seen. How she’d gone after the player who fouled Yoohyeon, ready to throw punches… or probably worse.

Not caring about the consequences.

How it had taken nearly the entire team to hold her back. How she’d screamed at the opposing coach, accusing their staff of orchestrating the foul.

“Handong looked ready to kill both the girl and that coach,” Bora said, her voice quiet but laced with a subtle respect.

Had everything not been on the line, Bora would have done the exact same, if not worse.

There was a small part of her that greatly admired the way Handong fought for her. And though she had been the most vocally opposed to Handong everytime she had hurt Yoohyeon in the past, all of that doubt and hatred had dissipated after today's events.

A great relief filled Bora, knowing that there was someone other than her willing to go to war for the younger girl.

“If we hadn’t been there, she might’ve actually killed her. Yubin and I couldn't even pull her back. It took all of us. She thrashed all the way, too. Didn't make it easy on us to pull her away. The other girl looked genuinely terrified. I’ve never... I've never seen Handong like that. Not for anyone. And we’ve been playing together for three years now.”

Yoohyeon tried to process the words, but they felt surreal. “She really did all that... for me?”

“For you,” Bora confirmed, her tone pointed. “And she didn’t care about getting in trouble, either. After Coach tore into her about the whole thing, she came back and told us what the conversation was about. Apparently, she just responded to Coach’s reprimands by saying she'd do it all over again. You can imagine that didn’t go over very well.”

Yoohyeon’s chest tightened, her breath hitching as Bora’s words sank in.

“She told Coach she didn’t regret it?” Yoohyeon asked, her voice cracking slightly.

“Not even a little,” Bora said.

Yoohyeon’s hands trembled slightly as she processed everything.

All along, she’d been so focused on her own feelings that she hadn’t realized just how much Handong cared. Not just in words or fleeting gestures, but in action.

Brazen, bold, and unflinching action.

“I didn’t know...” Yoohyeon trailed off, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know she...”

But the unspoken words hung in the air.

I didn’t know she cared that much.

“Well, now you do,” Bora said, her tone softening.

She placed a hand on Yoohyeon’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “And if you ask me, you’re the only one who could ever make someone like Handong care that much.”

Yoohyeon blinked back tears, her throat tight. Bora stood, giving her a small, knowing smile and re-adjusting the cold compress on Yoohyeon's back.

“Get some rest, Yooh. You’re going to need it.” After a beat, she grinned. "We're going to fucking Finals. We're going to be national champions."

Bora stood up to leave, but not without first shooting her one more excited grin.

Then, she quietly closed the door behind her.

Yoohyeon sat in the silence, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Before she could fully unpack them, another knock sounded at her door. This one was quieter.

Hesitant.

Yoohyeon got to her feet, her legs shaky as she opened the door.

And there Handong stood, looking more awkward than Yoohyeon had ever seen her.

She held a small bouquet of flowers and a bag of snacks, her gaze flickering between Yoohyeon and the floor.

“Hey,” Handong said softly.

Yoohyeon’s heart thudded in her chest. “Hey.”

“How are you feeling?” Handong asked. Her voice was small, uncharacteristically so.

Almost timid.

Yoohyeon had never seen her like that. Vulnerable, nervous, and so startlingly unconfident.

It was such a stark contrast to the fierce competitor and strong leader she was on the court. Her voice was always commanding and confident.

Nothing like she was now.

“I’m doing a bit better. Thanks for asking,” Yoohyeon reassured her.

Handong nodded wordlessly.

For a beat, she hesitated, then suddenly she thrust the flowers and snacks forward, her cheeks tinged pink. “These are for you.”

Yoohyeon took them carefully, her fingers brushing against Handong’s. The brief contact sent a jolt through her, but she managed to keep her composure.

“Oh! Uh… Thank you. But you didn’t have to do all this for me. It was a scary fall, but I got lucky. It could have been… a lot worse. So really, I’m okay. You didn’t have to bring any of this or check on me. ”

Handong shifted on her feet, her discomfort palpable. “Of course I did, Yoohyeon.”

She paused for a second, fiddling with her clothes nervously.

“I, uh... I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” she began, her voice faltering. “Again. For everything. For hurting you so much. And not showing you how much I cared. Because I- I...”

Yoohyeon stared at her, the sincerity in Handong’s eyes nearly taking her breath away.

“I do care. About you...” Handong continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than I want to admit. And I’m sorry it took something like this for me to realize it. For me to show it.”

Yoohyeon’s hands tightened around the flowers, her heart full as she found her voice. “I know... Bora told me everything.”

Handong blinked, her expression shifting to uncertainty. She carefully gauged Yoohyeon’s reaction, unsure how she would take the information.

“She did?”

Yoohyeon nodded. “About how you almost fought that girl. About what you said to Coach Park. I didn’t know… I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Handong’s gaze dropped, her cheeks flushing. “I- didn’t plan for you to find out like that.”

“It’s okay,” Yoohyeon said softly. “Thank you. For everything. For standing up for me. For caring.”

Handong’s eyes flickered with something raw and unguarded. “You’re welcome,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them heavy with unsaid words. And then Yoohyeon smiled, small but genuine.

It was enough.

For now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the championship game blurred together in a whirlwind of practices, late-night strategy meetings, and stolen moments that felt far too significant to be mere coincidences.

Handong and Yoohyeon spent more time together than they ever had before, and with every passing day, the space between them grew smaller, charged with something unspoken but undeniably present.

The late-night practices were their favorite.

Always had been.

The gym, usually filled with shouts and chaos, was quiet save for the rhythmic bounce of a basketball and the occasional squeak of sneakers on the polished floor.

Handong leaned against the wall, watching Yoohyeon dart across the court with practiced ease. Her movements were fluid, the lines of her body precise as she nailed shot after shot.

“Your follow-through’s cleaner now,” Handong said, stepping forward.

“But you’re flaring your elbow out on drives. It’ll make your finishes harder against contact. Let me show you.”

Yoohyeon handed her the ball with a raised eyebrow. “And what makes you think you’re better at finishing than I am?”

Handong smirked, hearing the playful challenge in her voice.

“Oh, you’re so on.”

And what started as a quick demonstration turned into a full-blown one-on-one match.

They pushed each other hard, the game filled with laughter, playful taunts, and the occasional groan when a move didn’t land.

Handong felt a strange warmth every time she saw Yoohyeon’s eyes crinkle with laughter or the way her hair clung to her forehead as sweat dripped down her temple.

It was a sight she couldn’t help but memorize.

When the game ended—a narrow victory for Handong—they collapsed onto the bleachers, breathless but content.

Handong passed Yoohyeon her water bottle, their fingers brushing briefly. She felt the spark of the contact, a jolt that left her momentarily off-balance.

Yoohyeon leaned back, staring at the ceiling with a wistful look.

“I wish my parents could see the finals,” she murmured.

Handong frowned, turning to look at her. “They’re not coming?”

