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Chapter Text

New beginnings weren’t easy. To nineteen year old Jung Wooyoung, they were everything.

The empty court stood lifeless in front of him, abandoned, save for a singular racquet that’d toppled over, groaning accusingly.

Coach had told him to come and see, in advance. Now, he stood planted amidst the vacant court, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, a bright, orange jersey slung over his waist. He’d been given the 0-8, the final spot on the team, cementing.

It should’ve been a turning point. Instead, Wooyoung felt more vindicated than ever. He shouldn’t be here. He should’ve stayed in Ilsan, away from Seoul. Away from a corny scouting program for abandoned Exy league players.

It wasn’t so much the short distance, but the estranged, detached feeling of solitude.

“Acclimated?” Coach asked, stepping onto the court. He sported a tracksuit, tackily orange-white, aligned with the Foxes’ signature colors. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I played before,” Wooyoung remarked, studying a slim batch of leaflets near the bleachers. Go, Foxes! Victory’s all yours! He grimaced, imagining the court at its height, boasting and fastidious with adrenaline. “Are these—?”

Coach followed his line of sight, nodding. “Your team mates.”

Seven men, in the throes of a tight circle, boosting their morale. In a series of snapshots, photographs of sweating and shouting team mates, clad in helmets and protective padding, racquets held up high. Wooyoung fidgeted.

“I’ve recruited you, because I saw potential in you.” Coach gave him a warm, approving nudge. “They’ll accept you.”

“How can you be so sure?” Wooyoung sucked in his bottom lip, “They’re complete. They’ve got all positions set, technically. They could redistribute.”

Coach studied him, a calm smile blooming on his lips. Wooyoung thought him capable of judgement. He was notorious around town, perhaps a tad too notorious, for make-shifting an Exy team of outcasts. Societal waste. While somewhat charitable, the Foxes were known to be an insignificant dot on the roster.

“Neither of you are all that different from one another.” Coach lent a placating hand, grounding Wooyoung. “They’re all from difficult backgrounds. Different stories, different places. If you’re going through a hard time, they’ll understand.”

Wooyoung snorted, “I’d like to see them try.”

Wooyoung hadn’t been to juvie, not yet anyway, but he figured a good portion of the Foxes might’ve been. The press, while not often concerned with low-ranking teams, didn’t speak kindly of the Foxes. Social misfits, mavericks, rejects. He shrugged helplessly. Did a team as rattled as the Foxes truly need another deadweight to saddle with? He picked up his racquet, Coach trailing after him. The lockers, sanitized to an inch, stood occupied, orange-white jerseys lined up to each side of the wall, ranging from one to seven. A mild scent of laundry detergent permeated, four sets of identical duffels rowing the benches.

“One’s for you,” Coach supplied helpfully, “Fox paw, and all.” He leaned against the door, “You’ve got two weeks to settle in, before season starts.”

Wooyoung stared at the innocent duffel. The glaring orange was starting to get on his nerves. He toed off his sneakers and stuffed them inside, the jersey following suit. “This is ridiculous, Coach.”

“Their captain agreed,” Coach offered with a shrug, “We reviewed your tapes, watched your matches. Few as they come. You’ve got potential, and he wants to give it a go.”

“Hooray,” Wooyoung mock-raved, shoving his racquet into his designated locker, “They’ll love another runaway freshman to fuck up their entries.” He slammed the locker shut, strutting outside.

When Wooyoung transferred to Seoul National University, he’d caused a ruckus. Ilsan’s Exy team, while not the shabbiest, hadn’t made the cut. His former Coach, a try-hard bastard of little substance, declared he’d move on from Exy, leaving the team to scatter. Wooyoung would watch as prestigious scouting programs fetched up Ilsan’s best players, one by one, sidelining the bleachers. Jung Wooyoung, a troubled newbie, wasn’t in high demand. He couldn’t fault the scouts. Not when the board decided he’d either join the Exy team, or face permanent expulsion. His actions, as it turned out, did have consequences.

A week later, Seoul National University reached out.

Coach jogged up to him, pace matching. “You’re rooming with Yunho and Yeosang.”

“Great,” Wooyoung offered frostily. The court, a short stretch from Fox Tower, dwindled. “Total strangers. What could possibly go wrong?”

“You’ll get the hang of it. They’re both studious, and they thrive off routine. Yeosang more so than Yunho, but I’ll let you figure that out yourself.”

Wooyoung wanted to quit. “I don’t—” He shrugged helplessly, the weight of the duffel wearing his shoulders down. “I don’t want to room with anyone, and I don’t think I should be here.”

“Wooyoung,” Coach cautioned. His voice, admonishing and stern, sent Wooyoung reeling.

Last time he’d heard his father call out his name, he’d set the local rehabilitation centre on fire. For failing his family, and to atone for their incompetence.

But Coach wasn’t his father, and the rehabilitation centre was no more.

They stopped short in front of Fox Tower. Wooyoung zipped up his tracksuit, the evening chill settling in his bones. Eye to eye with Coach, he felt small, insignificant. The Foxes, lousy as they were, wouldn’t possibly welcome another addition to their circus of an Exy team.

“We’ve recruited you, because we want to see you succeed. When you’re done moping—” Coach handed him a loose key, “Get up there, and hit it off with them. They’re a rowdy bunch, but you’re as tough as they come, aren’t you?”

“You’re really doing this to me,” Wooyoung stated, the key an odd, unfamiliar shape in his palm.

Coach grinned, “I’ll see you in two weeks, in high spirits. Practice starts early, before classes, so arrange your schedule wisely. Seonghwa will show you around. He’s in on it, so just ask him. Learn our drills, so we won’t dilly-dally first thing in the morning. Hongjoong’s dead set on turning you into a striker. Better follow his lead, unless you want to start a fight you’ll lose.”

Wooyoung sputtered, “But I’m a dealer.”

“Not anymore.” Coach patted his shoulder, placating and patronizing.

“And the rest?” Wooyoung asked, Fox Tower beckoning him forward. They’d share the tower with like-minded athletes, but Wooyoung didn’t believe they’d meddle with the Foxes’ affairs. Not by choice, anyway.

Coach smiled stiffly. “You’ll be fine, Wooyoung.”

When all seemed to have been settled, Wooyoung watched him stalk off campus, swallowing. There was a lump in his throat, the size of a boulder, lodged in his windpipe like a chunk of food.

Fox Tower stood in front of him, imposing, taunting him. He couldn’t imagine the kind of people the Foxes were in private; perhaps boisterous, perhaps dangerous. They might take a liking to him, or they might just as well reject another baseless addition to their team, hoping Wooyoung wouldn’t tread against the grain.

He squared his shoulders, then pushed open the doors.

A clinical scent permeated the lounge. Wooyoung spotted a campus cleaning service, strutting back and forth, pushing mildly stocked-up cleaning carts ahead of spaced-out furniture.

So far, so good.

Up the stairs, a shabby fox-print flag guided the path to the Foxes’ floor. Wooyoung wondered just how much—or how little—the Foxes knew of him. Their captain, Hongjoong, it seemed, must’ve been in on the surprise, if Coach hadn’t bluffed.

Wooyoung’s pondering came to a forcible halt as he stepped onto the fourth floor, greeted by physical altercation. A body, large and sturdy, crashed into him, nearly sending him down the flight of stairs he’d just climbed. The body, at first unmoving, thrashed in Wooyoung’s unbidden hold, sputtering profanities. Lean shoulders strained against him, an unspoiled, strengthened core snug in his grasp. A goalie, Wooyoung figured, gritting out a hitched breath as unsupported weight fell onto his hands.

A gruff voice called out, the threshold of a door stuttering ajar. Before Wooyoung could gather his bearings, he was sent reeling, tripping over his own feet. He blinked once, then twice, warm blood pattering.

“San!”

Wooyoung dragged his sleeve across his nose, feeling a pinch. It dripped crimson.

“Knock it off, San!” A short man in a jersey jogged up to Wooyoung. A fever dream, made of obnoxious orange. Another man, clad in loose sweatpants and a flannel, fetched the goalkeeper with a sharp, mildly concerned glare. Wooyoung felt his lungs burn, the sting up his nose drifting to his brain. Vaguely, he thought he’d been hit by an elbow, unsuspecting.

“Are you alright? Hey, look at me.”

Wooyoung looked up, eyes swimming. His vision blurred, fuzzy at the edges.

A voice cracked into earshot. “Piss off, Yunho. If you’re going to let him run his mouth as he wishes, tell him not do it anywhere near me.”

There was a wild, biting edge to the voice that’d spoken, the goalie’s fists clenched tightly to his sides.

Wooyoung felt he shouldn’t avert his eyes. Just his luck, to have the timing of his arrival coincidence with the Foxes figuring out whatever the fuck’s wrong with their goalkeeper.

“Is this—” Wooyoung started, feeling blood drip down his face, “Is this the Foxes’ floor?” Wooyoung didn’t think he’d have been welcomed like this anywhere else. On campus, or on earth.

The man smiled, extending an offering hand. “Yeah. Welcome to the team, Wooyoung.” 

Wooyoung didn’t feel very welcome. Or very team-spirited, for that matter.

This, he realized, must be the Foxes’ captain. Kim Hongjoong, a former prodigy. How low he’d fallen, to shepherd a team of social outliers. Wooyoung mustered a half-hearted shrug, preoccupied with the bloody mess to their feet.

Hongjoong slipped a tissue up his chin, inspecting the damage. His lips stretched into a worried, fond line. When he whipped his head around, his gaze fell on the Foxes’ goalkeeper.

“San’s a handful,” Hongjoong confessed, voice swaying. Apologetic, almost. “Yunho will take care of him, so don’t worry.” He tilted Wooyoung’s chin sideways, humming. “Think you’ll manage without a nurse?”

Wooyoung snorted, low and humored. He’d been in thrumming fist fights before. An accidental blow to his face wouldn’t make him squirm. He nodded, blinking spots out of his vision.

“Tell Mingi,” The goalie—San, apparently—snapped, “To shove that racquet up his ass and worry about his own business.”

Yunho placated, keeping San locked in a vice grip. He looked strong, defensive even. A backliner, Wooyoung figured. “He’s just worried, San. You’ll thank him when the day comes.”

A tall man stepped out languidly, arms thrown up in mock surrender. His jersey sat askew, sporting a washed-out 0-3. Orange. Too much orange, Wooyoung thought, gripping the railing.

“I’m just saying—” Mingi started. San leapt at him, arms straining in Yunho’s hold. “Yeosang can’t play both halftimes. He’ll wear himself out, and Jongho’s good to go again. You don’t need to coddle him.”

“Coddle?” San spat incredulously. He cocked an eyebrow just so, “He’s injured.”

Mingi shrugged, “He’s recovering. He said it himself, he’ll play. Why don’t you trust him?”

San snorted, but he stilled. His shoulders seemed stiff, squared and primed. Yunho sighed, shifting his foot to support the goalie’s weight. He maneuvered them past Mingi, down the hallway, struggling.

For a second, Wooyoung met San’s eyes in passing. They were wild, charged with temper. His heartbeat slowed, then quadrupled. San shoved at him, ungently and ferocious, like he’d found a punching bag to unload his anger upon. His eyes found Hongjoong’s, viciously delighted. “You can barely handle this lot as it is. This’ll be fun.”

San was led down the stairs, strangely tamed. Wooyoung’s gaze trailed after him.

“Alright,” Hongjoong sighed, grabbing Wooyoung by the shoulders. “Let’s get you cleaned up and settled.”

They passed Mingi, whose sharp eyes burned holes into Wooyoung’s duffel. Wooyoung figured it’d be easy for the Foxes to catch on. He didn’t think any of the other athletes would visit the fourth floor. They wouldn’t nurse a death wish.

