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A week after joining Tyranny, it hit Lin Jingyan that this was his life, these were his choices, and there was no going back—not truly.
It seemed comical to come to this realization now of all times. He had been a willing and active participant in all the arrangements leading up to his transfer to Tyranny; he should have come to terms with the consequences long ago. But that wasn’t the case.
Knowledge was one thing. Experience was another. Now that he was here, what would become of Wind Howl, the team he’d practically built from the ground up? What about his old friends there? What about—
It didn’t matter; it shouldn’t matter. There was nothing more he could do for them, not when management was taking the team in an entirely different direction (though whether they were fully cognizant of this was up for debate). Lin Jingyan had cut his losses, decided not to linger where he was unwanted. It wasn’t his problem.
A part of him was convinced it was his problem, though, and that was very annoying.
Han Wenqing noticed almost right away, to his credit. It was possible he had been waiting for precisely this, despite that he wasn’t exactly known for his emotional intelligence. But Lin Jingyan, as a former captain, knew well that there were specific skills one developed in the process of leading a group made up of young adults and teenagers. Maybe Han Wenqing was actually quite used to dealing with his teammates’ personal crises. It wouldn’t have occurred to Lin Jingyan that anyone in Tyranny dared to have crises where Han Wenqing could see them, but whatever.
He thought he was doing a good job of hiding it, really. That delusion lasted until Han Wenqing suggested they chat alone in the player lounge after everyone had gone to the canteen for dinner.
Well, at least he lasted the whole day. Han Wenqing waiting for the end of work hours to talk seemed ominous, but there was good reason for it. The whole team was exceedingly busy preparing for Season 9, and there was not a minute to waste.
“What’s up with you?” Han Wenqing asked bluntly, expression stiff and eyes cold.
Since Lin Jingyan had known him for a long time, he didn’t take it to heart. “Just having a downer day, that’s all.”
He did consider lying. That wouldn’t be productive, however, and it would probably set a bad precedent for his relationship with Han Wenqing. Moving forward, they had to find new ways to talk and interact as teammates, which would only be more difficult if they didn’t keep the air clear.
“Something on your mind?” Han Wenqing prompted.
“Well…” Lin Jingyan scratched at the back of his neck. “I guess I’m just…adjusting. Getting used to being on a new team. It’s not been as simple as I expected.”
“Which part?”
“Being here. Not being there.” Lin Jingyan exhaled, a little shaky.
Han Wenqing studied him. In Lin Jingyan’s mind, it was in an effort to understand, to relate. But how could Han Wenqing relate to him at all on this particular issue? They shared common ground—that was how Lin Jingyan ended up here in the first place—but Han Wenqing had not been replaced by a younger, fresher Striker specialist. He had not been pushed out of his team. He had not been insulted in front of a massive audience or otherwise degraded. He was too old to be considered in his prime, but he was still respected for everything he’d accomplished.
Hell, he’d won a championship. Snatched it straight from Ye Qiu, even. Lin Jingyan couldn’t do that on his best day.
“That you’re here at all means you didn’t stop hoping that you can achieve something bigger than ever before. But staying too focused on what you had to give up will only hold you back.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m aware it doesn’t make sense—”
“If you’re aware, why are you agonizing over it?” Han Wenqing interrupted impatiently. “The circumstances that led you to leave weren’t great, obviously, but was leaving really that terrible? Or are you suggesting you came to Tyranny only out of desperation? Because we’re not anybody’s last resort, for fuck’s sake.”
“That’s not what I think,” Lin Jingyan hurried to say. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“It better not be. This isn’t a retirement home; I don’t care what those little shits on Weibo say. Since you’re here, you’re gonna pull your weight and help us win a championship. I have full confidence we can accomplish this if we work together. I’m confident in you. So don’t let me down by getting too much in your head. It’s only been a week.”
Lin Jingyan closed his eyes and sighed. Yeah, it had only been a week. And it had been an entire week. That was maybe the problem.
“I’ll move past this. Don’t worry about me.”
Han Wenqing snorted and crossed his arms, leaning indolently against the counter of the kitchenette. “Too late for that. I need you to be all in by the time the season starts. Can you manage, or would you rather stand back and let someone else take your spot on the main roster?”
“Don’t you dare,” Lin Jingyan said.
“Don’t you dare,” Han Wenqing retorted in a grumbling tone. “Not to pressure you or anything, but this has been an investment.”
Shockingly, that was what pulled a smile from Lin Jingyan. “It’s not pressure. It’s the reality of the situation, and I’m not oblivious to it.” A pause. “Honestly, it’s nice that someone still has expectations of me.”
Han Wenqing let out another snort. “I always have expectations of my team.”
“So I’m learning, and I’d hate to disappoint. Your glares are deadly in close proximity,” Lin Jingyan teased, although it wasn’t actually that much of a joke. He’d never found Han Wenqing so intimidating because he just didn’t spend enough time with him, apparently. As Lin Jingyan’s captain, he was properly formidable.
“You’ll survive as long as you don’t slack off.”
“I really wouldn’t dare.”
“Hmph.”
A few beats of silence. Somewhat awkward silence.
“So…good talk?” Lin Jingyan raised his eyebrows hopefully.
Han Wenqing studied him some more, then nodded as if to reassure both himself and Lin Jingyan. “Good talk.”