Chapter Text
The stadium is packed. The championship game is the highlight of the season, with two powerhouse teams going head-to-head in what is already being called the most anticipated game of the year. The energy in the air is electric, the crowd roaring as the teams warm up on the court.
Then, the cameras pan to the VIP section, and the energy shifts.
The stadium’s jumbotron flashes an image of her—Aiah Arceta, the Aiah Arceta, internationally renowned model, cover star of the biggest magazines, and, unfortunately, the ex-girlfriend of the home team’s captain, Caelie Tiu.
The crowd erupts into whispers, and just as expected, the sports announcers ran with it.
“Oh, wow! Look who just walked in—Aiah Arceta is here in attendance!”
“Didn’t she and Caelie Tiu break up a few months ago? Guess she’s still loyal to the team!”
“Or maybe she’s here to win her back?”
The words echo over the speakers, loud enough that everyone in the arena could hear them.
Loud enough that Mikha Lim, the opposing team’s captain, hears them too.
From the court, Mikha clenches her jaw, resisting the urge to throw her volleyball at the announcers’ booth. They had been tolerating this nonsense for three months—three whole months of people assuming Aiah was still stuck on Caelie, three months of speculation, pity, and whispered jokes. And now, in the middle of the goddamn championship game, it’s being broadcasted again for the world to hear.
Never mind that Aiah isn’t actually here for Caelie. Never mind that she has been in a relationship with Mikha for months. No, the world only saw the past.
Mikha is done with it.
In the VIP section, Aiah barely reacts. She adjusts her designer sunglasses, sliding it over her head and crosses her legs, her angelic face effortlessly commanding attention.
She doesn’t care about the whispers, nor does she acknowledge the camera trained on her face. Let them talk. She’s here for one person only—and it isn’t her ex.
Still, she does notice the subtle shift in energy coming from the court.
Mikha is playing aggressively. More than usual.
The way she spikes the ball with unnecessary force, the way she glares toward the announcers’ booth after every point—it all screamed one thing:
She’s pissed.
Aiah smirks.
She love it when Mikha got like this.
By the time halftime rolls around, Mikha has reached her limit.
The announcers hadn’t shut up about Aiah once.
The camera kept zooming in on her, and Mikha’s opponents were smirking, clearly entertained by the ridiculous narrative being spun.
Her own teammates notice.
“Hey, are you good?” one of them ask during the break.
“No,” Mikha snaps, wiping sweat from her forehead. “They keep making it sound like she’s here for Tiu.”
“Well…” Another teammate hesitates. “She hasn’t exactly corrected anyone.”
Mikha’s glare could have set the stadium on fire.
That’s it. She isn’t letting this stand.
As the teams return to the court for the second half, Aiah watches with amusement. She could feel Mikha’s frustration radiating from the floor, and it’s honestly adorable how worked up she gets over things like this.
Then, something unexpected happened.
During a brief break between points, Mikha turns, lock eyes with her across the stadium, and jogs straight toward the VIP section.
Aiah barely has time to react before warm hands grab her face, tilting her head up—and then Mikha kisses her.
Not just a peck.
A statement.
The kind of kiss that leaves no room for misinterpretation. Possessive, public, and completely, utterly deliberate.
When Mikha pulls back, breathless, she doesn’t step away immediately. Their foreheads rest together for just a second, long enough for a smug, triumphant smirk to form on her lips.
Then, with all the pettiness in the world, Mikha turn to the microphone at the announcers’ table, grinning as she announces, “Needed my good luck charm.”
The stadium explodes.
Mikha’s team won. Dominated. Absolutely crushed the competition.
After the game, as expected, Caelie approaches Aiah.
“When did this happen?” she asks, expression unreadable, but her lips press together like she’s pissed.
Aiah tilts her head, pretending to think. Then, with the most unbothered smirk imaginable, she says— “Since before you broke up with me, actually.”
(Not true, but she loves the way Caelie’s eye twitch.)
Mikha slides an arm around Aiah’s waist, pressing a kiss to her temple just to add insult to injury.
“Hope you didn’t mind the broadcasted announcement,” Mikha teases.
Aiah smirks. “You’re buying me dinner for this.”
Mikha leans in, lips brushing Aiah’s ear.
“Anything you want.”
After the game, Mikha is sore, but Aiah is already waiting for her in their apartment with warm towels and an ice pack.
“Did you have to be that dramatic?” Aiah teases as she gently massage Mikha’s sore shoulders.
Mikha smirks, eyes close. “Had to make a point, baby.”
Aiah rolls her eyes but lean down to kiss the top of Mikha’s head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Mikha grins, lazily pulling Aiah onto the couch beside her. “You love me.”
Aiah sighs dramatically but melts into Mikha’s arms. “Yeah, yeah. Now let me take care of you, my volleyball star.”
Mikha just smirked. “Say it again.”
Aiah threw a pillow at her.
Within hours, the video of the infamous championship kiss goes viral.
Social media is in flames.
Aiah’s modeling peers posted Instagram stories saying “She really bagged a whole volleyball star???”
Mikha’s teammates spammed the team group chat with memes of the moment, captioning it: “Legendary. Absolutely iconic.”
Aiah’s friends? “So, when were you planning to tell us, Ms. Cover Girl?”
Even other professional athletes weighed in: “Petty? Public? Romantic? 10/10 execution.”
Aiah, sipping wine while scrolling through her phone, chuckles as she read the tweets.
“Babe, we broke the internet.”
Mikha, stretching lazily beside her, grins. “Good. Now everyone knows.”
Aiah shakes her head, amused. “You really couldn’t let them think I was there for her, huh?”
Mikha kisses her cheek, arms wrapping around her waist.
“Not a chance.”