“Coach said—” Wooyoung stuttered, clutching his duffel tighter. The bleeding had subsided, but the sting up his nostrils persisted stubbornly. “You’re looking for a striker.”

Hongjoong smiled knowingly, directing Wooyoung past a set of bunk beds. Wooyoung wasn’t sure whose room they’d entered, and he couldn’t muster sufficient curiosity to find out. They filed into a bathroom, and Hongjoong flicked the tap open.

“I’m not looking for a striker,” he said, wetting a towel, “I found one.”

“I’m not a striker,” Wooyoung pointed out. Hongjoong dabbed the towel across his face, then shoved it into a hamper. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, or if Coach wants you to believe in me or some crap, but I didn’t play professionally. Never have, because I didn’t join the team by choice.”

Hongjoong studied him calmly, “I know.” The captain’s smile flattened. Wooyoung wasn’t sure what to make of it, ears starting to ring.

The door cracked open a sliver, a silver-haired man peeking inside. A plastic bag dangled idly off his wrist. He stretched it out to Hongjoong, “I came to check on you, because Yunho said—Oh, sorry.” When his eyes met Wooyoung’s, he stepped back. “You must be Wooyoung.”

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong greeted the newcomer. Wooyoung felt confined in his skin, straining to escape like prey backed into a corner. He tried to straighten his posture, dimly recognizing the name.

“Coach said you’ll show me around,” he said, studying Seonghwa. His hair fell loose to his chin, and his face stood chiselled like a sculpture. His voice, unexpectedly silken, seemed too soft-spoken for a member of the Foxes. Perhaps, Wooyoung had misjudged their reputation.

Seonghwa nodded stiffly. He mustered a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Then, he faced Hongjoong, fixing the captain with a stern glare. “You said you’ll handle him this time.”

Hongjoong sighed softly. “He needs time.”

“We’ve been patient. He’s destroying what’s left of this team, and you’re letting him.”

“Wooyoung—” Hongjoong said suddenly, “Why don’t you get settled in next door? Yeosang’s home, he’ll let you in.”

Yeosang, Wooyoung thought. Coach had mentioned he’d room with him, and with Yunho, who’d held back San. His stomach pulled taut at San’s point-blank declaration, the vigor of his thrashing. He’d felt warm to the touch, hot and riled up. He made for the door, then felt a hand catch him by the wrist. Warmly, Seonghwa smiled at him, “I’m glad you’re here, Wooyoung. This team needed some fresh wind.”

Wooyoung thought he was a lukewarm gust at most, but he didn’t falter. He nodded, easing into a tentative smile.

He headed outside, finding a slender, athletic man propped against the doorframe. His hair was auburn, like impending fall, and his hands looked callous to the touch. Privacy seemed like a foreign concept to the Foxes. “Let’s go,” was all he said, a curt invitation Wooyoung was to accept.

Yeosang was calm, stoic, and sarcastic. His jokes were dry, the planes of his face sharp and ethereal. He showed Wooyoung around the dorm, then handed him a key card made of flimsy plastic. “For the laundry room. We rotate. Last week was Jongho’s turn, so tomorrow will be yours.”

Wooyoung couldn’t imagine anything more exciting than washing smelly jerseys a day into his arrival. Perhaps, running a knife into his chest. He stuffed the key card into his duffel, slowly settling.

“That’s all?” Yeosang said, scrutinizing him.

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your stuff?” Yeosang asked incredulously. He’d raised a brow, arms folded in front of his chest. Wooyoung didn’t like the skeptical waver to his voice, like he’d breached a law.

“I didn’t bring any. Coach will supply the basics, he said.”

“You’re crazy,” Yeosang huffed, “Hongjoong’s crazy for this one.”

Wooyoung stopped mid-motion. He stuffed the duffel into a closet, slamming it shut. “I don’t remember asking for your input. I’m here to bridge the years to graduation, and to avoid detention. And from the looks of it—” He mirrored Yeosang, arms flush to his chest, “The Foxes don’t seem to fare any better or worse, with or without me around.”

The foreign hadn’t scared Wooyoung. Being a misfit, a good-for-nothing, allowed him to blend in. Allowed him to cease the farce, to let go of his baggage. He didn’t owe Yeosang, or Hongjoong, or even San, an explanation. He’d been scouted, square and fair, and the reason he’d agreed was simple. The Foxes couldn’t fault him.

Yeosang glanced at him briefly, turning sideways. He made for one of the three desks, stacked with books. “We’ll see.”

While Yeosang shuffled, the door cracked ajar. Warm, brown eyes strayed off-focus, then found Wooyoung’s. Yunho walked in and beamed, “Sorry about that. Hongjoong filled me in.” Then, “Are you done unpacking?”

Yeosang snorted.

“For the most part,” Wooyoung heard himself say. He thought of the glaring, obnoxious jersey, stuffed into his duffel. The number 0-8. Fox paws, and a rough shove to his sternum.

“Great!” Yunho clapped his hands, “I’ll gather the rest.”

Yeosang turned in his chair, aghast. “You’re not serious.”

“He’s one of us now. He deserves a proper introduction. And some beer, after he had to take a hit.”

Wooyoung couldn’t follow. His mouth hung open, “I didn’t take it.”

Yeosang snorted again.

Yunho didn’t prolong their conversation, fetching the rest of the team. They filed into the dorm, one by one, save for Hongjoong and Seonghwa, who’d more or less ushered Wooyoung out of their bathroom. San came in last, steering clear of the semi-circle they’d formed. He sat behind Yeosang, a set of muscular deltoids jutting out. Yeosang tilted, whispering to San, and they both shuffled over to the lower bunk. Wooyoung felt their eyes on him, sharp and burning.

Wooyoung found himself between Hongjoong and Seonghwa, squished in like a nestling. He looked around the room, Yunho to his right, Mingi beside him. To his left sat an unfamiliar face. Wooyoung filled in the blanks, figuring he must be Jongho, their injured dealer.

“We’re welcoming a new addition to the team,” Hongjoong began, “I’ve been negotiating with Coach, and we both agreed we’ll need another striker. We’ve got our goal set—” He glanced at San, “—Our backliners,” His eyes fell on Yunho, then Mingi, “And our dealers,” At last, Yeosang and Jongho. Wooyoung felt his skin prickle with recognition. The Foxes were short on strikers, and they wouldn’t be able to enter nationals if they didn’t recruit new players.

“He said he’s a dealer,” Yeosang jutted his chin forward. He’d been eavesdropping, then. Wooyoung watched as San leaned in, their faces inches apart, bursting into concealed laughter. His skin ran warm, scalding. They were laughing at him; they had to be.

Yunho passed a crate of beer around, cans sloshing open. When the crate reached Wooyoung, he passed it over to Hongjoong. It’d be a long time coming before he’d mingle with the Foxes.

“We got two dealers,” Seonghwa said calmly, “Besides, we’ll need one on field, and one for second halftime.”

“Precisely,” Jongho added, eyes fixed on Wooyoung. “So why’d we need a third one?”

Wooyoung spared them the recount of Ilsan’s Exy team, made up of several spares. On most days, Wooyoung wouldn’t even switch in.

Hongjoong cracked open a can, nipping on his beer. He declared, “Wooyoung’s going to be a striker. Oh, shit. We should’ve introduced you first.”

Wooyoung shifted slightly, “I’ll need to experiment first.”

His name, it seemed, was the least of the Foxes’ concerns. He felt it in their hard, hostile eyes: Yeosang, Jongho, and San didn’t want him here. Or anywhere near their team, for that matter. They seemed territorial in a way entirely foreign to Wooyoung.

San whispered to Yeosang, and they both giggled.

Wooyoung felt frustration bubble up his throat. He fixed his eyes on Yunho, who gave him a warm smile, and Mingi, who seemed impartial to his meddling.

“I’ll take you to court,” Hongjoong said with an approving nod, “Tomorrow, first thing. Be ready by eight, we’ll start with drills. For the upcoming two weeks, you’re under my care. We’ll practice, and you’ll listen. When season starts, I’ll see you at the half-court line. No fussing, no whining. I don’t say this lightly but—” He looked around the room, “If we can’t figure this out, we’ll miss out on nationals.”

Mingi fidgeted. “We can’t back down now. We were close enough last time.”

“Yeah,” Yunho agreed quietly, pondering. His eyes fell on Wooyoung, round and pleading. In another life, Yunho might’ve been an idol instead of a shitty backliner.

Wooyoung couldn’t stop himself. He deadpanned, “You’re not exactly a threat to the other teams.”

San perked up at that. Wooyoung caught him just so; keen, nearly delighted. He studied Wooyoung from across the room. Their eyes met, and Wooyoung wasn’t going to back down first. Seconds passed at first, then minutes. The rest of the Foxes, resigned to conversation, fell still at once. Three minutes in, Yeosang grabbed San by the shoulder, scolding him.

When San looked aside, Wooyoung felt the triumph of victory, however small, bloom inside of him.

“We’re planning on changing that,” Hongjoong grinned.

Seonghwa joined in easily, “We’d like to restore the Foxes to former glory.”

Wooyoung recalled the news at the time. Before the Foxes became a knee-slapper on the roster, Kim Hongjoong once captained an average, dependable team. When he injured himself critically, though, he was forced to sideline activities. Without his guidance, the Foxes fell apart.

Two years later, he’d fully recovered, and Coach began to scout Exy players all over the country. Misfits, ex-juvie detainees. Wooyoung committed each of the Foxes to memory, brows drawn together. Seonghwa looked—and spoke—like he’d apologize for swatting a fly. Yunho appeared optimistic, placating even. Mingi, while not too talkative, hadn’t struck Wooyoung as particularly confrontational. Jongho, while calm, seemed stern. Yeosang liked to quietly stir the pot, but he didn’t look like someone who’d commit a crime. And Hongjoong, well, he’d been around before Coach adapted his savior shtick.

San, however, fit the mould.

Wooyoung inflected at that. Either the Foxes hid their truths like unbidden secrets, or Wooyoung had just joined San as the vice-troublemaker of Seoul National University’s Exy team.

Jongho muttered, “We’ll see how practice goes. Two more weeks, and we’ll see if he gets to stay.”

Wooyoung understood they talked of him as if he wasn’t present, fingers splaying to his sides. His knuckles flexed as he sought grounding.

For what it was worth, he had to prove himself on court.

♜

Choi San, as it turned out, was a problem.

Not because he hated Wooyoung, though that much had been clear the moment he’d laid eyes upon the Foxes’ latest striker. But because of broader, grander reasons. Reasons beyond Wooyoung's reach. And interest, for that matter.

Wooyoung groaned as he slipped out of the sheets, skirting around a scattering of beer cans. It was half past seven in the morning, and he’d have to meet Hongjoong at court by eight. He pulled himself upright, brushed his teeth, and grabbed his duffel on the way out. The sun had barely risen; Fox Tower dipped in the low husk of dawn. His sneakers pushed past gravel, then rocked to an abrupt halt at the faces that’d gathered near court. Hongjoong waved at him, a set of keys dangling off his limp wrist.

“Coach said we’re to film you,” he said as Wooyoung adjoined, chipper. At eight in the morning, Kim Hongjoong had the grating morale of an athlete gearing up for a final’s match. It was irritating, and not the slightest bit infectious. “We’ll set up the recording, then analyze after practice. He wants to see your results, and your improvement. Said he won’t go easy on you once season starts.”

Wooyoung clutched his duffel tighter, “Okay.” Then, “What about him?”

San stood near the court doors, face pinched into a tight grimace. He sported his jersey and laced trainers, a bandana fastened below tufts of dark, tousled hair. “I’d like to see you practice with an empty goal.”

Hongjoong offered a smile, “Don’t mind him. He’s tame.” He dug the keys into the court doors, pushing them open. “Usually.”