“No.” Yoohyeon’s voice was soft, tinged with sadness. “Plane tickets are too expensive. I couldn’t… I know that if I asked, they’d somehow find a way to make it work. They’d make ends meet just for me… to come support me and watch. They always have. But I can’t- I can’t ask that of them. They already do so much and work so hard. I just wish I could pay for them. Do more for them.”

Yoohyeon just shook her head, willing the tears to abate. “This is why we have to win. This is why I need to be the best that I can be… I- I want to be able to provide for them. So they never have to worry about stupid shit like this again. They’ve spent their whole lives fighting to give me a good life. I just want to do the same for them.”

Handong’s chest tightened. She thought back to everything Yoohyeon had shared about her parents—their sacrifices, their unwavering support despite having so little.

“Hey, look at me.”

Yoohyeon slowly turned to her, their eyes meeting.

Handong spoke confidently, as if there was not a single doubt in her mind.

“They’d be proud of you. Even if they can’t be there in person. I know they’ll be watching, Yooh. They must be… I just know they’re really proud.”

Yoohyeon’s eyes clouded with tears once more, but this time, she let them fall freely.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still.

“Thanks, Handong,” Yoohyeon breathed.

The walk back to the student-athlete dorms was brisk, the night air crisp against their flushed skin. Yoohyeon walked slightly ahead, her hands shoved into her pockets as she exhaled clouds of warm breath into the cold air.

Handong followed, shivering despite her hoodie.

Yoohyeon glanced back, her steps slowing.

She stopped when she noticed Handong hunching into herself, clearly struggling against the cold.

“Handong,” she said softly, concern lacing her voice. “Are you okay?”

Handong looked up, about to protest, but Yoohyeon was already unzipping her jacket.

Without a word, she draped it over Handong’s shoulders, her hands lingering just a second longer than necessary to adjust it properly.

“Yooh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s freezing,” Yoohyeon interrupted, her tone firm but kind. “Just keep it on, okay? I usually run warm, anyway.”

Handong tightened the jacket around herself, the warmth of it—of Yoohyeon’s gesture—settling over her like a blanket.

Her throat constricted as butterflies erupted in her chest, leaving her momentarily breathless. She hated the heat that was suddenly rising to her cheeks. Such a small gesture had never left her so floored before.

“Thanks,” Handong murmured, her voice barely audible.

Yoohyeon smiled, the moonlight catching the edges of her face in a way that made Handong’s heart ache. “No problem.”

They continued walking, the silence between them thick but comfortable.

The rest of the way back, Handong couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty Yoohyeon looked with the moonlight framing her kind smile like a halo.

—

A few days later, Handong’s phone buzzed with a text as she sat in her dorm.

She unlocked the screen and blinked at the message from Yoohyeon.

yoohyeon 🐶🏀: study sesh? library? they srsly hate the athletes, always making sure exam week is right after the championship game 🙄

Handong smiled softly at the text, her heart doing an unwelcome flip, before immediately shooting back a ‘sure’ and throwing on some sweats.

Not even twenty minutes later, they had found a corner in the quiet library, laptops and notes spread across the table.

Yoohyeon was completely in her element, her brow adorably furrowed in concentration as she scrolled through dense readings.

Handong had never been much of a student, heart solely focused on basketball, but she couldn’t help but admire Yoohyeon’s focus.

Despite everything—the grueling practices, the pressure of the championship game, the endless weight of expectations—Yoohyeon had managed to maintain her grades.

She was the only straight-A student on the team.

It was just so… her.

A part of Handong knew it came from a sadder place… that Yoohyeon likely tried so hard because she needed to have this degree as a backup plan if basketball didn’t work out. Because she didn’t want her parents’ sacrifices to mean nothing, determined to make something of herself so she could support them regardless of what she was doing.

But however sad, Yoohyeon’s heart for her parents and her loved ones only made Handong more endeared.

The star point guard found herself watching Yoohyeon more than her own screen, captivated by the way her hair fell across her face and the subtle movement of her lips as she mouthed mnemonics to herself.

It was the little things that hit Handong the hardest—the adorable crinkle in her brow from such concentration, the way Yoohyeon’s determination seemed to radiate from her, the quiet strength and resolve in everything she did.

“Are you even studying?” Yoohyeon teased, glancing up and catching Handong mid-stare.

Handong flushed, fumbling for an excuse. “I was... just trying to figure out this formula.”

“Right,” Yoohyeon said, clearly unconvinced but smiling nonetheless. She leaned over, her shoulder brushing against Handong’s as she pointed at the screen.

“Here. It’s simpler than it looks.”

Handong barely heard the explanation, too caught up in the closeness, the faint scent of Yoohyeon’s citrus shampoo, the way her voice softened when she explained something.

“Got it?” Yoohyeon asked, pulling back slightly.

“Yeah,” Handong managed, her throat dry. “Thanks.”

She had, of course, heard none of that.

Yoohyeon tilted her head, studying her for a moment before returning to her notes.

Handong exhaled slowly, her heart pounding as she tried—and failed—to refocus on her work.

There was no denying it anymore.

She was falling for Yoohyeon.

And a little part of her knew that.

Knew it since her talk with Coach Park after the semifinals.

But with each passing moment… with every angelic smile a confirmation of Handong’s feelings, the thought terrified her more and more.

—

They sat on the steps of the gym the following evening, sharing a protein bar while the sun dipped below the horizon.

The team had finished practice a couple hours ago, but neither of them had wanted to leave just yet.

“Do you ever think about where you’ll go in the draft?” Yoohyeon asked, breaking the quiet.

She glanced at Handong, her gaze both curious and serious.

Handong exhaled, considering the question. “Sometimes. Everyone assumes I’ll go high, but it’s... a lot of pressure. I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

“You are ready,” Yoohyeon said without hesitation. “You’re the best player I’ve ever seen. And it’s not even close. If you declare this year at the end of the season, you’ll be the consensus first pick.”

Handong’s cheeks flushed and she looked away, unsure how to respond.
She desperately wanted to divert the attention from herself.

“I- Thanks… I don’t… err, what about you?” she asked, inwardly cringing at her awkward attempt to shift the focus.

She then cleared her throat and tried to recover. “Have you ever given it any thought? Where you see yourself going in the draft? Which teams you’d want to play for?”

Yoohyeon hesitated, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I don’t know. I just hope someone sees me as worth the risk.”

Handong’s brows furrowed. “Risk? You’re the best shooter in the league. And easily the best two-way player. Any team would be lucky to have you.”

“You think so?” Yoohyeon’s voice was soft, almost vulnerable.

“I know so,” Handong said firmly. “And if they don’t see it, they’re fucking stupid.”

Yoohyeon laughed lightly, but the gratitude in her eyes was unmistakable.

Handong felt something shift in that moment—a quiet but profound realization that she would do anything to protect this girl.

To see her succeed.

Every moment felt heavier now, like the weight of something neither of them wanted to admit was settling over their shoulders.

Handong couldn’t pinpoint when it had started, this quiet unraveling of her defenses, but she knew one thing with certainty.

She didn’t want it to stop.

—

The night before the finals was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy with anticipation.

