Chapter 10: The Public Confrontation
The slap cracked across the afternoon air, a sound sharper than any whistle. Hyukjae’s head snapped to the side, the sting blooming hot and immediate across her cheek. The gathering crowd around the practice field entrance gasped, a collective intake of breath that sucked away all other sound.
Miyoung stood trembling, her hand still raised, her pretty face twisted into something ugly and raw. “You fucking bitch,” she hissed, spittle flying. “You think you won? You’re just a hole he’s using.”
Hyukjae touched her fingers to her burning skin. She saw the wild triumph in Miyoung’s eyes, the calculated performance of it. This was her move. The wounded, righteous ex. The narrative was already writing itself in the stares of their teammates.
Then he was there.
Donghae shoved through the circle, his practice jersey dark with sweat. His movement was all brutal efficiency. He didn’t look at Miyoung’s face. He grabbed her upraised wrist, his fingers digging in so hard she cried out. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low and solid as stone. “Don’t fucking touch her.”
He threw Miyoung’s arm down as if discarding trash. Then he turned to Hyukjae.
His eyes were different. Not the empty hollows from her penthouse, not the strategic coldness. They were fierce, possessive, blazing with a public certainty. He framed her face with his hands, his thumbs brushing the redness on her cheek. A silent question. She gave a tiny, imperceptible nod.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. His mouth crashed down on hers, his tongue pushing past her lips, delving deep. He tasted of salt and mint gum and fury. One hand slid from her face down to the small of her back, then lower, cupping her ass through her thin shorts, pulling her hard against him. She felt the rigid proof of his arousal press into her stomach. A groan rumbled in his chest, swallowed by the kiss.
The crowd’s murmur escalated. Someone wolf-whistled.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot on her wet lips. He kept her pinned against him, addressing the circle without looking away from her face. “She’s my girlfriend now.” He raised his voice, letting it carry. “So get over it. All of you.”
He didn’t wait for a reaction. He took Hyukjae’s hand, his grip vise-tight, and dragged her away from the stunned silence, away from Miyoung’s crumbling mask of victory. He pulled her toward the athletics building, his strides long and furious. They burst through the heavy door into the cool, chlorine-tinged dimness of the pool locker room corridor. It was empty, post-practice.
He didn’t stop until they were in the main women’s locker room, pushing through the swinging door. The room was a cavern of echoes and damp, lined with glossy blue lockers. He backed her against the cold tile wall near the showers, the impact jolting up her spine.
His hands were everywhere, frantic. He kissed her again, biting her lower lip, his fingers fumbling with the tie of her shorts. “You saw her face,” he muttered against her mouth, half-delirious. “You saw it.”
Her shorts and underwear pooled at her ankles. The air was cool on her exposed skin. He dropped to his knees on the hard, damp floor.
“Donghae, wait—” The protest was weak, tremulous. This was too much, too fast, too public. The scent of bleach and mildew filled her nose.
He didn’t wait. He pushed her thighs apart, his breathing ragged. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and desperate. “I need to taste you.” It was not a request. It was a confession stripped bare. “Right now. I need it.”
He buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was a flat, hot stroke against her, followed by the sharp, searching point of it delving inside. There was no finesse, no teasing buildup. This was primal, a reassertion of ownership, of the truth his body knew even if his mind was a storm. He ate at her with a frantic, focused hunger, his nose pressed against her, his stubble scratching the tender skin of her inner thighs. One hand hooked under her knee, hiking her leg over his shoulder to open her wider, giving him deeper access.
The shock of it, the sheer obscene wetness of his mouth on her in this sterile, public place, ignited a fire in her gut. A whimper escaped her throat. Her hands flew to his hair, not to push him away, but to fist in the dark strands, holding him to her. He groaned, the vibration against her most sensitive parts making her hips jerk.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice muffled against her flesh. “Fuck. Just like that. You taste so fucking good.” He alternated between broad, lapping strokes and tight, rapid circles directly on her clit. The pressure was perfect, relentless. He was a man starved, and she was the only feast.
Her head knocked back against the tile. The ceiling lights were blurry halos. Sounds escaped her—sharp gasps, a moan that echoed off the lockers. She was unraveling too fast, the climax building like a wave with no shore. His tongue worked her, his lips sucking, his fingers now digging into the flesh of her ass, pulling her closer, grinding her against his mouth. He was marking her, erasing the sting of Miyoung’s slap with a searing, intimate brand.
“I’m—oh god—” Her voice was a broken thing.
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue fucking into her in a swift, steady rhythm. The coil inside her snapped.
She came with a choked scream, her body bowing, her thighs clamping around his head. The pleasure was brutal, a white-hot detonation that ripped through her, leaving her trembling and weak. He didn’t let up, licking her through the pulses, gentling only when she shuddered and went limp, sagging against the wall.
Slowly, he lowered her leg. He stayed on his knees, resting his forehead against her stomach. His breath was hot and ragged on her skin. His shoulders rose and fell. She looked down at the top of his head, at the vulnerable curve of his neck. His lips and chin were slick, glistening.
The reality of where they were crashed back in. The distant slam of a door. The drip of a showerhead. The chill of the tile seeping through her thin top.
He finally looked up. His expression was shattered, raw. The public bravado was gone. “She was going to ruin you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I had to… I had to make it real for them.”
Hyukjae’s heart, which had been pounding with passion, now clenched with a cold, dawning understanding. This performance, this raw, explicit act, was for an audience. It was a shield. The kiss, the declaration, the desperate, kneeling worship between her legs—all of it was a calculated move in the game Miyoung had forced them into.
He hadn’t done it for her. He’d done it for the story.
He stood up, wincing slightly as his knees protested. He avoided her eyes, pulling a paper towel from a dispenser and wiping his face with a rough, practical motion. He handed her shorts and underwear back to her, his gaze fixed on a point over her shoulder.
“Get dressed,” he said, his tone flattening back into strategy. “We have to be seen leaving together. Smiling.”
She dressed on shaky legs, the fabric feeling alien against her sensitized skin. The physical euphoria was already a phantom memory, replaced by a hollow ache.
He took her hand again, but the grip was different now. It was a link in a chain, not a connection. He pushed the locker room door open, stepping back into the corridor light.
As they emerged from the building into the late afternoon sun, squinting, she saw Im Yoona standing by the bleachers, waiting. Her best friend’s face was etched with worry. Yoona’s eyes scanned Hyukjae, taking in the messy hair, the flushed skin, the grip of Donghae’s hand.
Donghae saw her too. He squeezed Hyukjae’s hand, a silent command. Smile.
Hyukjae felt the corners of her mouth lift. It was the most difficult performance of her life. She met Yoona’s gaze and gave a small, shaky wave, letting Donghae lead her away toward the parking lot, toward the watching eyes, toward a relationship that felt more like a beautifully constructed prison with every step.