San entered first, sporting a brutal pace. He reached the lockers and grabbed for his racquet, mumbling to himself. Hongjoong and Wooyoung trailed behind.

Wooyoung tried to pry, “What’s the deal with him?”

Hongjoong shrugged apologetically. “He’s San.”

For better or for worse, none of the Foxes seemed to challenge San.

Wooyoung kept pace with the leader of their team, struggling to reconcile San’s crass temper with his stoic disinterest. He seemed, curiously, detached from the team in ways Wooyoung couldn’t figure. Part of him wondered what could’ve possibly shaped him this way, but the more rational part of Wooyoung’s brain felt he shouldn’t dive into whatever would set off a ticking time bomb such as Choi San.

They piled into the locker room. Hongjoong fetched recording equipment, chattering about upcoming matches. Wooyoung tried not pay San any mind, idly fixing up his gear. With practiced ease, he construed his armor. The racquet Coach had lent him slid easily into his palm, its weight nifty to adjust to.

When Hongjoong left to set up the filming equipment, San waited. His jersey was slightly crumpled, like it’d been in dire need of ironing for a while. Wooyoung watched the intricate netting rise and fall, in tandem with his breaths.

San slammed his locker shut, facing him. His lip twitched with humor, “We don’t normally recruit rabbits.”

Wooyoung blinked at him. A scaredy rabbit he was not. But San wouldn’t know that.

“Rabbits don’t commit arson,” he said cooly, strutting past the goalie.

On court, Wooyoung tried not cringe. Hongjoong shot him a funny glare, but Wooyoung couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he’d tried to impress San by letting him know he’d willingly broken the law—and somehow gotten away with it.

“All set?” Hongjoong asked, strutting over. He’d set up a recording camera, wired to a nearby socket, eyes brimming with glee. San stepped onto the court, lips strewn into an earnest line. He shifted at the sight of Wooyoung, then made for the opposite, away goal.

“Is he going to be alright?” Wooyoung asked worriedly, biting his lip.

“He has to be. We need a starting striker, and he needs a second chance.”

“A second chance at what?”

Hongjoong chuckled audibly, “At Exy.”

Wooyoung couldn’t piece together what that’d possibly mean. Hongjoong ushered him onto the half-court line, excitedly chatting off, and suddenly he was pitched into the confines of San’s territory.

San carried himself to the goal line with levelled calm, dusting his armor. He was nonchalant, and Wooyoung hated every bit of his cool, collected exterior. He focused on the camera instead, on Hongjoong’s encouraging, gentle smile, the slight twitch of the racquet as he dragged it across the half-line in a slow circle, netting sagging. Its weight felt reassuring in his hold.

On court, he’d never had all eyes on him.

He’d been cast aside, called upon few times. Truthfully, Wooyoung could count the number of times he’d been switched in on one hand.

At once, he felt a sudden, pressing urge to prove himself.

Hongjoong nodded, and the recording rolled.

San’s gaze locked on Wooyoung’s, a self-sufficing, devious grin flickering within. At once, he looked intrigued. Braced, to combat.

Wherever Wooyoung meant to strike, San was ahead. He didn’t muster the indifference one might predict of him, given his vocal disinterest in Exy. Instead, he played like he’d been bribed to win, blocking off each advance with maddening, practiced ease. Just when Wooyoung thought the ball might scuff the corner, San managed to upend its trajectory. It toppled across the court, rebounding.

By the end of their mock match, Wooyoung hadn’t scored a single goal.

He shook his head free, beads of salty, damp sweat pattering south. His hard breaths, ragged and labored, filled the empty court. Wooyoung felt his chest constrict, stamina depleted. He should’ve practiced in advance, or perhaps ditched the Foxes altogether. He couldn’t meet San’s ridiculing, jabbing eyes.

San tossed his helmet aside, a shit-eating grin on his face. “A prodigy he is not.”

Hongjoong clapped his hands together, halting the recording. It fizzled to static. Wooyoung had to block out all noise, hands drawn close to his ears. He bent over slightly, catching his breath.

“He’s agile,” Hongjoong nodded approvingly, “You’ve seen it too, haven’t you? Quit nagging so much, San.”

San snorted, dabbing his neck with a crisp, white towel.

Hongjoong approached Wooyoung, palm offered. Wooyoung took it, staggering back to full height.  “You’re fast. We can work with that.”

“You’re kidding, right?” San scoffed, “You’ll have your hands full with him.”

Hongjoong considered San quietly.

San continued on, “Coach won’t be patient. That video won’t help his cause.” He paused, giving Wooyoung a hard, unadorned once-over. “What a drag.”

“Why don’t you practice with him, San?” Hongjoong suggested sweetly, “You’d do well to be on your best behavior, all things considered. Coach won’t accept another slip, so show him—us—that you’re willing to cooperate. Besides, he’s got what it takes to be a striker, we just need to hone in on his assets. Consider yourselves a team, for two weeks.”

Wooyoung and San whipped their heads around, in near tandem.

San said frostily, devoid of any courtesy, “Have you gone mad?”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to argue otherwise,” Hongjoong replied, tone clipped.

San fell silent with a grim, nondescript huff.

Wooyoung intercepted, “I don’t—” When he saw Hongjoong’s off-putting, demanding smile, he fell silent, too.

“Clear up your schedules, if you have any. You heard Coach, two weeks. Figure it out until then.”

“But—” Wooyoung tried, but Hongjoong silenced him. He unplugged the cords, tugging them loose with a snap. Even San was taken aback by his eerie calm.

“I’m taking a chance on you,” Hongjoong said to San, “Don’t let me down again.”

San seemed to bite back his words. Wooyoung watched them quarrel quietly, gathering his bearings. His jersey reeked of sweat and disappointment, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The Foxes were a bunch of dimwits, but they’d outsmarted him. He’d been backed into a corner, made to cooperate with a lousy goalie who’d somehow managed to best him. If San was so indifferent to Exy, how come he’d beaten Wooyoung so effortlessly?

Hongjoong strolled past leisurely, his footsteps echoing out of earshot. Wooyoung heard the backdoor clatter and rumple gravely, cementing finality. The recording equipment stood parked in a corner now, awaiting use. He’d scramble to court, each morning anew, monitored by the Foxes like some prodigy in the making.

San was right, wasn't he? He couldn’t live up to Kim Hongjoong’s ideals.

“This fucker of a Coach—” San grumbled, tongue loose and foul. He collected his helmet, demonstratively shoving Wooyoung aside. The impact felt blunt, like bones grinding raw. San didn’t regard Wooyoung with anything less but scorn, mildly humored. “This’ll be fun, then. Don't go around melting off the roof.”

Wooyoung flinched as if stung, the memory of his stupid remark fresh in his mind. Why’d he said that? To prove to San that he, too, had a short fuse and hands ready to brawl? To compete with him? Weren’t such mind games beneath him? But San had ticked him off—and Wooyoung felt it necessary to return the favor.

He stormed past the goalkeeper, headed for the lockers.

San caught up to him in an easy, languid stride, cradling his helmet. When he tossed it across the bench, Wooyoung groaned. “Can you like—” He stuffed his gear into his locker, huffing. “Quit acting like a child?”

San humored him. His biceps strained as he flung off his jersey, grinning stupidly. Wooyoung’s gaze stuck to his dimples, steep like a mountain’s valley. “I don’t think I can.”

Wooyoung grumbled, “You can’t afford ditching this. They’re giving you a second chance, so take it.” His body felt sore and sticky, confined in his skin. “I can’t mess this up, even if I couldn’t care less about this team. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

San scowled, delivering a rough slam to Wooyoung’s sternum. He reeled, hitting the lockers with a clatter. Static filled his vision, soundscape thrumming to a pitch. San pried open a locker door, promptly crowding Wooyoung inside.

“Stick to your business, and we won’t have an issue.”

Wooyoung doubled down. “Kim Hongjoong wants you to fix this.”

San stood but an inch across, feet braced against the locker’s frame. Wooyoung supposed it’d have been an easy feat; knocking him off his grand ego. His skin was damp and his bandana slightly askew, lips curled in a sneer. “Kim Hongjoong wants a lot of things. Poor guy thinks you’ll pull this shit off.”

Wooyoung glowered. He raised his chin, stomach curling. “Think I can’t?”

Footsteps echoed into earshot. San retreated with a grin, releasing Wooyoung. “You’re not going to last here. That’s what I think.”

Hongjoong walked back in as San walked out, shoulders knocking. Stiff silence reigned. “Glad he took it well.”

Wooyoung snorted wordlessly.

Hongjoong clapped his hands. “Seonghwa’s taking you to lunch later. He’ll pick you up.”

“I don’t need him to babysit me.” Wooyoung shouldered his duffel, stepping outside. “There’s only so much you can do for this team. Don’t push it.”

♜

At noon sharp, Seonghwa stood outside their shared dorm, a warm smile and a hug in tow. Yunho happily joined them, whereas Yeosang looked up briefly from his laptop, rolling his eyes as the door clicked shut.

Wooyoung’s first lunch on campus couldn’t have gone worse.

Most athletes avoided their table, but Wooyoung hadn’t expected otherwise. The Foxes weren’t popular, and they’d long lost the favor of the general public. Those leaflets scattered around the bleachers, he presumed, must’ve been a social experiment. A hopeless, pitiful bunch.

They ate in awkward, shared silence. Wooyoung picked disinterestedly at his food, thoughts running rampant.

“Getting settled?” Seonghwa asked over their trays, nudging Wooyoung to eat. “Heard you got up early.”

Wooyoung grimaced. “Not by choice.”

Seonghwa and Yunho exchanged a glance. Yunho asked, “Did Hongjoong set you up with him?”

“With whom?” San casually butted in, carelessly tucking his duffel under their bench. He joined beside Wooyoung, revelling in the stunned silence.

“Uh—” Yunho said, but Yeosang was quick to intercept. He flanked Wooyoung’s right, effectively caging him in. Compared to San, he set his tray onto the table almost gracefully.

“Ask him—” Yeosang said frostily, “Why we’re joining you.” Him as in San. San, who grinned like he’d scored a grand prize. San, who sported a ridiculously tight compression shirt. San, who—

“Wooyoung?” Seonghwa asked worriedly, conversation flattening.

Had he zoned out?

He tried to focus on his plate, stomach revolting at the thought of sharing a meal with San, who’d jabbed him straight across the face, and Yeosang, who’d made it no secret he’d rather be anywhere than next to Wooyoung.

“Beats me,” Wooyoung said, stacking the remainder of his lunch. He’d lost his appetite. To San, he said, “I don’t care where you breathe, just don’t do it around me.”

The table fell silent. Yeosang chuckled quietly, legs swinging sidewards to release Wooyoung. From the looks of it, he got what he wanted.

Later that evening, he earned an earful from Kim Hongjoong and his nerve-racking sportsmanship, repping for the wonders of teamwork and the importance of friendship. Wooyoung didn’t think any of the Foxes were his friends, and he rendered his chances of ever befriending them slim. The Foxes were a makeshift team of crazy bastards, and Wooyoung would dispose of them as soon as he’d successfully avoided detention.

The next morning, San wouldn’t show up to practice.

In solitude, Wooyoung practiced familiar drills. He shuffled on his feet, rounded the court a whopping fourteen times, then collapsed with a huff. There were only so many points he could score with an empty goal. San hadn't struck him as the disciplined type, so Wooyoung wasn’t surprised he’d foregone Hongjoong’s orders.

On the third day, Wooyoung decided to ruffle San’s feathers. He stood across their dorm, rattling the doorknob. Surprisingly, San was quick to answer. The door flew open with a creak, and Wooyoung resisted the urge to slam it back in frame. San stood shirtless in front of him, yawning unapologetically. A hand came to rest on his stomach, taut and well-defined, rubbing slow circles.