Handong and Yoohyeon sat on the dorm’s small balcony, sharing a blanket Yoohyeon had insisted on bringing out to ward off the cold. The city lights twinkled in the distance, muted compared to the stars scattered across the night sky.

They hadn’t planned to sit here together.

Yoohyeon had simply knocked on Handong’s door earlier with two steaming cups of tea, insisting that a calm moment was exactly what they both needed before the chaos of tomorrow.

Handong hadn’t argued.

She couldn’t argue with Yoohyeon’s soft, determined smile.

Handong was finding it increasingly hard to say no to Yoohyeon these days.

Now, they sat side by side, the blanket stretched across both their laps, their mugs cradled in their hands.

Yoohyeon had said something about the constellations, her voice light and easy, but Handong couldn’t focus.

Her heart was racing, her pulse loud in her ears as she stole glances at the girl beside her.

Yoohyeon turned her head suddenly, catching Handong mid-stare once again.

“What?” Yoohyeon asked, a small smile playing at her lips.

Handong quickly looked away, heat flooding her cheeks. “Nothing.”

Yoohyeon just raised an eyebrow.

After a beat, she reached out and adjusted the blanket, tucking it more securely around Handong’s legs with practiced care.

Noticing the empty mug in Handong’s hands, she gently took it from her without a word and rose to refill it inside.

Handong blinked, startled by the gesture.

It wasn’t just that Yoohyeon had done it…

It was the ease with which she did it

Like she didn’t even think twice about taking care of someone else.

And Handong had always noticed these things about Yoohyeon: the way she shared her protein bars with teammates who forgot their snacks, the way she stayed behind after practice to clean up without being asked, the way she’d come early to practice if her teammates were struggling with schoolwork and asked for extra tutoring.

The way she wrote notes of gratitude and appreciation to the janitors who always cleaned their locker room and the gym.

The way she always thought of others first, so effortlessly that even she didn’t seem to realize she was doing it.

But it wasn’t effortless to Handong.

It was everything.

When Yoohyeon returned, handing the refilled mug back to Handong, the small smile she gave made something in Handong crack.

“Here,” Yoohyeon said softly, sitting back down and readjusting the heater to point more towards Handong, ensuring she was still warm.

It was too much. Too kind.

Too Yoohyeon.

A beat passed before Handong suddenly blurted it out.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words left Handong’s lips before she could stop them, her voice soft but trembling with the weight of her emotions.

Yoohyeon froze, her hands stilling mid-movement as her wide eyes darted to Handong’s face.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet of the night suddenly deafening.

Handong’s chest tightened, panic flooding her veins.

She had been too scared to confess because she didn’t want to ruin everything. Especially not now, not the night before finals.

But something about Yoohyeon here in this moment…

She just couldn’t resist any longer.

And now that she’d done it, there was no taking it back.

“I’m sorry,” Handong blurted out, looking away as her heart pounded erratically in her chest.

“Oh God, I- I didn’t mean to make this weird. I just... I couldn’t hold it in anymore. You don’t have to… you don’t have to say anything. Or feel pressured to respond. I’m sorry I just dropped it on you like this.”

Yoohyeon’s lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. Her eyes searched Handong’s face, and she saw the raw, unguarded fear in her expression.

“I’m just scared, Yooh,” Handong admitted, her voice breaking. “I’m scared of loving someone because I don’t… I don’t know how to let people in. I’ve spent my whole life pushing people away, running when things get too close. It’s safer that way. It keeps me protected from being hurt the way that my parents hurt me. But you... you make me want to stop running. Every time you smile or laugh, I just get these fucking butterflies. And when you wrap me in your jacket or look after me during hard practices, I- I can’t… I’ve never felt feelings this big for somebody before. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do..”

Her voice wavered, and she looked down at her trembling hands. “And when you fell that night... when you hit the floor so hard, I thought- I don’t know… I was just so overcome with worry… It turned everything upside down. Nothing in my life has ever made me feel that way before. I’ve never been so terrified—or furious—on someone else’s behalf. Not like that. I don’t- I don’t know what any of this is that I’m feeling, but I’m pretty sure... maybe it’s love.”

It was a confession completely lacking eloquence, grace, and thought.

Brought on completely spur-of-the-moment.

No tact, no plan… no practice.

But it was so genuine in its sloppiness, so honest in its vulnerability…

It was everything.

Tears welled in Yoohyeon’s eyes as she listened, her chest tight with emotion. She reached out slowly, her hand finding Handong’s trembling one and squeezing it tightly.

Handong mustered up the courage to speak just one more time.

“Yoohyeon, I think I’m falling for you.”

Yoohyeon exhaled shortly, heart pounding, before she whispered.

“Then let me catch you.”

Her voice was soft but sure.

Handong’s breath hitched, her heart swelling at the words.

Before she could think, Yoohyeon leaned in, closing the space between them, and pressed her lips to Handong’s.

Just like the first time they kissed, Yoohyeon initiated it and Handong kissed her back.

But this time… it was so different.

This kiss was soft and full of all the words they’d left unspoken.

Tender and gentle, patient and loving.

The complete opposite of the desperate and needy and messy kiss that had nearly destroyed them months ago.

No.

This time… the kiss was healing.

A quiet promise of everything they could be together.

Handong’s free hand cupped Yoohyeon’s cheek, and she felt the dampness of tears there, unsure whether they were hers or Yoohyeon’s.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the cool night air.

Yoohyeon’s hand stayed wrapped around Handong’s, her grip firm and steady.

“I’m in love with you too,” Yoohyeon said, her voice trembling but full of certainty. “I think I have been for a while. But I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t- I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same.”

Handong shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “You’re all I think about, Yooh. I’ve been so afraid of messing this up, of messing us up. But I can’t pretend I don’t feel this. Like I don’t… like thoughts of you don’t consume me. All the time, everyday.”

Yoohyeon smiled, her eyes glistening. “You don’t have to pretend, Handong. Not anymore.”

They stayed like that for a while, their hands entwined and their hearts laid bare.

The stars above them were a silent witness to their quiet confessions, as they sat there together late into the night.

Yoohyeon and Handong weren’t sure what would come next for them.

But they knew that whatever it was, they’d face it together.

Chapter Text

Nervous energy filled the championship arena.

The stands were packed to the brim with roaring fans waving signs and banners, the court a sea of dazzling lights and anticipation.

This was the moment they had worked for all season. The culmination of countless hours of blood, sweat, and tears.

But for Handong, the stakes were even more personal.

She spotted her parents the moment they arrived.

It was impossible not to.

Front-row courtside seats, of course.

As expected for basketball royalty.

Her mother’s sleek, tailored jacket and her father’s calm, stoic expression seemed perfectly curated for the cameras that turned their way. A steady stream of fans approached them before the game, asking for photos and autographs, which her parents obliged with polite smiles.

It was the same as always.

The night wasn’t about her; it was about them.

Their legacy.

Handong clenched her fists, the steady confidence she usually carried splintering into fragments.

Even after all her accomplishments, she still felt like that little girl begging for their approval with a desperation she hated to admit lingered even now.

Her mother’s calculated indifference and her father’s sharp, assessing eyes kept flashing in her mind, digging at old wounds.

