The stadium roared alive the moment the teams stepped onto the field.
Drums. Chants. Whistles cutting the air.
Ling walked out first.
Captain's band tight on her arm. Jersey clinging already from warm-up sweat. Shoulders loose. Spine straight. Command radiating without effort.
She scanned the stands out of habit—
And then she saw her.
Rhea.
Sitting two rows up. Legs crossed. Expression unreadable. Chin lifted like she didn't care.
Ling smiled.
Not wide.
Not playful.
Instinctive.
Rhea felt it without looking.
Her jaw tightened. She stared straight ahead, refusing to turn, refusing to give that satisfaction.
Don't look, she told herself.
Don't give her anything.
The whistle blew.
Ling moved like she owned the ground.
From the first sprint, it was clear—this wasn't control.
This was domination.
She cut through defenders like they weren't there. Footwork sharp, ruthless. She took hits without slowing, shoulder-checked boys twice her size and kept running.
The crowd lost its mind.
"KWONG—KWONG—KWONG—"
First goal.
A brutal strike from outside the box—clean, violent, unstoppable.
Ling didn't celebrate.
She just adjusted her jersey.
Second goal.
This time she sprinted the length of the field, slipped between two defenders, flicked the ball over the keeper's shoulder like it was nothing.
She tugged her jersey up briefly to wipe sweat from her face.
Skin flashed.
Hard abs.
Lines carved by discipline and hunger.
Sweat glistening under the stadium lights.
The crowd exploded.
Rhea's breath hitched before she could stop it.
Her fingers curled in her lap.
Ignore it.
Third goal.
Ling leapt, twisted mid-air, and slammed the ball in with her head. She landed hard, rolled, sprang back up like pain didn't exist.
She finally looked up again.
Straight at Rhea.
This time she didn't smile.
She held eye contact for a full second—silent, unapologetic.
This is me, the look said.
Look or don't.
Rhea turned away sharply, heart hammering against her ribs, heat crawling up her neck.
Around her, people were screaming Ling's name like a prayer.
By halftime, Ling was drenched in sweat, chest rising fast, eyes bright with adrenaline. She paced the sideline like a predator barely contained.
Final score: a massacre.
Ling had scored more than the rest of the field combined.
When the whistle blew, the team swarmed her—hands slapping her back, shouting, laughing.
Ling didn't care.
Her gaze went back to the stands.
Rhea.
Ling watched, chest still burning—not from the game.
From the fact that even at her loudest, her strongest, her most untouchable—
Rhea Nior was still trying not to look.
And that only made Ling want her attention more.
The crowd was still screaming when Ling vaulted the barrier.
Not toward her team.
Not toward the tunnel.
Toward the stands.
Gasps rippled outward as people realized who she was moving toward.
Rhea had already turned to leave.
Too late.
Ling reached the row in three long strides. Sweat-soaked jersey clinging to her skin, chest rising, eyes burning with leftover adrenaline.
She stopped directly in front of Rhea.
Rhea looked up despite herself.
Ling didn't speak.
She grabbed the hem of her jersey and pulled it over her head in one sharp motion.
Skin flashed under stadium lights—sweat-slicked muscle, collarbones sharp, abs tight from exertion.
The crowd lost it.
Before anyone could react, Ling twisted and threw the jersey into the air.
Hands reached. People screamed.
Ling didn't look back.
Her attention was locked on one person.
She stepped closer—too close.
Rhea's breath stalled.
Ling lifted her hand and caught Rhea's chin between her fingers—firm, controlling, not rough but unmistakably possessive.
"Look here," Ling said low, voice still rough from the match. "Why are you looking away?"
Rhea's pulse thundered in her ears. Her instinct screamed to pull back—but pride rooted her in place.
"Let go," Rhea said coolly, eyes flicking aside again.
Ling tightened her grip just enough to stop that movement.
"No," Ling said simply.
The word wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
"You come. You sit where I can see you. And then you pretend I don't exist," Ling continued, gaze unwavering. "Don't insult me like that."
Rhea forced herself to meet Ling's eyes.
Up close, Ling was overwhelming—heat, sweat, dominance barely leashed.
"I didn't come for you," Rhea said sharply.
Ling's thumb brushed once along Rhea's jawline—an unconscious tell she didn't even register.
"Liar," Ling said.
The crowd around them buzzed, phones up, whispers spreading—but Ling acted like the world had narrowed to one point.
Rhea's lips parted for a retort.
Then she stopped.
Because Ling's eyes weren't playful.
They were furious.
Demanding.
And something dangerously close to relief—like seeing Rhea there had anchored her.
"Don't look away from me again," Ling said quietly. "Not when you're right in front of me."
For a split second, Rhea felt it.
Safety.
Heat.
Gravity.
Then revenge snapped back into place like armor.
Rhea lifted her chin against Ling's fingers—not pulling free, not yielding.
"Don't tell me what to do," she said.
Ling's mouth curved—not smiling.
"Then don't test me," she replied.
She released Rhea abruptly and stepped back, already turning away as if the moment had never happened.
The crowd erupted again.
Rhea remained frozen for half a second longer—heart racing, skin burning where Ling had touched her—
Furious at herself.
Because despite everything she told herself—
She had looked.
"What do you think of yourself?" Rhea snapped. "That no one can beat you?"
Ling turned and tilted her head, sweat still tracing her neck, eyes glinting with something dangerously amused.
"You?" Ling said lightly. "You can try."
The crowd leaned in.
Ling stepped closer, voice dropping just enough to feel private despite the noise.
"We can play. Just you and me. Alone." A pause. A deliberate glance. "Maybe… private."
Rhea scoffed, refusing to let her pulse show. "I don't even know football. You'll win. Obviously."
Ling smiled—slow, predatory.
"I can teach you," she said. Then, like it was nothing: "One advantage."
Rhea narrowed her eyes. "What advantage?"
Ling lifted one finger.
"You just have to stop me from scoring in the first minute," she said calmly. "If I don't goal in the first minute—you win."
A beat.
"And if I lose," Ling continued, eyes locked on Rhea, "I'll give you whatever you want."
A hush rippled through the people closest. Even the players nearby had gone still.
Rhea studied Ling's face, searching for arrogance.
Found certainty instead.
"What if you win?" Rhea asked.
Ling shrugged. "Then you will give me what I say."
Rhea's jaw tightened.
"…Fine," she said. "Okay."
Ling's smile sharpened.
"Next week," Ling said. "Same day. Same timing."
She leaned in just enough that only Rhea could hear the rest.
"And before that—training," Ling added. "Sharp five p.m. Daily. You show up late, you forfeit."
Rhea stiffened. "You're serious."
"I don't joke about games," Ling said quietly.
She straightened and raised her voice just enough for everyone around to hear.
"I'll teach her."
Shock exploded.
"What?"
"She never teaches anyone—"
"Ling Kwong doesn't train people—"
Mira, watching from the edge, went completely still.
Rina, somewhere in the stands, smiled like she'd just seen fate grin back.
Rhea felt every eye on her—but Ling didn't look away.
"Five p.m.," Ling repeated. "Don't make me wait."
Rhea held her gaze, refusing to blink.
"I won't," she said.
Ling nodded once—satisfied—then turned and walked away, leaving behind noise, disbelief, and a challenge that was already no longer just about football.
Because everyone saw it.
Ling Kwong didn't just choose a game.
She chose Rhea Nior.
And Rhea—still wrapped in revenge—had just stepped onto a field where Ling never lost.