San smiled lazily. “Oops.”

Wooyoung peeled his eyes off places they shouldn’t be. “Shit’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t laughing now, was I?” San scoffed. He stepped aside, gesturing expansively. “Be my guest.”

Wooyoung dodged his offer, gaze narrowing. “You’re coming to court.” Dressed, preferably.

“Or else?”

On cue, the door behind Wooyoung stuttered ajar. Yeosang stepped out in a preppy sweatshirt and specs, bag shouldered. Completely ignoring Wooyoung, he treaded past San and into the foreign dorm, fetching Jongho. The two left without haste, chattering quietly across the hallway. Wooyoung couldn’t figure what they’d be up to at half past seven in the morning, but from the looks of it, Yeosang woke up with the studious enthusiasm of a freshman on the loose, and Jongho didn't seem to mind.

“Bunch of freaks…” Wooyoung muttered, dismissing San. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any of the Foxes on court. Granted, they were twelve days off season, but they’d undoubtedly benefit from surplus practice. “Fine. Fine, just stay put. If they kick you off the team, don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

Yunho emerged behind Wooyoung, gesturing approvingly. Truthfully, Wooyoung hadn’t taken any of the Foxes to be early risers. His arrival seemed to dent San, who guiltily looked aside.

Yunho said, “Go ahead, practice with him. Before I tell on you.” It did the trick.

San laced his trainers and grabbed a baseball cap, shoving his hair underneath. He didn’t bother with his duffel, marching past the door with a scowl. Grabbing Wooyoung by the strap of his bag, he strung him along the narrow hall, disregarding Yunho.

“Let’s hit the track.” San said, trainers rocking past gravel. Downstairs, they both grabbed a bottle of water from an athletes’ cooler.

Once outside, San picked up his stride. Wooyoung wrenched himself free of his grasp, ruffling his tracksuit in place.

“We’re supposed to be on court.”

San didn’t halt, the narrow shape of his waist clear as day, despite morning’s hazy dawn. Wooyoung hadn’t realized he’d put on a shirt.

The running tracks connected to a large open-air stadium, a short march off court. The sun crept forward hesitantly, casting shadows across the vast, dew-speckled lawn. Come midday, Wooyoung was certain they’d be trapped amidst a sea of sweating, grinding bodies. At eight in the morning, the calm tranquil of a vacant stadium bordered on peace.

San locked his arms inwards, stretching. The shifting sun danced across his skin, honeyed and glistened in a sheen of sweat. Wooyoung unzipped his tracksuit, stupidly going along. They should be on court, practicing. His mind slipped as they quietly warmed up, legs easily sliding into a split. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse; the stretch of his trapped muscles drifting taut, or the burn of the track’s synthetic asphalt, rubbing his knees raw. It’d been a while since he’d last performed stretches, let alone hit a running track. In truth, he’d always been athletic by default. If Hongjoong, or Coach, or any of the Foxes saw potential in his skillset, he’d utilize it. To evade detention, Wooyoung was certain he’d succumb to a plethora of stupid, performative stunts. Standing his ground on court, riding the high of a goal, winning a match. It’d happened before, while he’d idled on the bench, waiting to be swapped in. As a dealer, he’d passed the ball to skilled strikers numerous times, rarely benefitting from any of Ilsan’s victories.

Wooyoung dug his palms into the rubber, shifting forward. Stretched out like this, he felt his chest open up. He should’ve returned sooner. Should’ve cared more. Perhaps, he wouldn’t have ended up here, courting the favor of a lousy Exy team. Depending on a goalkeeper whose sole mission was to ruin him, whichever way he saw fit. For no sensible reason, no less. They hardly knew each other, after all.

San stared from aboveground, mouth hanging open.

Wooyoung looked up from the track, at once uncomfortably aware of his position. San’s gaze seemed to travel; encompass him. When Wooyoung scrambled back to his feet, his legs spasmed in protest. He willed them to still, nearly stabbing his sneakers into the ground.

“Didn’t take you for the flexible type,” San stated with a smirk.

Wooyoung took offense. Sure, he’d grappled with Exy for the sake of staying afloat, but he’d never succumbed to gluttony. “You’d have to be, as an athlete.”

“You consider yourself an athlete?”

“You don’t?”

San shook his head. “This whole gig is a shitshow. You don’t go around patch-working a team.”

Wooyoung caught his gaze, partially obscured by the baseball cap. It hung low over his eyes, veiling them. Though he hadn’t been convinced by Coach’s approach, Wooyoung didn’t see the harm in his pity-ethics. He sighed, “They’re taking a chance on us, shouldn’t we be grateful?”

San scoffed. He jogged to the starting line, waving Wooyoung over. Wooyoung resented his bodily response; automatic, staggering towards him. They both assumed the starting position, a timer neatly placed near the lawn.

“What are the stakes?” Wooyoung asked. His fingers pitched to the ground. He’d outrace San. He had to.

San shuffled into position beside him, nodding off. “Three laps, winner gets to choose their prize.”

Wooyoung could work with that. His nerves twitched with anticipation, a crazed hunger to wound San’s ego. He’d come to regret punching his nose bloody. Shoving him into a locker, too. He'd see to it.

As soon as the timer beeped, Wooyoung shot forward. The wind pulsed through his lungs, sneakers lifting off the ground in quick, wide strides. Wooyoung knew his height couldn’t stunt him. Not when he’d outraced most of his peers at practice, who’d had several inches on him. He’d stomp San into the ground—and he’d do so with little effort.

The first lap started closing in, corners rounding where sunlight dappled. San wasn’t too far off Wooyoung’s pace, catching up. Wooyoung figured his built, lean frame would lend itself to the cause, but San was significantly heavier in muscle mass. It’d slow him down.

Two laps down, Wooyoung felt fatigue creep up his bones. He pitched closer to the track, barely grazing San’s shirt. While he’d started off strong, Wooyoung’s stamina surrendered by degrees, short breaths ragging through his rib cage. San held his pace, though Wooyoung reckoned he could’ve just as easily shot ahead, taking advantage of his weakness. If only he’d practiced more. Invested more time. Built up his stamina, his defense. All he had to his name was his speed; a feat he’d never had to work for. Wooyoung didn’t know what it felt like, to pursue passionately. To work for a dream. A bigger, grander picture.

The finish line panned into view. Wooyoung steeled his mind, dashing forward. The patter of their sneakers, pushing past synthetic rubber, thrummed in his eardrums. San pulled in close, flashing Wooyoung a cocky, nerve-grating smirk. His breath trembled in his lungs the faster he accelerated, desperate to outrace San, who’d meanwhile adopted an easy-going, languid stride aside him. Mocking him. Showing off, how he’d easily caught up to Wooyoung. How he didn’t need to try to align their pace.

Just this once, he’d have to give it his all.

A generous breeze kicked Wooyoung an inch forward, just enough so for the tip of his sneakers to graze the finish line. San raced in second, short off a mere centimeter. Wooyoung collapsed with a gargled groan, knees propped on the track.

“Shit—” He cursed, rolling over with a grunt. San passed him a towel from God knows where, looming above. His forehead was damp with sweat, his broad shoulders casting shade across the track. Wooyoung welcomed the cool.

“You should work on your stamina,” San stated the obvious. He popped the lid off his water bottle, swallowing a generous gulp. From the ground, Wooyoung watched his eyes close against the sun, his Adam’s apple wobble with effort.

“No shit,” he grumbled, propping his elbows up. The rubber dug into his flesh. “Haven’t hit the track in a long time. We stayed on court, most of the time. To be honest, I skipped practice often. Locked in once I got an earful from Coach, who later on abandoned the team, anyway. What a fluke.”

San studied him calmly, the breeze ruffling his hair. Wooyoung wouldn’t admit it in a lifetime, but the Foxes’ goalkeeper was painfully handsome, despite his foul mouth. His cheekbones sat high and chiselled, and his gaze commanded undivided attention, once it’d selected its prey.

His crappy personality, though, made it easy for Wooyoung to disregard the sharp planes of his profile, however handsome they might be. A crushing weight punctured his windpipe each time San flashed him one of those irritating, baffling smirks, dimples popping on full display. He winced, eyes scrunched shut.

San inched forward, promptly upending the bottle. A gush of cold water released, soaking Wooyoung to the bones. His tracksuit, once damp with sweat, now clung to his skin uncomfortably.

He shot upright with a gasp, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

San grinned, “You looked like you could need some refreshment.”

Wooyoung jolted to his feet, suddenly invigorated. Droplets of water pattered to the ground, soaking the rubber. His sneakers squeaked as he crowded San, who firmly held his ground. A fresh surge of adrenaline, prompted by the sudden shower, took ahold of him. Who was San to freely act upon his crazy whims? If San badly needed another play to test him, Wooyoung would offer himself to the noble cause.

He grabbed San by the shoulders, punching him smack across his chest. San staggered, clearly unaccustomed to having his antics challenged. Wooyoung snarled, wetting the goalkeeper’s shirt in the process.

“How come you’re so easy to set off?” San asked, rocking his fist into Wooyoung’s side.

“You’re one to ask.”

Wooyoung twisted his arm askew, interlocking their legs. It was an awkward, stand-offish position for a quarrel, but he’d aim for a clean uppercut. He swung forward, barely grazing San’s jaw before he was swiftly swept off the ground, shoulders knocking into the lawn.

San crouched, dimpled smile in tow. 1-0, for him. Defeat tasted sour on Wooyoung’s tongue. Or perhaps, it was the bile rising to his throat. He coughed, eyes stinging.

“Don’t start shit you can’t finish,” San whistled amusedly, fitting himself beside Wooyoung. They reclined against the lawn, watching the clouds drift across the sky. “You’re not the first player to try their luck.”

Wooyoung hummed, knuckles burning.

“They all left after a week,” San added, hands tucked under his head.

“I’ll stay,” Wooyoung grumbled, “I gotta. This is my last shot.”

San whistled anew, high-pitched and mocking. “And here I thought you were bluffing.”

Wooyoung shook his head. The flare in his ribcage paled to a staccato thrum, ebbing off. At once, he felt compelled to let San in. To inform someone, however irrelevant, of his pitiful efforts.

“There’s a rehabilitation center in Ilsan, near campus grounds. I lost playing rights in Ilsan, for setting the place on fire. They were going to expel me, have me permanently removed from any university entries. Until your Coach showed up. I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to convince them. Final chance, this time forreal.”

San snorted. “And how does Exy fit into the equation?”

“I played Exy in Ilsan, too. Or rather, they made me fit into a branch of sports, to make sure I won’t cause trouble. Besides, Coach wanted me on this team. If I don’t play, he’s going to drop me.”

San said pensively, “He does love troublemakers.”

He didn’t ask Wooyoung about the whys and hows of his predicament. He accepted them, as plain truths. 

Wooyoung gave a weak mhm, staggering to his feet. He held out a hand to San, using the other to block off the sun. Just as San followed suit, Yeosang and Jongho strolled by. Fantastic timing. Wooyoung didn’t need to look south to realize they were both caked in dirt, tracksuits damp and stained. Yeosang snorted at the comical scene, a paper bag idling off his wrist. He sipped on an iced coffee, stretching the paper bag out for San to fetch.

Wooyoung let go of San at once, wringing out his soaked tracksuit. Jongho adjoined a step behind, warily glancing over to San. Like he’d set off a ticking bomb. Everyone seemed to approach San with calculated caution. It was mildly irritating.

“We stopped by court, but you guys weren’t there,” Jongho said, tone accusatory.

“We needed a breather,” San replied calmly. He cocked his head, meeting Wooyoung’s sour gaze. “Didn’t we?”

Wooyoung understood he’d have to play along. If word got out he’d started a brawl with a teammate, he’d be kicked off the team before they’d even pitched the season. He nodded, throat dry like sandpaper.