Would they even acknowledge her as their daughter tonight? Or just as another player they could critique? Another player whose game they could rip apart, as if she wasn’t their daughter and not just some other random player on the court?

Handong’s grip on the ball tightened, the pressure coiling in her chest. She hated how much it got to her.

How easily their presence unraveled her.

Yoohyeon noticed the tension instantly.

“Dongie,” she said gently, walking up to Handong and tugging her sleeve. “Come with me for a second.”

Handong hesitated, glancing toward the court and their teammates warming up. “What about-”

“It’s fine,” Yoohyeon interrupted. Her tone was calm but insistent. “Just trust me.”

Yoohyeon led Handong into an empty equipment room, the muffled noise of the gym fading behind them. She closed the door softly and turned to face Handong, her eyes full of concern.

“Talk to me,” Yoohyeon said. “What’s going on?”

Handong’s shoulders sagged as she let out a shaky breath. “They’re here,” she murmured. “My parents.”

Yoohyeon nodded. She had seen.

Well… pretty much everyone had. It’s not like they shied away from the attention, or tried to let their daughter have the spotlight.

She just patiently looked into Handong’s eyes, waiting for her to continue. A bastion of reassurance and security.

Of safety.

“I'm trying so hard not to let their disapproving stares get to me... But I'm- I can't...” Her voice trailed off as she wrung her fingers together from the stress.

Yoohyeon stepped closer, her hands gently brushing Handong’s arms. “Dongie, you’re letting them get in your head,” she said softly, her voice filled with concern. “But you’re not that scared little girl anymore. You’re stronger than they ever gave you credit for.”

Handong’s lips quivered as she whispered, “But what if it’s not enough? What if they’re right? What if I-“

“Hey,” Yoohyeon cut in firmly. “Listen to me. They’ve filled your head with so many lies that you’re not enough. That you’ll never be good enough. But none of that is true. Okay? You’re amazing, Dongie. And if they can’t see that, then that’s on them, not you. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone tonight except yourself. Remember that.”

Handong’s lips twitched into a weak smile as she took a deep breath.

“You always know what to say.”

“I mean it,” Yoohyeon said, her voice softening. “You’re the strongest person I know. And no matter what happens out there, you’ve already proven yourself. To me, to the team, to everyone who matters.”

Handong felt her chest tighten, but this time, it wasn’t with anxiety.

It was warmth. Steady and reassuring.

Everything Yoohyeon was.

She looked up, meeting Yoohyeon’s steady gaze, and before she could stop herself, she leaned in, pressing a soft, grateful kiss to Yoohyeon’s lips.

The moment lingered, tender and filled with unspoken emotion.

Yoohyeon smiled into the kiss, her hands coming up to cradle Handong’s face. “I’ve got you,” she whispered as they pulled away. “Always.”

Just as Yoohyeon leaned in one more time, a knock on the door startled them.

Both girls broke apart instantly, their faces flushed as they turned toward the sound.

They hadn't yet told their friends or the team that they were official now.

It had been a close call.

“Yooh!” Minji’s voice called through the door, tinged with excitement. “You need to come see this. Now.”

The urgency in her tone made both girls tense. Yoohyeon shot Handong a confused glance, but Minji didn’t wait for a response.

She knocked one more time, then pushed the door open, grinning ear to ear. “Just come on.”

Handong followed Yoohyeon as they made their way back toward the locker room. The rest of the team was gathered there, looking unusually giddy.

Bora and Gahyun both looked about ready to burst.

Yoohyeon’s brow furrowed as she stepped forward, confusion etched across her face.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Then, from behind Minji, two familiar figures emerged.

Yoohyeon’s parents.

Their smiles were as warm and bright as Yoohyeon’s, eyes crinkling with so much overwhelming joy, and the team could instantly see the resemblance.

The moment Yoohyeon saw them, her hands flew to her mouth.

“No way,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Yoohyeon’s mom stepped forward, pulling her into a tight hug. “Surprise, sweetie.”

Tears spilled from Yoohyeon’s eyes as she hugged her mother tightly, then her father. “How- how are you here? I thought you couldn’t... I didn't-”

Handong stepped forward, her expression soft. “The team pitched in. When you told me about it that night... I couldn't- I told the girls about it. I hope you don't mind. But we wanted to make sure your parents could be here for your big game. You deserve to have them see how incredible you are. In person.”

Yoohyeon turned to her teammates, overwhelmed by so many different emotions. “I don’t- I don’t know what to say… Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Yubin just smiled softly in return, trying to downplay it. “It was all Handong. She’s the one who got the tickets, booked their hotel, and made all the arrangements. When Handong came to us and asked for help, it was a no-brainer. We were all eager to pitch in. It’s no big deal, really.”

Yoohyeon shook her head firmly, eyes shining. “No. It is a big deal to me. You guys… I love you guys. So much.”

She turned to Handong, her tearful gaze filled with gratitude. She hugged her tightly, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for making this happen.”

“It’s nothing,” Handong said softly, though the warmth in her chest betrayed her words. “We couldn’t let you play without them here.”

And as she watched Yoohyeon leave to walk her parents to their seats, smiling the biggest smile Handong had ever seen on her face, the star point guard knew that she’d happily spend the rest of her days making it her mission to make Yoohyeon smile like that every day.

—

As game time approached, Handong felt the pressure mounting. She paced the sideline, bouncing the ball nervously as she stole glances at her parents, who now sat one seat down from Yoohyeon’s, oblivious to the weight of their presence.

Her usual stoic composure faltered.

Her fingers gripped the ball tighter, and she struggled to steady her breathing.

“Handong,” Yoohyeon’s voice broke through, calm and steady. She gently touched Handong’s arm. “Hey, look at me.”

Handong turned, her eyes meeting Yoohyeon’s soft, reassuring gaze.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, though her tight shoulders betrayed her words.

“No, you’re not,” Yoohyeon said firmly, though there was no judgment in her tone. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to be fine. Just be you. Okay? You’ve got this. We’ve got this. Just focus on us. You, me, and the team. Forget the rest.”

Handong exhaled, her grip loosening on the ball. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice steadier now.

“Thanks.”

Yoohyeon smiled, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Always.”

—

The game started at a blistering pace, both teams locked in an intense battle. From the opening tip, it was clear that their opponent wasn’t going to give them anything easily.

But neither would they.

Handong and Yoohyeon fell into rhythm almost immediately, their connection on the court undeniable. Handong’s sharp passes and Yoohyeon’s precision shooting were like poetry in motion. They anticipated each other’s moves effortlessly, their synergy forcing the opposing team into scramble mode.

Still, the game remained neck-and-neck.

Every basket felt like a fight, every possession a war.

By the end of the first quarter, the score was tied.

And by halftime, they were down by two. It was so evenly matched that the arena nearly suffocated under the blanket of tension.

In the huddle, Coach Park outlined adjustments, but it was Yoohyeon who turned to Handong during the break and handed her a towel.

“You’re playing great,” she whispered, trying not to distract her other teammates from what Coach was saying.

