The football court was already alive when Ling arrived.
Cheers rolled like thunder across the stands—her name chanted, banners lifted, phones raised. Ling Kwong didn't acknowledge any of it. She walked onto the field with her usual composure, jaw set, eyes forward, control wrapped around her like armor.
This was her territory.
Everyone knew it.
Rhea arrived minutes later.
Not in team colors. Not trying to blend in. She walked in wearing confidence like defiance, eyes scanning the crowd once—then landing on Ling.
Ling felt it immediately.
That pull. That pressure in her chest.
The noise swelled.
The announcer stepped forward, voice booming through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen—today's match is a special one!"
The crowd roared.
"This is a one-on-one competitive match, captain versus challenger. Standard football rules apply—no fouls, no outside interference. First to score wins."
Cheers exploded again.
Rhea's lips curved faintly. Ling didn't smile.
"Time limit: one minute."
A ripple of surprise ran through the audience.
"One minute?" someone laughed. "That's enough for Ling."
Ling didn't react. Her gaze stayed locked on Rhea—who hadn't looked away once.
"The match will begin on the whistle. Positions will be reset after kickoff. No substitutions. No pauses."
The announcer raised his hand. "Are both players ready?"
Ling nodded once.
Rhea did the same.
No one in the crowd knew what sat beneath those rules.
No one knew what waited at the end of sixty seconds.
The announcer smiled. "Then let the game begin."
The whistle shrieked.
The crowd erupted.
Ling moved first—fast, precise, every muscle trained for domination. Rhea countered, sharp and stubborn, refusing to back down even as Ling pressed hard from the opening second.
Eyes watched. Cameras flashed.
But between them—
There was something else entirely.
A promise.
A threat.
A kiss the world thought impossible.
And words that could shatter a dynasty.
The clock began to run.
Rhea stayed in front of her.
Not panicked. Not reckless. Watching. Learning. Waiting.
Thirty seconds passed.
Ling circled, testing, pressing just enough to keep Rhea reacting. She leaned in as they crossed paths, voice low, sharp with certainty.
"I'll score in the last ten seconds," Ling said, almost amused.
"Watch."
Rhea smirked, breath steady despite the pace. "You won't."
Ling's eyes flicked to the digital clock. Twenty-five seconds.
Rhea played tighter now—closer than before, shoulder brushing Ling's arm, foot hooking the ball away with unexpected precision. Ling frowned, irritation flashing. Rhea wasn't trying to win.
She was trying to stall.
"Running scared?" Ling muttered.
Rhea met her gaze briefly. There was something unreadable there. Something deliberate.
Then—
Rhea fell.
It wasn't dramatic. No collision that justified it. Just a misstep, a soft stumble to the ground.
The crowd gasped.
Ling froze for half a second—instinct overriding discipline. She stopped, stepping back, eyes snapping to Rhea.
"Get up," Ling said sharply.
The clock kept running.
Twenty seconds.
Rhea didn't move.
She pressed a hand to her ankle, face tightening, breath hitching just enough to sell it.
Ling's chest constricted.
"Rhea," she snapped, louder now. "This isn't funny."
Fifteen seconds.
Whispers rippled through the stands. The referee hesitated—unsure, watching Ling, watching Rhea.
Ling glanced at the clock again.
Twelve seconds.
Rhea stayed down.
Ling swore under her breath and dropped to one knee beside her, hand hovering—hesitating only a fraction before gripping Rhea's wrist.
"Are you hurt?" Ling demanded, panic bleeding through the command.
Rhea looked up at her then.
Eyes glossy. Vulnerable. Convincing.
The crowd held its breath.
Ling didn't see the goal.
Didn't hear the chants.
Didn't feel the weight of a thousand eyes.
She only saw Rhea on the ground.
Ten seconds.
Ling's eyes flicked to the clock—then back to Rhea.
Rhea was still on the ground, one hand pressed to her ankle, breath shallow. Ling was already kneeling, instinct overriding calculation, discipline cracking at the edges.
Then Rhea smiled.
It was small. Soft.
Deadly.
"Congratulations," Rhea murmured, just loud enough for Ling alone.
"You're losing."
Something slammed into place inside Ling's head.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Clarity.
Her grip loosened on Rhea's wrist. Ling straightened slowly, eyes narrowing—not hurt, not panicked anymore. Focused. Cold. Awake.
"This was your game," Ling said quietly.
Rhea's smile widened a fraction. She didn't deny it.
Seven seconds.
Ling turned.
The ball lay abandoned near the center line—far. Too far. Impossible.
The crowd murmured in confusion as Ling walked—not ran—toward it. Calm returned to her body like a snapped spine realigning.
Five seconds.
She didn't look back at Rhea.
She didn't look at the goal.
She kicked.
It wasn't brute force. It was precision—clean contact, perfect angle, muscle memory refined over years of domination. The ball rose, slicing the air from the other half of the ground, cutting through disbelief.
The stadium went silent.
Three seconds.
The ball flew.
Two.
It dipped.
One.
It slammed into the net.
Goal.
The sound exploded a heartbeat later—screams, disbelief, chaos crashing over the stands. Players stood frozen. Phones dropped. Someone shouted Ling's name like a prayer.
Ling didn't react.
She stood exactly where she was, chest rising once, eyes already searching the sideline—not the crowd.
Rhea had pushed herself up on her elbows now, staring at the goal. For the first time, something unreadable crossed her face.
The referee raised his hand.
Then paused.
The cheers wavered, uncertain.
The referee looked at the clock.
Consulted the sideline official.
Looked again.
"We will announce the result," the referee said into the mic.
"Please remain calm."
The noise fractured—confusion bleeding into anticipation.
Ling finally turned back toward Rhea.
Their eyes met across the field.
Neither smiled.
Because the real question wasn't whether Ling had scored.
It was whether she had scored in time.
And standing between them—
between a kiss and humiliation,
between control and collapse—
was a single second no one could yet define.