San scoured the contents of the paper bag, thrilled to procure another cup of iced coffee. He sipped on it, crumpling the bag in the process. Wooyoung’s eyes shifted to Yeosang. They weren’t close enough for him to fetch Wooyoung a drink, but wasn’t such camaraderie expected of a team?

“We’ll hit downtown later, wanna join?” Yeosang asked, pointedly ignoring Wooyoung’s presence. “Jongho got us a table, first serve’s on him.”

Jongho deadpanned, “I never said that.” He, too, ignored Wooyoung, like he wasn’t standing beside them.

Yeosang plowed ahead, “Pregame’s at your dorm, by nine. Be there, ‘cuz I wasn’t asking.”

San shrugged. “Sure.” He took another sip, “What about the rest?”

Wooyoung’s mood soured the longer he stood ignored. He plucked the coffee off San’s grasp, sipping generously. All three of them whipped their heads around, staring dumbfoundedly as a hearty, self-fulfilled noise fell from Wooyoung’s lips.

“Hit the bottle tonight, for all I care.” He strolled leisurely past the three, straw clenched between his teeth. “Since I had a prize to claim, this one’s for me.”

♜

A quarter before nine, Hongjoong waltzed in, hellbent on squeezing Wooyoung’s social battery dry.

Yunho was absent from their shared dorm, as was Yeosang. Wooyoung had an idea of where the two could be, but he wasn’t all too keen on confirming his suspicions.

“What’re you up to, Wooyoung?” Hongjoong fluttered by like a fairy on the loose, grinning obnoxiously. He fitted himself on Wooyoung’s study desk, legs dangling off the edge.

“Studying.” Came the prompt response. Wooyoung didn’t chance a look upwards, focused on his notes. He’d been rewriting the same sentence three times, but Hongjoong wouldn’t have to know that.

“Everyone’s gathered, don’t you want to join?”

Wooyoung balked. “No.”

“You need to socialize a little more.”

“I’ve been here for three days, Hongjoong.”

“Where’s the harm in a friendly gathering? Who knows, you might make a friend or two. You’ve already got one in me.”

Wooyoung cringed visibly. He sat upright, finally considering Hongjoong. “I could name about a thousand places I’d rather be.”

Hongjoong revealed his ace shockingly soon. “If you don’t join us, I’ll tell Coach.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Wooyoung whined, “I don’t need to fit in, do I? I need to play Exy, and that’s about it.”

Hongjoong pulled him along by the wrist, chattering off excitedly. “You’ll realize there’s a fine line between the two, and you may cross it at times.”

The door cracked slightly ajar as Hongjoong led the way.

San’s dorm reeked of heady cologne and liquor, muted save for the rowdy buzz of mingling. The entire team had gathered for pregame, jostling in the small space between study desks and single-size beds. Wooyoung tried to look ahead, where a scattering of beer cans formed a haphazard pyramid. As he treaded inside, Mingi tossed a baseball smack in the center of the formation, causing the beer cans to topple over noisily. The Foxes cheered, clearly riding the high of cheap liquor and testosterone.

Wooyoung decided he was scarily sober for the occasion, sneaking a glance past the door as Hongjoong flung an arm across his shoulder. A silent reminder. You’re not going anywhere. When he let go of Wooyoung, it wasn’t without a teasing squeeze to his side, joining the rest of the team.

A colorful array of empty plastic cups lined the floor. Beer crates and an unlabelled bottle sat on a makeshift table. Shot glasses lined the study desk closest to the wall, alongside a smattering of cheap party snacks.

Wooyoung scanned the room further north, finding Seonghwa idle in a plastic chair. He sighed a breath of relief, naturally gravitating toward the fellow striker.

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa greeted over the noise, “Good to see you.” He patted the vacant seat beside him, smiling encouragingly.

Wooyoung promptly claimed it, skin tingling. “Uh, likewise. Are they always this—?”

“Eager? Pretty much. Don't worry, they know their limits. Usually.”

Wooyoung thought the bunch had overstepped their limit a while ago, but he didn’t comment otherwise.

“I heard you’ve been troubled?” Seonghwa cut to the chase. He searched Wooyoung’s face for a sign of admission, calmly suggesting he’d follow him to the sink, where he offered Wooyoung a glass of tap water. Backs resting against the small kitchen counter, they watched over the dorm. It was a small, practical space, no larger than their own room.

Wooyoung took a long sip, pondering. He felt compelled to let Seonghwa in. “Guess so. San’s not really cooperating, and Hongjoong wants us to practice together.”

Seonghwa hummed quietly. “That’s indeed troublesome.”

Wooyoung seized the opening to investigate. “What’s his deal, anyway? Why are you guys keeping him around, if he’s so hellbent on dragging the team down?”

Seonghwa opened up with ease. “San’s loyal to this team, at heart. He used to be a shy, quiet kid, before he joined the team. Grew up in a small village, worked hard for his grades.”

“Doesn’t look like he kept up with that,” Wooyoung snorted. He nipped on the stale water, grimacing.

“Not really, no. His parents kicked him out, and he caused a ruckus over here.”

Wooyoung traced the room, finding San’s broad frame jostled amidst Yeosang and Jongho. The usual folks, then. He didn’t think San tolerated any other company, which the rest of the team seemed accustomed to. It further cemented Wooyoung’s suspicions. The Foxes were coddling their goalkeeper, despite his unpredictable temper.

Yunho and Hongjoong sat on the lower bunk, monitoring the situation. They chattered quietly, eyes flicking to and fro. Wooyoung caught them staring, glowering. He looked aside, catching up to the conversation.

“Why did his parents kick him out, though?”

“I’m afraid that’s not for me to tell you.”

Wooyoung grimaced. “If you weren’t going to tell me, why would you start—”

“Tell you what?” San strolled over leisurely, raking a hand through his hair. His back settled against the sink, ears tinged pink.

Seonghwa removed himself with a knowing smile, adjoining the heart of the gathering. Pregame or not, Wooyoung wasn’t interested in sharing a space with Choi San, who, by the looks of his healthy flush, might’ve stomached more drinks than he could handle.

He stepped sideways generously, but San followed suit. Their elbows touched briefly, until Wooyoung quickly retracted his.

“Nothing,” Wooyoung concluded sourly.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.” San’s words slurred slightly.

“You’re too wasted for this conversation.”

“True,” San said with a grin, “How come you’re not joining in?”

Wooyoung cocked a brow. He tilted his chin with defiance. “With you?”

San shrugged. “Why not?” He grabbed a can of beer, juggling it clumsily. It dropped to the floor twice, which almost prompted Wooyoung to laugh. He tried not to cave in, biting his lip. San proffered the can with a plump nod.

Wooyoung hadn’t taken San for a lightweight, or perhaps he’d severely gone overboard this time around. He wouldn’t know. “No, thanks.”

After punching his nose bloody, crowding him into a locker, and knocking him flat to the ground, Wooyoung didn’t feel too amicable towards San. Could anyone blame him?

San popped the can open in a single, fluid motion. Before Wooyoung could blink, he cornered him against the sink, can tilted. His pelvis pressed against Wooyoung's, warm and flush.

“Quit messing around, jackass.” Wooyoung nearly knocked the can askew in protest, liquid sloshing audibly.

San’s brows shot up. He looked mildly humored, or plastered, or both.

Wooyoung’s pulse kicked sluggishly. His ears started ringing, shrill and high-pitched, face stuck in a scowl. It’d be humiliating; to give in. At the same time, Wooyoung understood humiliation was exactly what San sought to achieve. The sweetness of his voice, the endearing blush staining his cheeks, the sudden kindness of his offerings. His efforts worked for Wooyoung to lower his guard, and he’d stupidly thought nothing of it.

When San tilted the can to his lips, Wooyoung had no choice but to concede, lest he wanted to stir commotion. If Hongjoong caught them fighting over a drink and some petty business, he’d probably send their asses packing for boot camp next. With a strained groan, Wooyoung tilted his chin in tandem with San’s hand, the stale musk of lukewarm beer immediately clogging his sinuses. San watched him intently, a smug grin plastered onto his stupidly handsome face. Their eyes met as Wooyoung gulped down a large swig.

“Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” San purred, setting the can aside.

Wooyoung gritted out a weak fuck you, imagining a thousand scenarios; his fist, connecting with San’s face. His palm, slamming straight across his cheek. If the stakes weren’t so high this time around, he wouldn’t hesitate. He cinched his fists uselessly to his sides, heart nearly leaping into his throat. Warmth had settled in his stomach, pulsing south.

The room had fallen silent.

The Foxes peeked over with interest, awkwardly invested in their intimate quarrel. Wooyoung tried not to meet their prying eyes, vehemently jostling past San.

“I’m leaving,” Wooyoung announced to nobody in particular.

Only when his dorm room snapped shut behind him, did he allow himself to breathe.

♜

San came to practice the following days, courtesy of Hongjoong’s scolding. Wooyoung found himself comically detached from their premise, methodically rehearsing drills. He’d shifted into a calm stupor to combat the emotional onslaught that was the Foxes’ goalkeeper. Some days, San would stroll in thirty minutes past their agreed time, leisurely cradling his racquet. Wooyoung supposed it wouldn’t matter. He’d practice, with or without San around. How San thought to appease Hongjoong—and Coach, for that matter—wasn’t his business.

Wooyoung hit the running track after practice, each morning anew. Recording progress came second nature, but San’s defenses remained out of reach. He couldn’t score a goal against him, no matter the approach. Wooyoung knew how to sprint methodically, but San had fast reflexes. His odds were low, if not zero.

Three days before the deadline, San abandoned his duty. Wooyoung thought Hongjoong had little leverage on their goalkeeper, all things considered. His threats struck him as empty, and San must’ve caught on, too. He wouldn’t be told off, kicked off the team, or reprimanded. He’d be granted coexistence, no matter his wrongdoings.

Instead, Yeosang dropped by, sneakers squeaking to a halt. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Wooyoung grumbled inaudibly, pulling his helmet off. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d be here,” Yeosang said dryly, patting his armor. His auburn fringe sat immaculately on his cheekbones.

“Same here,” Wooyoung replied frostily. “San didn’t tell you?”

Yeosang seemed to challenge him, racquet pulled tight across his chest. His gaze was noncommittal, but his posture claimed attendance.

As the silence dragged on, Wooyoung shook his head in disbelief. “You guys really are a bunch of freaks. He didn’t tell you Hongjoong forced him to be my practice buddy until season starts?”

Yeosang looked around court, snorting. “I don’t see him around. Sure he wasn’t a figment of your imagination?”

Wooyoung slammed his racquet against the dealer’s, scowling. “If you came here to piss me off, get lost. My expectations for him were low from the start, and I don’t think any of you would disagree with me.”

“Easy,” Yeosang cautioned, stepping closer. An inch apart, his lips curled into a cold, tight sneer. “Why would he waste his time out here, teaching you how to play Exy? If Hongjoong expects you to be a striker, figure it out yourself. All of us had to.”

“It’s a team sport, genius.”

“We work, on court. That’s what matters.”

“Do you really?” Wooyoung laughed dryly, “Your results lack. The other athletes avoid you guys like the plague. Headlines called the Foxes SNU’s first failure. If you keep going like this, you guys are done for.”

Yeosang shrugged. His jersey sat slightly askew, accentuating his lithe body. “I don’t think any of us care.”

Wooyoung pushed the stick of his racquet into Yeosang’s knees. “Hongjoong cares. Seonghwa cares, even if he’s quiet about it. Hell, even Yunho seems to care. And if you ask me—” Yeosang met his eyes, at once intrigued. The racquet slid further south, toppling to the floor with a squeak. “San cares.”