But her smile was enough to steady the storm in Handong’s chest.

Handong smiled back, letting herself relax just a fraction. “So are you.”

They returned to the court with renewed determination. Yoohyeon drained back-to-back threes, bringing the crowd to their feet, while Handong orchestrated the offense with her trademark poise and composure.

When Handong subbed out for a brief rest, Yoohyeon handed her a water bottle and offered a quiet, “Rest up, you’re killing it out there,” before running back onto the court.

Again, Handong felt the tension in her shoulders ease.

Yoohyeon’s constant presence—her reassuring touches, her unwavering encouragement—allowed Handong to push aside the pressure of her parents’ watchful eyes and just play.

The game was far from over, though.

As the fourth quarter loomed, the score remained too close for comfort. Every possession, every shot, and every defensive stop carried the weight of the championship.

Handong stole a glance at Yoohyeon as they stood side by side during a timeout, their jerseys drenched in sweat, breaths coming fast and heavy.

Despite the fatigue, Yoohyeon flashed her a grin, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Handong couldn’t help but smile back, her heart swelling with a quiet resolve.

—

The tension in the arena was palpable, the noise of the crowd roaring louder than it ever had before.

The final quarter had been a blur of intense plays and desperate shots, and now, with just eleven seconds left on the clock, the scoreboard read 78–77.

They were down by one point.

Handong held the ball, her knuckles white against the leather as the seconds ticked down.

Every set of eyes in the arena was on her.

It felt like the entire arena was holding its breath for this final play, suddenly quiet. A stark contrast to the way the crowd had been thunderously cheering all game.

Everyone expected her to take the final shot—the star player, the team captain, the one who had carried them here.

She dribbled once, her mind racing.

And then, almost instinctively, she looked into the crowd. She wasn’t even sure why she did it when she knew she wouldn’t like what she saw.

Perhaps it was muscle memory.

As a child, she always used to look at her parents during intense moments, hoping for warmth or looks of encouragement.

Those never came.

Much like today.

Her parents were there, seated front and center. Her father’s face was as stern and detached as ever, his eyes sharp with expectation. Her mother sat beside him, her expression equally cold.

There was no encouragement in their faces, no pride, just the same detached expectation she had known all her life.

Her father motioned subtly for her to take the shot, the silent demand stabbing through her like a knife.

For a split second, she felt small again, like that little girl trying desperately to earn their approval. Her confidence wavered, and the ball felt impossibly heavy in her hands.

But then she saw Yoohyeon standing at the three-point line, her hands up and ready.

Eyes burning with determination.

Time seemed to slow down.

A memory from weeks ago surfaced in Handong’s mind. A silent confession during one of their late-night practices when Yoohyeon had said she was tired of being invisible.

Of always feeling like she wasn’t enough.

And then Handong thought of all the moments since… the way Yoohyeon had worked tirelessly, pouring everything she had into every practice, every game.

Trust.

That’s what this moment was about.

So with five seconds left, Handong made her decision.

She passed the ball.

The Handong from the beginning of the season would have taken the shot, especially after seeing her father in the stands practically commanding her to do it.

She wasn’t sure when it happened, but she realized with startling clarity that she had left that Handong behind.

The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath rippling through the stands as the ball left her hands.

Yoohyeon caught it cleanly, her fingers wrapping tightly around the leather.

And for just a fraction of a second, she hesitated.

The stakes were enormous. If she missed this shot, it was over. Paralyzing fear gripped her as she hesitantly got into a shooting stance, heavily debating passing it back.

But then her eyes flicked to Handong, who nodded once, her trust clear and unwavering.

This was it. It had to be.

Yoohyeon exhaled, shutting out the noise and the pressure.

She set her feet, her form precise as she rose for the shot.

The ball left her fingertips with perfect rotation, soaring toward the hoop as the final buzzer sounded.

Swish.

The net snapped sharply as the ball dropped through, the sound cutting through the momentary silence along with the sound of the final buzzer.

Then, the arena erupted.

The crowd exploded into cheers, absolutely deafening.

Confetti burst from the rafters, cascading down like a shimmering waterfall of gold and silver.

Handong froze for a moment, staring at Yoohyeon in disbelief.

Then, with a choked laugh, she sprinted toward her, tears blurring her vision. She threw her arms around Yoohyeon, lifting her off the ground as her voice cracked with emotion.

“I knew you’d make it,” Handong whispered, her words shaky but full of pride.

Yoohyeon grinned, tears streaming down her own face. “Because you believed in me.”

The rest of the team swarmed them, cheering and shouting as they enveloped the duo in a mass of sweaty hugs.

Bora grabbed Yoohyeon and tried hoisting her onto her shoulders but Yoohyeon shook her head, pointing to Handong.

“Lift her up!” Yoohyeon shouted, her voice breaking with joy. “She’s the reason we’re here!”

The team didn’t hesitate.

They grabbed Handong, hoisting her onto their shoulders as the crowd roared louder, chanting her name. Handong laughed through her tears, her heart swelling as her teammates paraded her around the court as if she was the trophy they had been fighting for all along. Fighting to show off to the world.

For once, even with her parents’ critical eyes watching, she felt like she had finally played for the team and for herself.

Not for them.

In the moment she passed the ball to Yoohyeon, she had finally freed herself from the chains of their impossible expectations and constant disappointment.

It was in that pass—the decision to play for the team and not take matters into her own hands—that she realized how much this season had grown her.

Changed her.

And she decided that it wasn’t such a bad change.

The post-game celebrations were chaotic, a blur of hugs, confetti, and flashing cameras. Handong stood at the center of it all, her teammates surrounding her as the crowd continued chanting for her.

But Yoohyeon hung back, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watched Handong bask in the love and admiration she so deeply deserved.

For once, it wasn’t about expectations or proving herself to anyone.

This moment was purely for Handong. And Yoohyeon couldn't be prouder.

“Yoohyeon!”

The familiar, loving voice made her turn, her heart skipping a beat. Her parents were pushing through the crowd, wide grins lighting up their faces.

Her father’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her mother’s arms were outstretched, pulling Yoohyeon into a tight embrace the moment they reached her.

“That’s my daughter!” her father exclaimed, his voice thick with pride. He then adorably turned around and yelled it to everyone nearby, pointing at her with uncontainable joy.

“This is my daughter!”

He showed her off to anyone who would listen, his proud smile beaming through.

Yoohyeon just laughed, endlessly embarrassed, but finding it so wonderfully endearing.

“You were incredible out there, Yooh!” her father exclaimed when he finally calmed down.

Her mother kissed her cheek, her smile radiant. “We’re so proud of you. You’ve always made us proud, but tonight? Yoohyeon, you were amazing!”

Yoohyeon felt her throat tighten, emotion swelling in her chest.

She had longed for this moment for so long, and now that it was here, it was so overwhelming.

In all the best ways.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “It means everything to me.”

Her father gently squeezed her shoulder. “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You’ve worked so hard for this, and you deserve every second of this celebration.”

And as much as Yoohyeon wanted to stay with them, she noticed how her mother’s eyes darted nervously at the flashing cameras and her father’s posture stiffened under the overwhelming noise.

