The whistle cut sharp through the air.
Match over.
Ling Kwong hadn't lost—but more than that, she hadn't slowed.
Goals clean. Movements ruthless. Crowd roaring her name like a ritual.
She wiped sweat from her brow, chest rising evenly, eyes already searching.
Found her.
Rhea stood at the edge of the stands, arms crossed, unreadable.
Ling didn't wait.
She turned toward the crowd and lifted her voice—clear, commanding, impossible to ignore.
"Rhea."
The name landed.
Heads turned.
A ripple went through the stands.
Rhea stiffened.
Ling pointed to the ground. "Come."
Zifa grabbed Rhea's arm. "She's insane."
Rhea exhaled once, then walked down—slow, deliberate, pride intact.
Ling was already bouncing the ball with her foot when Rhea reached her.
"We won," Ling said, like it was an afterthought. Then, lighter—provoking—
"So we can practice now too."
Rhea arched a brow. "You don't get tired?"
Ling smirked. "I get bored."
She rolled the ball toward Rhea with her foot. "Show me."
Rhea glanced around. Too many eyes. Too much attention.
"This isn't private," Rhea said flatly.
Ling stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough. "Then ignore them."
She leaned in—not touching, not quite. "You ignore me well enough."
Rhea's jaw tightened. She tapped the ball back with her foot. Clumsy. Controlled.
"Happy?" Rhea asked.
Ling laughed softly. "Not yet."
She moved around her, guiding with presence alone—cutting angles, blocking space.
"Again," Ling said.
Rhea kicked harder this time. Better.
Ling nodded, approval sharp and unspoken. "See? You learn fast."
Rhea scoffed. "You're enjoying this too much."
Ling didn't deny it.
She stole the ball effortlessly and stopped it dead between them.
"Five minutes," Ling said. "Then you can leave."
Rhea met her gaze. "And if I don't?"
Ling's smile was slow. Dangerous.
"Then we keep playing."
Around them, the crowd buzzed—confused, curious, electric, still hovered, phones out, whispers buzzing.
Ling turned sharply, voice cutting through everything.
"Don't you all have class?" she shouted.
"Or you like staring?"
Dead silence.
Then chaos.
Students scrambled instantly—bags slung, feet moving, heads down. No one dared linger. Within seconds, the ground began to clear.
Rhea watched it happen, disbelief flickering across her face.
She turned to Ling. "I have to go too. Class will start."
Ling checked her watch lazily. "We have twenty minutes."
"I'm serious," Rhea said. "You need to change. I need to—"
"Don't worry," Ling interrupted, already walking backward, ball at her feet. "You won't miss class."
Rhea narrowed her eyes. "Ling—"
Ling suddenly turned and shouted toward the dispersing crowd, spotting a boy she recognized.
"You," she called.
The boy froze.
"Yes—yes, Captain?"
Ling pointed at him with two fingers. "Tell the professor not to start the lecture till I come."
The boy swallowed. "Uh—"
Ling's gaze sharpened. "Now."
He nodded rapidly and ran.
Rhea stared at her. "You can't just—"
"I can," Ling said calmly.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "And I did."
Rhea scoffed. "You think the world bends for you."
Ling smiled faintly. "No."
She nudged the ball toward Rhea again. "I know it does."
Rhea kicked it back harder than before. "You're impossible."
Ling caught it effortlessly, eyes bright. "You're still here."
Rhea opened her mouth—
Then stopped.
Because she was.
Ling leaned in just enough for her shadow to fall over Rhea's shoes.
"Ten minutes," Ling said softly. "Then I'll change. Then we'll both go to class."
Rhea held her gaze, pulse betraying her calm.
"Fine," she said. "But don't think this means anything."
Ling's smile was quick. Dangerous.
"Of course not," she replied. "It's just practice."
But the way she watched Rhea move—
It was anything but.
Ten minutes passed faster than Rhea expected.
One bad step.
A slip on the grass.
She went down hard—not injured, but her dress dragged, smeared, ruined.
Rhea shot to her feet, furious. "Great. Just great."
She looked down at herself, then at Ling. "Now what will I do? How am I supposed to go to class like this? I told you."
Ling stared at her for half a second—
Then laughed.
Not mocking. Amused. Bright.
"You're dramatic," Ling said, already grabbing her wrist. "Come."
"Where—"
"My changing room," Ling cut in. "I have extra clothes."
Rhea resisted for exactly one step, then followed.
The personal changing room was quiet, spotless—clearly untouched by anyone else.
Ling tossed a pair of jeans and a loose black shirt onto the bench.
"Wear these."
Rhea frowned. "These are yours."
"Yes."
Rhea glared but turned away to change.
Ling, very deliberately, faced the other wall.
"Don't look," Rhea snapped.
"As if I need to," Ling replied dryly.
A moment later—
"These are tight," Rhea said sharply, tugging at the jeans. "I can't move."
Ling turned then, leaning against the locker, arms crossed, eyes unapologetic.
"They're not tight," Ling said, smirking. "Your hips are wider."
Rhea froze.
"What did you say?"
Ling shrugged. "Observation."
Rhea flushed. "You're impossible."
Ling tilted her head, gaze slow but controlled. "They fit where they should."
Rhea struggled once more, then gave up, yanking the shirt on.
It hung loose on her—Ling's shirt, unmistakably hers.
Rhea looked at herself in the mirror, annoyed… and unsettled.
"You planned this," Rhea muttered.
Ling smiled faintly. "No."
She stepped closer, voice low. "But I'm not upset about it."
Rhea turned, eyes sharp. "Don't get ideas."
Ling held her gaze, unreadable. "Too late."
A beat.
Ling stepped back, professional mask snapping into place.
"Come on. Class."
Rhea followed, still tugging at the sleeves—still aware of the way Ling's clothes felt like a claim she hadn't agreed to.
And Ling?
Ling walked ahead calmly—
Because winning didn't always look like dominance.
Sometimes it looked like lending someone your shirt and watching them walk out wearing it.