Truthfully, Wooyoung had thought so the day he’d ended up on the Foxes’ floor. San had no filter, and his tantrums went unventilated. Even so, he was ready to throw a punch for an injured teammate.

Yeosang squinted. “Big words for someone who’s been around for two weeks.”

Wooyoung fetched his racquet off the floor, steaming with misplaced anger. Yeosang’s unbidden hostility towards him was a mystery. One he didn’t care to solve. He made for the lockers with a curt Court’s all yours, happy to absolve of his smelly jersey.

Spring term kicked off with more stress, causing practice and classes to overlap. Wooyoung had his hands full sorting through his notes, studying, and earning earfuls from Coach, who’d meanwhile evaluated the recordings. With playing season fully commencing, Wooyoung had no choice but to meet the Foxes regularly—on court, during team meetings, and even in classes.

“Coach’s crazy,” Mingi whined at lunch, nearly tossing his tray onto the table. Yunho joined beside him, effectively forcing Wooyoung to socialize. He scooped out the remnants of his pudding, grimacing. “He wants us on court by six now. Said we’ll need the extra hour.”

Yunho sighed. “Classes start at nine. That’s three hours of practice for you.”

“Us,” Hongjoong corrected, sliding in beside Wooyoung. Wooyoung flinched as their shoulders bumped, grumbling dissent. “All eight of us on court, isn’t that wonderful?”

“You’re going to play?” Mingi asked wide-eyed, cracking open a can of soda.

“Not exactly, no.” Hongjoong’s voice took on a sad, lamenting edge. “I’ll contribute, somehow. We’ve got Seonghwa and Wooyoung set, though, so we’ll manage.”

“Great,” Wooyoung muttered, plucking a straw off a cylindrical dispenser. He stabbed it into his coffee cup, caffeine fuelling him.

Hongjoong announced excitedly, “We’ve got our first match lined up, two weeks ahead.”

Wooyoung dropped his spoon, jaw going slack. The audible clatter made heads turn. He choked out, “Are you serious?”

“Very serious. Don’t worry, Coach and I think you’ll do just fine.”

“I agree,” Yunho offered placatingly, “Besides, you’re not the only one on court. We’re all equally responsible.”

“We’ve hardly played together. It’s barely been a month. Yeosang and Jongho won’t even acknowledge me on court. They’ll pass the ball to Seonghwa no matter what, even if I’m wide open. We’ve got zero synergy.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Hongjoong said sternly. “You’re like a lightning bolt on court. Did you work on your speed in Ilsan?”

“Not really. Speed’s been my forte since, uh, I can think.”

Hongjoong smiled, “Must be nice, to be so naturally gifted.”

At once, Wooyoung needed answers. He’d entertained enough of this tiresome chit-chat. He dug his spoon into the bowl, scraping out remnants of jelly. “What’s the real reason you’re not keeping San in check?”

Mingi choked on his bite.

Wooyoung continued on, undeterred. “Come on, he’s nothing but a troublemaker. You warn him, but you never follow up on your threats. Shouldn’t you keep him on a shorter leash, considering his track record?”

In a wicked sense of wicked déjà-vu, San chimed in. “What track record would that be?”

Wooyoung’s ears reddened. Caught in the act, he feigned indifference. “You tell me.”

San smiled viciously, “Name one reason I should.”

Tension flared as the two of them bickered, the rest of the Foxes reduced to silence.

At the top of his head, Wooyoung couldn’t conjure up a better reason. He picked up his tray and shot upright, spitting, “Because we’re a team, aren’t we?”

San’s smile dropped. Hongjoong beamed at him with something akin to pride.

At the dorm, Wooyoung spent the rest of the day quietly simmering. San, San, San. The Foxes had one problem. If they cared to fix San, Wooyoung was certain they’d restore at least half of the team’s honor. San was the source, the root of all trouble. But what’d changed him, and what could possibly mend him?

None the wiser, Wooyoung woke to another promise of Exy-filled mornings, sliding out of his bunk and onto court five minutes past six.

Coach and Hongjoong stood menacingly amidst the lockers, gathering the Foxes. Wooyoung was, shockingly, the latest and last addition to the meeting.

“Don’t make me lose hope already,” Coach barked unkindly.

Wooyoung hurriedly shrugged on his jersey, helmet and racquet in tow. Coach gave a lengthy speech on the upcoming match, and how the opposing team wasn’t going to slack off, either. Blood rushed in Wooyoung's ears as he looked to the side, finding San’s gaze pinned on him. A chill racked through his spine, cold and foreboding.

Coach decided, “We’re doing a mock match for warm up, Yeosang’s dealing.”

Jongho was quick to protest. “I can play.”

San strutted forward coolly. His presence demanded attention, and his voice came out firm. “No, you can’t.”

“He’s recovered, San. We talked about this, quit making a fuss.” Wooyoung watched with quiet awe as Mingi rose from the semi-circle they’d formed, challenging San to a quiet stare down. San’s brow twitched with irritation, his gloved hands cinched to tight fists.

Coach had little time to spare for their childish banter. “When you’re done with that, meet us on court.”

The rest of the Foxes followed suit, racquets clanking. Wooyoung peeled his eyes off the clash, thankful to escape the scene.

Throughout the match, Jongho stayed put on the bench.

Miraculously, Wooyoung scored his first goal of the season.

San hadn’t put up much of a fight. Unlike his typical interest in humbling Wooyoung, he played almost lazily. Wooyoung couldn’t lift his spirits, knowing San hadn’t truly given it his all. He’d granted Wooyoung a small victory, born of apathy and disinterest.

The Foxes dispersed with huffs after practice. Wooyoung would’ve loved to ride the high of his first chance at miming San’s equal, but he couldn’t fool himself. Yunho congratulated him on his way out, as did Seonghwa. One by one, the Foxes filed out of the locker room, leaving Wooyoung idle on the bench.

With a defeated groan, he slumped his forehead against the wall. He banged a fist, coiled and sweat-dampened, against the wall.

Just his luck, for Yeosang to casually stroll in. He’d taken a shower, auburn hair parting in wet strands around his chin. A towel clung to his shoulders, crisp and neatly arranged. Wooyoung gathered his remaining pride, quickly assembling his duffel for departure.

What he didn’t expect was for Yeosang to open up conversation, claiming a seat across from him. “You weren’t too bad, out there.”

He looked up, disbelieving. “Thanks.”

Yeosang sighed, the corners of his lips lifting. “San’s unpredictable. You learn to work with him, eventually. He’s more of a hands-on guy.”

“That’s a fancy word for menace.”

Yeosang snorted wordlessly. He offered Wooyoung a hand, shooting upright. They both stood, an awkward silence blanketing the locker rooms.

“I talked to Coach,” Yeosang said pragmatically, “I wasn’t aware of your situation. Didn’t mean to put a strain on your already shitty life.” Wooyoung couldn’t help but grin. It seemed absurd, for him to suddenly reconcile with Yeosang. Had his outrage left an impact on the dealer? Yeosang continued on, “I didn’t expect you to stick around. You’re still here, a month in. Looks like you’re going to stay.”

“That’s the plan.”

“I thought about your words the other day.”

Ah. The pieces clicked into place. Yeosang, a guarded, mistrusting person. Wooyoung, a firm believer of principles. Perhaps, he’d been tested all along.

Yeosang offered his palm. “Welcome to the team, Wooyoung.”

When Wooyoung took it, a warm, blooming sense of belonging spread through him.

“Coffee after class?” Yeosang asked casually, shouldering his duffel. Wooyoung nodded stupidly, overthrown by the sudden tilt. Yeosang shot him a thumbs up, departing gingerly.

Wooyoung sat in stunned silence for a while. Something about Kim Hongjoong, and the wonders of friendship.

He flicked the lights off, departing for campus.

♜

A week before the match, the Foxes gathered for a friendly night out.

Wooyoung met Yeosang over coffee and casual gossip, collecting intel. The Foxes were far more troubled than they let on. Three of them had been to juvie; for theft, assault, and vandalism. In some cases, all of the above. Wooyoung supposed he fit the bill, too. He’d eagerly provoked physical altercation throughout high school, happy to stir trouble. For attention. To steam off. His family, cluttered and ruptured as it was, hadn’t paid his troublemaking any mind. Much less his father, who’d long succumbed to his addiction.

Yeosang, however, grew up in a sheltered, loving family. He met the Foxes by chance, and Coach deemed his presence soothing enough to keep around. Particularly to San, Yeosang was a grounding, calming force.

On court, San stood adamant about ignoring Coach’s orders, mustering little interest in joint practice. Sometimes, he wouldn’t show up at all. Hongjoong would drag him out of the sheets, cool exterior slipping with a cuss. San played with such aggravating indifference that the Foxes had no choice but to punish him, but why wouldn’t they simply kick him off the team and find a replacement? Wooyoung couldn’t figure. Did a notion such as camaraderie exist to the Foxes, after all? Perhaps, they still held onto the smallest bits of hope. Hope, to reclaim their pride.

Together.

He felt slightly encouraged to socialize this time around, carefully curating his appearance. While Coach hadn’t bluffed—he had supplied Wooyoung with a range of basic tees and jeans—none of his options struck Wooyoung as particularly fancy for a local nightclub. He cared about his appearance, more than his current wardrobe let on. But he’d needed to leave home behind. Both physically, and mentally.

He dug out a pair of tight denims, pondering. He couldn’t exactly go shopping, since he hadn’t brought a penny from home.

“Take this one,” Yeosang offered. He lay backwards on his bunk, head dangling off the edge. A book lay sprawled to his side. “Shit’s just collecting dust in my closet.”

Skeptically, Wooyoung unfolded a tight, black shirt, constructed of mesh.

“It’s see-through,” he stated the obvious.

“Duh,” Yeosang said, “You’re going clubbing, not preaching.”

Hongjoong awaited them outside Fox Tower, clad in all white. Seonghwa stood beside him, sporting a match of chrome accessories and leather. They were certain to garner attention tonight. Next to the duo, Wooyoung looked severely underdressed. Like the supporting cast of a crappy romcom.

“The rest went on ahead already,” Hongjoong explained, leading the way to a parked sports car. Wooyoung didn't think Hongjoong had that much money to his name, but he was a former prodigy, after all.

The evening chill brushed past with a howl.

They piled inside, Seonghwa in the passenger seat beside Hongjoong, who promptly revved the engine. The ride was quiet and atmospheric, scenery filtering to a blur. Wooyoung’s thoughts swirled to and fro, to the night ahead of them, to the rest of the Foxes who’d likely claimed a table already, to San and what temper he brought to the club tonight.

He supposed he’d find out.

The Foxes’ favorite nightclub was located downtown. His first night out in a while, away from home.

Mingling, sweating bodies stuffed the crowded floor. Seating booths lined the sides, jostled with party-crazed, skimpily clad patrons. The thrum of a bass shook the ceiling, a sultry alternative playlist booming through the walls. The music pulsed in Wooyoung’s skull like a sledgehammer, propelling him forward. Elbowing a path through the crowd, he followed the Foxes to a corner booth.

He found San piled into the corner, nipping on a glass of plain water, strangely detached from the rest of the lot.

“What’s his deal?” Wooyoung asked Yunho as he squeezed past the tables.

Yunho distributed their drinks, a hand raised in greeting. Wooyoung didn’t remember ordering one. For fuck’s sake, they’d just arrived. He accepted his share of God-knows-what, presented in a colorful cocktail glass. He’d tend to it later. Or never.

“He’s driving,” Yunho explained, “Plus, Coach’s order. No getting wasted, no fucking around.”

Wooyoung gasped quietly. “No way. The consequences of his actions?”

Yunho laughed quietly, procuring a cooler. A bottle of solid bourbon throned amidst crushed ice.

Right down to business, then.