They had never been to an event of this magnitude before, and it was clearly a lot for them to handle.

She placed a reassuring hand on her father’s arm. “I’ll meet you for dinner after the celebrations, okay?” she promised. “The team managers can help you get out of this madness. You don’t have to stay… I know it’s a lot.”

Her parents hesitated, reluctant to leave her so soon, but her mother eventually nodded.

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to Yoohyeon’s forehead. “Don’t keep us waiting too long,” she said with a soft smile.

“I won’t,” Yoohyeon assured them, watching as the team managers carefully guided them away from the chaos of the court. She exhaled, her heart full and warm as she turned her attention back to the celebration around her.

She found herself gazing at Handong again, who was still being paraded around by the team. Her laughter echoed across the court, and for the first time, Yoohyeon saw a lightness in her eyes, a joy that wasn’t burdened by the shadows of her past.

It was a sight Yoohyeon wanted to protect forever.

But out of the corner of her eye, she saw something.

Handong’s parents, standing stiffly near the edge of the court, watched the celebration with thinly veiled disdain.

Their expressions weren’t of pride or joy, but cold indifference, their gazes flicking between Handong and Yoohyeon with sharp, judgmental scrutiny.

White-hot fury suddenly bubbled in Yoohyeon’s chest.

She could feel her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists. Without thinking, she marched over to them, her steps purposeful and her anger barely restrained.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, her voice low and seething.

Handong’s mother’s lips curled into a faint sneer. “She let you take the shot. Of course, you’ll get the glory. She’ll be overshadowed, as always."

Her husband just clicked his tongue in disapproval. “That’s how it’s always been with her… unable to finish what she starts.”

Yoohyeon’s jaw tightened, her body trembling with barely contained anger.

She hated how they spoke about their daughter.

“She’s the reason we won,” she snapped, her voice rising slightly. “She’s the best damn player on this team, and if you can’t see that, then you don’t deserve her. You’ve spent her whole life tearing her down, making her feel like she’s not enough. She’s incredible despite you, not because of you.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and her father finally spoke, his tone sharp and dismissive. “Handong knows the truth. She’s always needed to be pushed because she lacks the natural drive to be great. Someone had to make her stronger. If she resents us for it,
then that’s her own weakness.”

Yoohyeon’s hands shook with the force of her rage, tears brimming in her eyes as she thought of everything Handong had told her. The stories of cruel words, impossible expectations, the night her parents locked her out when she was only thirteen...

Each memory ignited her fury further.

“You call that making her stronger?” Yoohyeon shouted, her voice cracking. She didn’t care that the people around them were starting to stare and whisper.

“You broke her! You crushed every part of her that was soft and good, and made her think she had to be perfect just to be worth loving. You don’t deserve to call yourselves her parents. You’ve done nothing but ruin her, and yet, she still tries to be enough for you. She still looks for your approval, even after everything you’ve done to her.”

Handong’s father’s expression darkened. “You don’t understand what it takes to raise greatness. Handong needed discipline. You don’t know her like we do. She needed to be shaped, or she’d have wasted her potential.”

“Shaped?” Yoohyeon’s voice rose, trembling with disbelief and poorly-contained fury.

“You mean punished. You mean belittled. You mean broken. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to her? She told me everything. About how you locked her out overnight, in the cold, because of one stupid loss. About how you told her she wasn’t good enough, how you’ve never once told her you were proud of her. And even now, after she just won us the championship, all you can do is criticize her and try to take away her moment!”

Her mother crossed her arms, her tone icy. “You’re being dramatic. She’s fine. Handong knows we only want what’s best for her.”

Yoohyeon let out a bitter laugh, tears spilling down her cheeks. She didn’t know why she was crying.

She was just so overwhelmingly angry.

“What’s best for her? Or what's best for you? Don't delude yourself... you’ve never cared about what’s best for her. You only cared about your legacy, your reputation… You don’t love her. You love the idea of her, of what she could bring to you. You didn’t feel like you had enough time in the spotlight. Is that it? Because both of you are so fucking selfish and conceited! You couldn’t see past your own desires for more fame—more greatness—and you didn’t care if you had to use your daughter and live vicariously through her to achieve your stupid fucking glory. You didn’t care how you hurt her to do it! And she’s spent her whole life trying to earn love from people who are incapable of giving it.”

Her father’s face twisted with irritation. “Enough. You have no place speaking to us like this.”

“No, you’re going to listen,” Yoohyeon snapped, stepping closer, her voice trembling with emotion. “Handong doesn’t need you. She’s amazing all on her own. She’s kind and strong and loyal, and she doesn’t need your approval to know her worth. She’s more than you’ll ever deserve, and if you can’t see that, then you’re the ones who aren’t enough. Not her.”

"Well, maybe if she wasn’t so soft, she’d actually deserve the praise you’re so quick to give her," her mother said coldly, the words dripping with disdain.

"But she’ll never be more than a disappointment."

For just one second, silence reigned and the noise of the festivities happening in the background filled the empty space between them.

The coldness with which Handong’s mother spoke those words completely dumbfounded Yoohyeon.

The way she had said it so carelessly… so flippantly…

Yoohyeon felt cold rage wash over her and physically raised her hand, the sudden and overwhelming urge to slap Handong’s mother surging through her.

But before Yoohyeon could act, a gentle hand caught her wrist.

“Yooh.”

Handong’s voice was soft and steady, filled with a quiet strength that stopped Yoohyeon in her tracks.

She turned, meeting Handong’s tearful gaze.

Realized she must have heard it all.

All of her parents’ hurtful words that had no place in her life anymore.

Handong's shoulders were hunched, her posture small, but there was a resolve in her eyes that somehow made Yoohyeon’s anger dissipate in an instant.

“They’re not worth it,” Handong said, her voice shaking but firm. “Not now, not ever.”

She shot one last disgusted look at her parents and turned to walk away. It took every ounce of strength in her body to not turn back.

Yoohyeon exhaled, her hand falling to her side as she stepped closer to Handong. She gently looped an arm around Handong’s shoulders and pulled her into a protective embrace.

Both of them left Handong’s parents standing there, stunned.

Yoohyeon pulled Handong tighter to her, knowing how much courage it took to stand in front of her parents like that, as if it wasn’t killing her inside.

“Let’s go celebrate,” Yoohyeon murmured, her voice soft but resolute. “You deserve so much better than them.”

Handong nodded, tears spilling over as she leaned into Yoohyeon’s embrace.

The weight of her parents’ judgment had always been heavy. But in this moment, it felt lighter, as if Yoohyeon’s words and staunch defense had lifted some of the burden she had carried her entire life.

“You really meant all those things?” Handong whispered, her voice cracking.

“Every word,” Yoohyeon replied, her voice thick with sincerity.

“You’re worth everything, Dongie. Never forget that.”

For the first time, Handong felt the full weight of her parents’ influence begin to lift.

In Yoohyeon’s arms, under her steady gaze, she felt something she had never known before.

Unconditional love.