Yeosang fit himself into the space between San and Jongho, making conversation. For one reason or another, Wooyoung resented the view. San’s eyes found his mid-conversation, sticky and unfiltered. They raked; over his face. His chest, draped in uncharacteristic mesh.

Mingi popped the bottle with a grin, pouring eight shots.

“He’s not drinking, though,” Wooyoung remarked with an edge. He raised his chin slightly, indicating San.

“Have mine,” San shot back suavely, “Since you’re so keen.” His arms laid spread across the headrest. He grabbed the shot glass by the edge, sliding it over. It clanked audibly, inviting challenge.

Unlike the Foxes, Wooyoung understood his limitations. He wasn’t going to back down, though.

He tipped his head back, San’s gaze steady on him.

The Foxes cheered, downing their shots.

All eyes on him, Wooyoung promptly chugged San’s serve without delay. The liquor seared his throat, sickly sweet and bitter all the same. Chaste vanilla, with a blend of spice. Hongjoong shot them another one of his knowing glares, while the rest of the team awkwardly tried to disperse the heavy tension with mundane conversation. About Exy, or fuck knows what. Wooyoung wouldn’t know.

A fuzzy, warm sensation spread in his stomach, temper fading to a dull. His stomach dipped with bliss.

The music drummed on ahead, prompting a majority of the Foxes onto the floor.

Their cozy corner booth emptied one by one, Yeosang awkwardly mediating between San and Wooyoung.

“Is he going to leave?” San asked over the music.

“Ask him yourself,” Yeosang promptly replied, sipping on his cocktail. He didn’t seem the least bit fazed. The atmosphere felt charged; charged with something unspoken. “He’s, like, right there.”

Wooyoung decided to humor him. “I’d rather stay and watch you mope in a corner.”

San mustered a mock-smile, downing the remainder of his water.

“C’mon, lets go. Both of you.” Yeosang hopped off his seat, a skip in his step as he padded over to their teammates. Wooyoung bolted upright at the mention. Between spending the night with a skittish San and six inebriated Exy players, he preferred the latter.

Out of nowhere, a rough shove to his chest sent him reeling backwards.

The streaming headlights caught in his vision, legs angled futilely in preemptive defense. He knew virtually no one around town, apart from the Foxes. Hostility was misplaced. Misdirected, at best. The table clattered with noise, but Wooyoung couldn’t budge. The bench cooled his damp skull, doting on him. A shadow crept into his field of vision, swimming.

“What’s your fucking issue?” San banged a fist against the table, ready to brawl.

For a split second—or minute—the whole room seemed to spin. Wooyoung paced his breath, the liquor and a splitting headache working to rupture him. He sat upright with a croak, face to face with a group of athletes, sporting tracksuits and unfamiliar, white jerseys. He didn’t think he’d ever seen any of them around. Not that he’d remember, anyway.

“A new face?” One of the athletes sneered, pitying Wooyoung. To San, he said, “Recruited another clown to your circus?” San was up in a second. In a daze, Wooyoung recognized he’d rushed to his defense. To the Foxes’ defense. “Think it’ll change much? You’re still bottom of the barrel. No wonder, look at you.”

The music blared like a siren. Wooyoung’s pulse kicked up, high on adrenaline. He staggered to his feet, braced to muscle in. He was part of this team now, wasn’t he? Part of the Foxes. Part of their image. He had to step in, no matter the cost. Something akin to loyalty squeezed his chest.

He bunched his fists into the instigator’s collar, swinging. “Don’t piss me off.”

“Wooyoung—” San warned, wrestling Wooyoung’s hands off the guy’s shirt. He tumbled against San’s chest, grounding him. A palm, fiery and damp, came to rest on his hip. “Don’t cause a scene.”

Wooyoung turned with stupor, lively from the liquor. “You’re turning on me?”

The athletes laughed. “There’s no point in fighting them. They’ll fight themselves first. Hey, Choi San.” One of them nodded with a grin, commanding attention.

The Foxes elbowed their way toward them, Hongjoong leading the pack. They arrived in time, within earshot, or perhaps not. Wooyoung couldn’t gauge sufficiently.

“Do we get to apply, too? Suppose we wouldn’t fit the bill, would we? What’re the requirements for joining the Foxes? Being a fa—”

The crack of bones grinding raw rivalled a series of explosive synths.

Hongjoong jogged up to them with haste, separating San and the instigator of the group, who’d clearly implied he was—

Wooyoung blinked spots out of his vision. San had punched the athlete clean in the face, knuckles dripping crimson. Voices intermingled, pitching to roars.

All he could do was stand and process, jaw slack.

“Get lost,” San barked, allowing Hongjoong to lead him astray.

Chaos dispersed as the athletes scattered to nurse their injured player. They wouldn’t call an ambulance. Not when they’d provoked a fight they couldn’t shoulder. Wooyoung sat back with a huff, the Foxes sliding gingerly onto their vacant seats. He read their faces with shocking interest, ranging from surprise to amusement, heart rabbiting in his chest.

So much about not causing a scene.

“What happened?” Seonghwa asked worriedly. Wooyoung realized all eyes were on him, gulping.

“Uh,” he croaked, throat parched. He tried, “They had their asses whooped?”

“No, genius.” Jongho deadpanned, “What did they say to him?”

Wooyoung leapt to his feet, searching for a way out. “I’ll look for him.”

“Wooyoung, wait!” Yunho called out, but he didn’t look back. If the rest of the Foxes hadn’t heard, then surely Hongjoong must’ve.

He raced through the crowd, into the open. Outside, Hongjoong and San stood braced against a wall, arguing quietly. Wooyoung joined them, words slurring as he pushed them out, “You’re the one who told me not to cause a scene.”

San wiped his split knuckles on his jeans, smearing crimson across his thighs. His voice came out brusque, “Go back inside.”

“Why?” Wooyoung crowded him against the wall, voice rising to a shout. Hongjoong didn’t hold him back. “How come I have to keep myself in check, but you get to lash out as you please?”

Hongjoong sighed gravely. “That’s what he does.”

“What do you mean that’s what he—” Wooyoung stilled in his pursuit. San cussed, bouncing off the wall with an aggravated grunt. He headed back inside, leaving Wooyoung and Hongjoong to argue.

Hongjoong continued on, “He picks fights in our stead, so we won’t get in trouble.”

Wooyoung looked to the ground. Anywhere, but San’s dwindling, disappearing frame. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Ever since he joined the team, our records have been clean. If there’s an issue, he will stomp it to the ground. It’s a price he’s willing to pay. I can’t stop him.”

At once, understanding clicked into place.

“Is it true?” Wooyoung asked, meeting their captain’s gaze.

Hongjoong blinked a beat too late. He got the hint just well, stalling. “Ask him yourself.”

Later that night, he lay in bed one truth wiser. Choi San was a menace, a troubled goalkeeper with ambiguous moods, a sacrificial lamb with a short fuse.

And he liked boys.

♜

A day prior to the match, the Foxes climbed the bus to Incheon. A two hour ride, heavy traffic included. The opposing team was in high demand; the Ravens, INU’s Exy team. Undoubtedly, plenty of fans were gearing up for a wild weekend, hitting the road in advance. Coach gathered the Foxes like a shepherd. Wooyoung’s brain functioned on caffeine, feet sluggishly dragging across the bus’ narrow aisle. San wasn’t present, but no one seemed particularly surprised. Coach smacked Wooyoung on the shoulder in a light scolding, forcing him to straighten his posture.

“We’re staying the weekend. Match’s on tomorrow, use the rest of the day to practice. They’ve got a real nice court over there, spacious and scrubbed, just grab your equipment. Racquets are stored, stuff your duffels under your seats and get out of my sight!”

Wooyoung yawned. He picked a window seat at the far back, shorts riding up his knees. Spring was in full bloom now, the sun scorching and merciless by dawn.

Yeosang nearly made his way over, then turned sharply to the left, to keep Jongho company instead. The two muttered quietly, settling in. Wooyoung didn’t care for company, much less at seven in the morning. He’d doze off during the ride, anyway. Drifting off, he watched the streets bustle to life.

San filed in ten minutes late, earning a blunt Get your ass on board! from Coach. He plopped beside Wooyoung with a grumble, wedging his duffel between their seats.

Wooyoung groaned, “Just shove it under your seat, smartass.”

He craned his neck to look around the bus, finding multiple seats vacant. For good measure, he shuffled closer to the window, avoiding San like the plague. San’s savior complex wasn’t good enough of a reason for Wooyoung to warm up to him. If anything, San just struck him as more complex now. Like a riddle begging to be solved—except he wasn’t going to solve San, and he’d forever remain a side effect of Wooyoung’s poor life choices.

Twelve minutes past seven, the vehicle hit the road, wheels creaking across asphalt.

From the corner of his vision, Wooyoung looked over to where San’s hand rested. Mindless curiosity, or boredom. “How’s your hand?” He asked into the silence. Hongjoong and Seonghwa looked across the bus, then began to whisper.

Wordlessly, San lowered the hood of his sweatshirt, offering his hand. The skin around his knuckles was bruised, chipped and flaking off. Bright, piercing red streaked across broad welts, forming scabs. Wooyoung looked to San for admission, then traced the outlines of the wounds with his finger tips. His right, playing hand.

“Ouch,” San winced at minimal pressure, sulking.

“Fuck, you’re crazy. Did you seriously not get it treated?”

San muttered, “What does it look like?”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. He scoured his duffel for the first-aid kit Yeosang had slipped him earlier. Come to think of it, Yeosang wouldn’t stop nagging him about it, insisting he’d bring it along. Just in case, he’d said conspirationally, You might need it. He dug out a bottle of antiseptic, a pair of scissors, and gauze. Yeosang would pay.

“If you scream, I’ll ask Coach to handle it.” Wooyoung dipped a tissue in antiseptic, dabbing it onto San’s knuckles.

San groaned, and Wooyoung’s stomach swooped uselessly in response. Not the right time. Or place. Or person.

The burn sufficed for San to tip his head back, eyes scrunched shut. Wooyoung tried not to stare at his open expression, meticulously tending to the wounds. Since he had to use his hands for virtually any day-to-day task, it was no surprise they’d refused to heal. San’s hands had a pretty shape; small and nifty almost. Wooyoung’s gaze travelled to his forearms, lean and muscular, and littered with protruding, pale veins. If San wasn’t such a self-centered-slash-overly-protective douchebag, Wooyoung might’ve found it in him to compliment him.

Alas.

San wouldn’t cease the ambiguous noise, prompting several heads to turn their way.

Wooyoung met Yeosang’s eyes in passing, a knowing snicker fixed to his lips. Panning from Hongjoong to their lower side, all the way to Yunho at the front, the Foxes stared at them like deers in headlights; equally disturbed, and partially shell-shocked.

Wooyoung discarded the tissue, laying out the gauze. He didn’t meet San’s eyes. His voice was a thin, blurry echo in his head, barely there. “They’re staring.”

In his periphery, he swore Choi San held his head tipped back against the headrest, looking down on him from above. His sharp jawline stood chiselled like a statue. “What a bunch of Exy does to these freaks. They’re deprived of entertainment. No wonder, all they do is chase a ball for excitement.”

Wooyoung cut the gauze in half, pausing. “You’re no better.”

San knocked his foot against his ankle, demanding attendance. His banter was casual; friendly, almost. Wooyoung looked up, their bodies suddenly pressed close. He blamed it on their seating arrangement, knowing San could’ve taken literally any other seat on the bus. But he hadn’t.

“You care about them.”

San’s teasing smile dropped. His glare was icy. Final. “Don’t bother.”

“The other night—” Wooyoung tried, but San cut him off.

“We’re not doing this. You stick to Exy, and we’ll all be happy. That’s what Coach wants. What Hongjoong wants, too. Hell, all of them live in a bubble, and if you dare to burst it—”

Wooyoung cut him short, “I heard.”