Not love she had to earn.

But love that was fierce and unwavering, finally starting to fill the cracks in her heart left by the people who had ruined her.

Chapter Text

An air of celebration filled the cozy restaurant, the atmosphere warm with laughter and camaraderie.

A week had passed since the championship game, and while the victory still felt fresh, the team had decided to hold off their celebration until everyone could be there.

Yoohyeon had insisted on spending the night of the championship with her family, and several others had wanted to do the same.

Tonight, though, the spotlight was all theirs.

The trophy sat proudly at the center of their long table, polished and gleaming, a tangible symbol of everything they had fought for. It was more than just a trophy; it was a testament to their resilience, growth, and the bond they had forged through every hardship.

Bora clinked her glass loudly, silencing the room with exaggerated drama. “Alright, everyone. I have a very important question.”

Yoohyeon, mid-bite of her dessert, glanced up cautiously. Whenever Bora got that mischievous glint in her eye, it never meant anything good.

“What is it?” Siyeon questioned, cautious as well.

Bora smirked, her gaze flicking between Yoohyeon and Handong. “So, are you two finally official, or do we have to win another championship to get a straight answer?”

At once, all fifteen girls and the coaches erupted in laughter.

Yoohyeon turned bright red, sputtering as she tried to come up with a response. Handong, for her part, rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the rare, genuine smile from tugging at her lips.

“You’re insufferable,” Handong said, drily. But not even the ice queen herself could hide the subtle underlying tone of affection.

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Bora teased, grinning as she leaned back in her chair. “Don’t make me captain this ship. You know I will.”

And in a nutshell, that was Bora.

Fiercely protective of Yoohyeon, unflinching in her loyalty, and quick to judge anyone who hurt her friends. But beneath that fiery exterior, she was gracious and disarmingly forgiving.

If someone proved their love for Yoohyeon was genuine, Bora would welcome them with open arms.

Even if she had been Handong’s most staunch critic for the better part of this entire season, she had been quick to forgive after the incident at semi-finals.

When she saw the true extent of Handong’s care.

Now, she was not afraid to show that she was their biggest supporter.

Yoohyeon just buried her face in her hands, muffling her laughter. “We get it, Bora. And if it wasn’t already clear, yes we are official.”

The other girls all cheered, and took a shot in celebration.

Though they had all been victims of Yoohyeon and Handong’s turbulent relationship over the course of the season, at the end of the day, they had all secretly been rooting for it to work out.

It seemed everyone except the two of them had seen it coming.

Or, at least had hoped it would work out.

During some of the more tense moments, there was admittedly doubt.

But at the end of the day, Yoohyeon and Handong had pulled through, like they always suspected.

Minji stood then, raising her glass, her expression soft but serious. “Alright, enough tormenting them. Let’s toast. To the best team I’ve ever been part of, on and off the court. You’re not just my teammates. You’re my family. And I’m so lucky to have found you all and gotten to play with you. There’ll never be a team like us again.”

A quiet hush fell over the room as the weight of her words sank in. One by one, everyone raised their glasses, echoing Minji’s sentiment.

For a moment, it wasn’t about basketball or victories.

It was about them. So many different individuals who had come together to create something unbreakable.

“To family,” Yoohyeon echoed softly, clinking her glass against Handong’s.

They exchanged meaningful smiles as they completed the toast and drank into the night.

—

The next morning, the team gathered at their usual breakfast spot, the cheerful chaos of last night’s celebration still lingering in their grins and slightly… sluggish… movements.

They were halfway through their meal when Yubin, scrolling through her phone, suddenly froze.

“Uh, guys? You might want to see this,” she said, holding up her screen.

The headline was bold and unmistakable: Handong Chooses Senior Year Over Early WNBA Draft.

Shock rippled through the group, all eyes snapping to Handong, who was just calmly sipping her coffee.

Yoohyeon’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what?”

“You’re staying?” Gahyun asked, wide-eyed. “But… you’re a guaranteed first pick. Everyone’s been saying it.”

Siyeon studied her friend carefully. "You know I'll support you in whatever you choose. But, it's risky to stay an extra year. Your draft stock could go down, or there could be a more competitive draft class. Are you sure about this?"

Handong set her mug down, her expression calm but resolute. “There’s no rush,” she said simply. “I’ve got plenty of time to go pro. But this? Playing with you guys one last year… With Yoohyeon… That’s worth more to me than any draft stock.”

Yoohyeon’s heart swelled, her voice trembling slightly as she asked, “You’d risk everything for us?”

Handong’s gaze softened, locking onto Yoohyeon’s. “It’s not a risk if it makes me happy.”

The room went silent, allowing her words to sink in.

Then, as if on cue, Bora broke the moment.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head. “But… in a good way. I’m- I’m glad you’re staying, Handong.”

A chorus of agreement followed, the mood lightening again as the conversation turned back to breakfast and basketball.

But Yoohyeon couldn’t stop glancing at Handong, her heart filling with a warmth she couldn’t quite put into words.

Before breakfast was even over, Handong’s phone began buzzing incessantly with incoming messages. She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

She had been expecting this.

The news of her decision had clearly reached her parents, and the sheer volume of notifications made her stomach twist.

She opened one of the messages reluctantly. Her father’s text was as cold and cutting as she’d expected.

dad 🏀❤️: reckless. thoughtless. you’re throwing away the opportunity of a lifetime. do you have any idea how foolish this makes you look?

Her mother’s messages weren’t any better.

mom 🫶: this is a disgrace

mom 🫶: you’re ruining your future

mom 🫶: do you even care about everything we’ve sacrificed for you?

Handong stared at the screen, chest tightening.

But then she looked up, her gaze falling on Yoohyeon and her team.

Her teammates’ laughter echoed around her, a reminder of everything she had gained.

A reminder of everyone who showed her that she could be loved, not because of what she did or what she achieved, but because of who she was.

A reminder of the way Yoohyeon had stood up to her parents and finally told them the hard truths they had been denying. The words Handong had never been brave enough to say.

How Yoohyeon had defended Handong like she actually mattered… like she was actually worth something.

And knowing she had the love and approval of the girls around her, it didn’t really matter much if her parents never understood.

Not anymore.

Because she knew where she stood with the people who actually mattered.

For the first time in her whole life, she felt startled by how little her parents’ words affected her.

She wasn’t the scared little girl they had once controlled. She wasn’t fighting for their approval anymore.

She was standing on her own, surrounded by people who saw her, loved her, and supported her for exactly who she was.

Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard as she sent a response.

“it’s my choice and i’m proud of it. i’ve alr made up my mind. if you don’t like it, that’s ok. guess i just won’t bother coming home then.”

With a deep breath, she turned off her phone and set it aside, the weight on her chest finally lifting.

Her parents had told her that line so many times. That she shouldn’t bother coming home if she was going to lose, or be a disgrace.

It felt nice to finally throw it in their faces.

Closing this door on her parents was something she’d surely have to confront later. Something she’d likely have so much trouble processing. Something that would break her down so many more times before she could be built back up.