San’s jaw clenched in an automatic response. His knuckles tightened around Wooyoung’s grip as he shuffled the gauze sideways, wrapping it taut.

“Didn’t think you had,” San admitted in a fit of honesty, “You seemed out of it.”

“I can hold my liquor.”

San nodded impassively, allowing Wooyoung to bandage his hand. The gauze wrapped twice, then thrice, blanketing his knuckles in a makeshift cast of cream-white. It’d seal off the wounds and allow them to heal properly. A day before the match, though, wouldn’t exactly suffice.

Wooyoung asked, “If you care, why do you shut them out?”

San was silent for a quiet, telltale beat. “I don’t want them to get in trouble.”

“How is you getting in trouble any better? If Coach finds out about this, he’ll have to report to the board.”

San shrugged. “But he didn’t find out, did he?”

Wooyoung shook his head sombrely. He wouldn’t tell on San, even if they’d quarrelled before. They couldn’t risk losing their sole goalkeeper, which was part of the leverage San had on his teammates.

“You’re funny,” San said, “You set a freaking house on fire, but here you are, lecturing me on ethics.”

“That’s different.”

San grabbed his working hand, forcing him to halt. His face tilted with interest. “How so?”

Wooyoung could imagine a thousand better places to lay bare his secrets, but it’d been a long time coming. If not San, who else would bother to hear him out? After all, it took a troublemaker to know one. Their hands wouldn’t separate as Wooyoung spoke. Though not entwined, the contact alone made him shiver. He schooled his voice into neutrality, like an anchor reporting the latest news. A tinny, far-away semblance of a noise—his own voice, he realized—carried over to San, partially drowned out by the ruckus of traffic. The bus skittered down the streets, lane upon lane.

“Thanks to my dad, we grew up dirt poor.” What a grand, cliché opening line. Wooyoung recalled with a deep grudge, “I was a lively child regardless. My mother took his rampant beatings, just so I wouldn’t have to. I never noticed, until I got older. I worked a part-time job, to secure rent and groceries. Dad couldn’t be bothered. All he did was gamble, drink, and steamroll what’s left of this family. Fucking bastard.”

San’s face stood carefully curated, unmoving. He blinked, silently prompting Wooyoung to continue. Wooyoung didn’t think he’d ever spill his guts on a cheap bus ride to Incheon, but he’d severely underestimated fate’s whims.

“The more chaos he caused at home, the more I lashed out at school. My grades dropped, I got into fights, skipped school. I was running out of time, so I contacted child services a day before I turned eighteen. All he got was a slap on the wrist and a multi-week stay at the local rehabilitation center. Nearly two decades of suffering, for nothing. And he got a nice, paid vacation on top of it.”

“Ah,” San commented lightly. “You wanted justice, then.”

Wooyoung hummed assent. In the grand scheme of things, he supposed justice came as close as possible to what he’d meant to achieve. His skin tingled with useless anticipation, San’s verdict a looming, imposing thing. For whatever reason, his parents had kicked him out. Naturally, he’d resent Wooyoung for turning on his, wouldn’t he?

“I don’t see how you’d be at fault.” Wooyoung wheezed out a noise of disbelief, nearly choking on his spit. San laughed quietly, “What? He made your life a living hell, now he gets to burn in it. Seems like a fair trade, if you ask me.”

The topic seemed to drop, unattended as if never present. Wooyoung didn’t think it could be this easy; to be forgiven. To be absolved, of his crimes. San had heard him out, and he’d decided not to cast judgement. His heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest.

If he wanted to save face, he needed a change of conversation. “How’re you going to play like that?”

“Like what?” San sounded bored, apathetic all of a sudden. His eyes fluttered shut from time to time, alluding to sleep.

“You’re injured. It’s your playing hand, too.”

San shrugged. “It’s just the goal.”

Wooyoung didn’t think just the goal cut it, but he continued working silently. San’s hand radiated warmth; a firm, solid weight against his own. He secured the gauze in a simple knot. “There.”

San still watched from above, smiling suavely. Wooyoung noticed the casual sprawl of his posture, legs knocking against his own. San claimed their cramped space as his own, like second nature.

Heat rushed to his cheeks.

Shortly after, San dozed off, no thanks lighter on his lips.

Wooyoung sighed, stuffing the first aid kit into his duffel. He’d been farming karma points, then.

The bus rocked to a halt about an hour later.

Wooyoung had succumbed to sleep meanwhile. San shook him awake with a firm slap to his chest, grinning stupidly. “Wake up, rabbit.”

“Fuck off,” he replied, sleepily shuffling in line behind the rest of the team.

They had lunch at local quarters, separating by dorm arrangement. Wooyoung fell into stride with Yeosang, rounding the foreign campus.

“Got real cozy in there,” Yeosang hummed, “You two had a lot to talk about.”

Yunho unlocked the door to their room, kindly overhearing their conversation.

“You betrayed me,” Wooyoung grumbled, claiming one of the beds. It wouldn’t matter. He’d hit court in a minute, and they’d bring home victory tomorrow. “I didn’t think he’d join me.”

“To be fair, neither did we.”

Wooyoung repeated dumbly, slipping on his jersey. The glaring, harsh orange didn’t put him off like it used to. Instead, his mind jerked ahead, unfolding a thousand possible scenarios. Tomorrow, he could prove himself. To Coach. To Hongjoong. To the Foxes. To the press, and to a bunch of jackasses that wouldn’t know what it’s like; to never quite stay afloat, to not fit into a pre-made mould.

Yunho turned as if summoned, beaming. They tossed their duffels onto the floor in a heap of fox paws. “We’re betting.”

Yeosang sighed dramatically. He pitched Wooyoung a pitying, scheming look. “I gave him a chance, and he took it. I know San, he strikes the iron while it’s hot.”

Wooyoung tried not to cringe. The Yeosang he’d first met, and the Yeosang in front of him seemed like distant cousins at best. It was a strange, fleeting thought at first, but in truth, Wooyoung felt like he’d gotten around making friends. He cursed Hongjoong and his wisdoms, and the terrible recognition that their captain hadn’t been too off with his prediction.

“This is a thing?” Wooyoung asked skeptically, “Betting? On what, exactly?”

“Sure is,” Yunho smiled, “We place bets all the time. We’re on a winning streak, though, so don’t ruin it.”

Wooyoung grimaced, uncapping a bottle of water. The long ride had drained him; or perhaps, San’s crazy temper had. Same thing. He had a hunch this conversation wasn’t going to help his cause, eagerly chugging half the bottle in a long swig.

Yeosang declared pragmatically, “We said San’s going to fold first, but the others voted for you. We’re standing our ground, so don’t worry. Your pride’s intact.”

Wooyoung spat out his water, coughing frantically.

Yunho said, “He’s, like, taking that decently.”

The cough didn’t subside. Yeosang patted his back, humming.

“I can’t stand him,” Wooyoung dragged out between coughs, “Obviously, I’m not going to jump him, if he’s the one seeking my company. Unlike him, I can be a decent teammate. Otherwise, I couldn’t care less. He’s our only goalkeeper, so it’s only natural I’d tolerate him.”

Yeosang gave him a thumbs up. “Uh-huh. Off with you already, you’re twitching to play. Leave the betting to us.”

Wooyoung seized the chance to escape, slipping out of their temporary dorm. To hell with bets and folding. For his own sanity, he'd pretend that never happened.

Incheon National University’s court was grand, housing twice the amount of bleachers. When Wooyoung entered, Hongjoong sat off-court, fiddling with a racquet. The door creaked shut behind Wooyoung, redirecting Hongjoong’s focus.

“I knew you’d come,” Hongjoong said with a smile. He walked towards court, where the two of them stood face-to-face. “It’s been a little longer than a month, but you’ve accustomed well, haven’t you?”

Wooyoung paused for some consideration. He’d had the same thought, but spoken aloud, he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “I guess so,” he managed, wavering.

“Coach noticed something useful about your technique. Mind reviewing with me?” Hongjoong jerked their attention to a small camera on the bleachers. “I’ll give you a few pointers, and we’ll be good to go.”

“Sure,” Wooyoung agreed easily.

An hour went by. Wooyoung listened to Hongjoong’s advice, garnering praise and pointers alike.

The court doors creaked open, and San joined. He zeroed in on the bleachers, casually striding over. Without much courtesy, he knocked his racquet into Wooyoung’s side.

“What’s your issue, again?” Wooyoung asked sourly, looking up from the bleachers.

San wore his signature bandana and a tight compression shirt, foregoing his jersey. Wooyoung tried hard not to stare openly, but San caught his face slip before he had the chance to gather his calm. He was quick to chuckle—audibly, to let Hongjoong in on Wooyoung’s massive failure to articulate a coherent response.

“Let’s play,” San said.

Wooyoung sputtered, “You? You want to play?”

Hongjoong rose from the bleachers with a satisfied smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Wait!” Wooyoung called out, “You’re not disturbed? Like, at all?”

Hongjoong cocked his head. “You’re here to practice for the match, won’t you take his offer?”

“But he’s—I mean, since when does he want to play Exy?”

San butted in with another clank. His eyes narrowed to slits as he cradled his helmet, hopping off the bleachers. Over his shoulder, he added, “Since now. Take it or leave it, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung adjusted his helmet, grimacing as he strolled over to the half-court line. Tomorrow, he’d wait right here, all eyes on Yeosang, who’d serve first.

San played like a champ, defenses raised. For a mock match, he was awfully invested this time around, successfully averting each of Wooyoung’s strikes. It reminded Wooyoung of their first tentative days, forcibly adjoined on court. The few times San would show up, he’d given it his all. Once their two weeks had concluded, Wooyoung hadn’t seen him muster the same fervor again. He’d injured his hand, too, yet he wasn’t the least bit fazed.

For him to be so naturally gifted at Exy, he’d been wasting away his talents.

After twenty unsuccessful minutes, Wooyoung blindly strode over to the goal, racquet hitting the ground. He tossed his helmet to the side, shaking his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Where’s that energy when we need it?”

San considered him through the visor, eyes crinkling with mirth. Wooyoung badly wanted to punch him. San’s tone was soft and mocking all the same, “Calm down, rabbit.”

Wooyoung froze, eyes wide with horror. A warm, fuzzy sensation sparked in his stomach; alight, flaring his insides. One time was pure provocation. Two times made no pattern. Three times pushed conditioning.

San unlatched his helmet with a click, removing his armor. It fell uselessly to the floor. The fine, sharp planes of his lean chest caused enough distraction for a lifetime.

Wooyoung cornered him in his territory, the goal closing in. They stood close to one another, nearly entwined, bodily confined. Wooyoung ignored the warmth in his stomach, spreading like a wildfire. “I thought this was mutual. You can’t stand me, and you made it clear. From the day I walked in, you were out to get me.”

San shrugged, amusement crinkling his features. He collected his loot off the floor, unconcerned with Wooyoung’s approach. When he stood, his gaze was pouncing. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t blow you.”

He left court in a languid stride, headed for the lockers.

Wooyoung watched him skirt around his helmet, the broad plane of his back dwindling out of view.

Heart stuck in his throat, he dropped to the floor with a huff, gathering his bearings. His mind blanked with the image of San; San gleefully shoving him into a locker, San knocking a douchebag’s jaw askew, San holding his hand on a bumpy ride to Incheon, securing leverage.

San wasn’t the thoughtless jerk he’d often allude to being. Neither was he the Exy-crazed jock who’d put his life on the line for victories. He had enough brains to corner Wooyoung; figuratively, and physically.

Wooyoung sat and waited, stumped with recognition. 

Choi San wouldn’t have to know he’d left him hard in his shorts, on a foreign court, catching his breath.