She knew she’d have to talk about it—likely tearfully—with Yoohyeon and her friends, seeking the comfort of their reassurances and loving embrace.

But for now…?

She would allow herself to feel proud of the strength she mustered up to do it.

In the presence of her team, she was invincible.

Untouchable.

A smile crept onto her lips as she stood, her heart light as she pulled Yoohyeon into a sudden and crushing hug.

No explanation. Just pulled her tightly and held her close.

Finally, Handong felt truly free.

—

While the whole team had celebrated together multiple times with their coaches and supporting staff, the seven girls wanted a cozier, more private celebration just for their friend group.

They had decided to meet on Gahyun's floor for snacks and drinks, just to hang out and end their season in each others’ company.

The laughter from their private celebration echoed warmly in the small resident lounge they’d claimed for the evening. Plates of half-eaten snacks and empty cups of soda cluttered the table, but no one cared about the mess.

They were too caught up in the easy banter and the kind of teasing that only came from the bond they had built over months of blood, sweat, and tears.

Many tears.

“You know... you’re actually the real MVP,” Bora said, pointing dramatically at Gahyun, who blinked in surprise mid-sip of her drink.

“Me? What did I even do?” Gahyun asked, looking genuinely baffled.

“Exactly,” Bora deadpanned, making the group burst into laughter.

Minji leaned back in her chair, her arms draped casually over the backrest. “You carried our water bottles with unparalleled grace, Gahyun. True championship material.”

“Wow, the disrespect,” Gahyun mumbled, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Talking like I didn't shoot the game-winner at semis. Or average a double-double and five steals per game."

Minji and Bora just laughed, ruffling her hair affectionately. Teasing Gahyun together had quickly become one of their favorite joint pastimes.

“Okay, okay. Leave the superstar alone, you two,” Yubin cut in, raising a hand to calm the playful chaos. “Seriously though, I love you guys. This season wasn’t easy, but I wouldn’t have wanted to go through it with anyone else.”

Her sincerity brought a hush over the room, the laughter fading into quiet smiles.

Handong raised her plastic cup, nodding solemnly. “To the best damn team I’ve ever known. You guys... you guys loved me when I thought no one else could… You all showed me I could- I could be more than my past. That I could be someone worth loving, even in all my flaws. And… I’ll be forever grateful to you all for that. I wouldn't rather have played alongside anyone else."

“Here, here,” Siyeon agreed softly, her voice carrying a rare gentleness.

She felt like she had seen Handong become a whole new person over the course of this long season. Having known Handong for three years, this was the lightest and freest she had ever looked.

Siyeon couldn't be any happier about it.

Yoohyeon smiled as she also held up her cup. “What she said. Plus, it also helps that you all are damn good at ball. Wouldn’t have been able to win without you guys. And definitely wouldn’t have rather won with anybody else.”

They clumsily knocked their glasses together as they all laughed in agreement, the gesture a quiet yet powerful acknowledgment of everything they had endured and achieved together.

Later that evening, as the others dozed off in a pile of blankets or wandered off to their dorms for the night, Handong and Yoohyeon slipped out of the lounge, their footsteps quiet as they headed toward the now-empty gym with their hands intertwined.

The court was bathed in the soft glow of dimmed overhead lights, the championship trophy still sitting on a pedestal at the center of it.

Handong approached it slowly, her fingers brushing over the smooth, golden surface. She stared at it for a long moment before letting out a quiet laugh.

“It’s funny,” she said softly, her voice carrying in the stillness.

“My whole life, I dreamt of this moment. Getting to look at this trophy. And hold it. But somehow- winning this doesn’t feel nearly as good as getting to be here with you. Allowing someone to finally... see me. And love me.”

Yoohyeon stepped closer, leaning her shoulder against Handong’s. “You worked so hard for this. You deserve every last bit of the glory, you know,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “But I'm so grateful we get to enjoy this together. I'm- glad you let me in. Getting to love you and show you everyday that you're worth everything in this world... it makes me happier than anything else. I just wanted you to finally feel like you were enough. That you didn't have anyone to please or prove yourself to. I love you, as you are.”

Handong turned to her, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She reached out and gently grazed her hand along Yoohyeon’s jaw, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You showed me all of that. You did. I... sometimes when I think about the future... I still feel so scared. But- but I want to keep trying. With you.”

Yoohyeon smiled, her gaze steady and warm. Leaning forward, she pressed a soft kiss to Handong’s lips.

She pulled away smiling. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

Handong closed her eyes briefly, letting the words settle in her heart.

They stood there in the quiet, their hands intertwined, the weight of the season lifting as a new kind of hope took its place.

—

The next day, the entire team gathered in the gym one last time before the season officially ended. The hardwood floor of the court gleamed under the gym lights, the air thick with nostalgia and quiet anticipation.

All of them were already looking forward to next season.

Basketball was their lives.

And after having finally won one, the girls couldn’t let go of that high.

Next season couldn’t possibly come fast enough.

And with the seniors leaving… new freshmen or possible transfers coming in…

There would be a whole new set of challenges and obstacles.

But the girls were just excited that they’d get to face it all together.

Coach Park stood at the center of the circle, her usual stoic demeanor softened by a rare, proud smile. She took a deep breath, her gaze sweeping over each of them.

“Championships are great,” she began, her voice steady but filled with emotion, “but what matters most is that you played for each other. That’s what makes a team unstoppable. And that’s what makes you all very special. Thank you so much for all the hard work you put into this season. I watched every single one of you change and grow so much. That's always been what coaching was about for me. Whenever I get a group of girls this special, I always ask myself what the goal is. And for me, this year... I just wanted to make sure that for those of you who leave for the League or graduate into the real world, you could look back on this team and remember it fondly. That you would feel we worked hard, played hard, and did it all for each other. I hope you all feel that way, and had as memorable of a season as I did. You're the best team I've ever had the privilege of coaching. Not just because we won, but because we did it by lifting each other up."

The players exchanged glances, their faces reflecting the depth of her words.

Minji reached out first, placing her hand in the center. “Huddle up,” she said, her voice breaking the quiet.

One by one, they all joined her, their hands stacking on top of each other until they were all connected.

Yubin grinned mischievously, her voice loud and clear as she said, “No matter where we all go after our four years end, I’ll always remember this team. What a year. So… what do you say we go for a two-peat?”

The suggestion drew laughter and they broke the huddle with a raucous cheer.

As the group began to disperse, chatting animatedly about the offseason and plans for next year, Handong and Yoohyeon lingered at the edge of the court.

Their fingers found each other’s, intertwining naturally as they walked toward the exit.

The gym door creaked open, and the cool evening air greeted them. Handong glanced at Yoohyeon, her heart swelling with a mix of gratitude and determination.

For everything.

"So... two-peat?" Yoohyeon asked her girlfriend, grinning slyly.

“I think... we’re just getting started,” Handong murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Yoohyeon turned to her, eyes crinkling as she beamed.

She knew Handong meant that about more than just basketball.

“Yeah,” she said, her tone bright with certainty.

“We are.”

Together, they stepped into the night, the future unfolding before them like a promise they were finally ready to keep.