Chapter Text
The Marikina Sports Center was buzzing with intense, kinetic energy. The thick, humid afternoon air vibrated with the roar of crowded bleachers, the sharp blasts of referees' whistles, and the constant thud of balls hitting hardwood. Sunlight beat down on the complex, making the air inside the un-airconditioned auxiliary gym feel almost heavy enough to breathe in.
Walking through the crowded hallways was the scouting delegation from SVT University’s elite sports program. Led by their head coach, the group of second-year college athletes included Kim Mingyu, Choi Seungcheol, Kwon Hoshi, Wen Jun, and Lee Kyeom.
Even without the official team captain band on his arm, Mingyu’s tall, broad-shouldered frame commanded attention. He adjusted the strap of his heavy leather gym bag, his sharp jawline set in a firm line. He was strict, intimidatingly quiet, and hyper-focused on their mission.
"Mingyu, mag-relax ka nga ng kaunti. Mukha kang mangangain ng tao diyan," Cheol said with a low laugh, throwing a heavy arm around Mingyu’s shoulders. "Nandito tayo para mag-scout ng rising talents, hindi para makipag-away."
"Focus lang, hyung," Mingyu replied, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. He didn't even crack a smile. "We lost our primary wing scorer last season. We need a reliable replacement from this Palaro batch, or our offense collapses in the upcoming league."
"Kahit kailan napaka-stricto mo talaga," Hoshi grumbled, wiping the sheen of sweat from his forehead with a rolled-up gym towel. "Gutom na ako! Can we scout near the food stalls?"
"Umatake na naman ang tiyan mo," Jun said softly, smiling as he adjusted his own gym gear. He gestured toward the main court rosters. "Coach said we should split up to cover more ground. Me, Hoshi, and Kyeom will check out the court four matches."
"Oo nga!" Kyeom chimed in, leaning over Jun's shoulder to look at the bracket sheet. "I heard the regional team from Region 7 has a sharp point guard. Gusto ko makita kung papasa sa standards niyo ni Cheol hyung!"
While the coaches and the trio of Jun, Hoshi, and Kyeom headed off toward the main basketball pavilion to analyze potential recruits, Mingyu got temporarily separated from Cheol near the multi-purpose indoor sports hall. He was about to turn back toward the main hallway when the distinct, sharp squeaks of volleyball shoes and the thunderous rhythm of a high-stakes rally caught his attention.
Curiosity piqued, Mingyu stepped up the concrete steps leading to the court 2 bleachers, intending only to check his phone and wait for Cheol. But the second his eyes swept across the court, he froze.
Down on the wooden floor, leading the Region 7 Women’s Volleyball squad, was a tall, exceptionally lean player with sharp features, dark hair, and calm, piercing eyes. He wore the team captain’s band wrapped securely around his upper arm, and on the back of his navy-and-gold jersey was the number #17.
It was Jeon Wonwoo.
As high school team captain, Wonwoo’s command over his squad was absolute, yet strangely understated. He didn't scream or make grand gestures. Instead, a simple nod, a quick hand signal behind his back, or a low-voiced instruction kept his entire rotation in flawless alignment.
"Mine!" Wonwoo's clear, composure-filled voice echoed cleanly above the roar of the crowd.
The opposing team had just sent over a nasty, floating serve that threw the opponent's primary passer off balance. The set was far from ideal, it was messy, rushed, and drifting rapidly toward the far back-left corner, well outside the optimal hitting zone. Most attackers would have simply bumped it over for a safe free ball.
Wonwoo didn't settle.
He tracked the trajectory with laser precision, exploding off the floor with powerful, rhythmic steps. He launched his body into the air, his elevation breathtaking. The opposing defense immediately set up a heavy two-man block right in front of his dominant right shoulder.
In mid-air—defying basic mechanics, Wonwoo shifted his torso. He pulled back his left arm, smoothly switching his attack point, and whipped his left hand through the ball, slamming it straight down the line with terrifying force.
BANG!
The ball detonated off the polished floorboards just inches inside the baseline before ricocheting high into the bleachers. The referee blew the whistle, pointing his arm downward. Point and championship point for Wonwoo's team.
Mingyu’s breath caught in his throat. He unconsciously gripped the metal handrail of the bleachers, his knuckles turning white. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Wonwoo wasn't just skilled; he possessed a quiet, deadly grace that made the brutal sport look like high art.
On the very next play, the opposing captain attempted to catch them off guard with a surprise back-row cross-court spike. Wonwoo read the setter’s eyes before the ball even left his fingertips. Shifting effortlessly from his hitting position to the front net, Wonwoo timed his jump to perfection, his long arms forming an impenetrable wall over the net tape.
ROOF!
The ball bounced straight back onto the hitter's face and hit the floor. Final point. Championship won.
The arena erupted into deafening cheers. Wonwoo landed lightly on his feet, dusted off his knee pads, and turned to his screaming teammates. The fierce, cold intensity on his face melted away in an instant, replaced by a soft, breathtakingly shy smile as he gathered his team into a winning huddle.
Mingyu stood entirely frozen at the railing, his chest heaving as if he had run the laps himself. His eyes were glued to the number printed on his back #17.
It was the exact same jersey number he wore as a forward for SVT University’s basketball team.
"Oi! Kim Mingyu! Kanina ka pa namin hinahanap!"
Hoshi came jogging up the stairs, panting heavily with Kyeom and Jun trailing right behind him.
"Ano'ng tinitingnan mo diyan?" Kyeom asked, leaning over the railing to see the volleyball court where the championship trophy was being presented. "Tapos na basketball match sa court four! Jun found a great wing prospect, pero parang nawala ka sa mundo."
Mingyu snapped out of his trance, his heart hammering against his ribs. He quickly turned his head away, clearing his throat to regain his cold, unbothered composure.
"Nothing," Mingyu murmured, his voice slightly tighter than usual as he pulled his bag higher up his shoulder. "Nawala lang ako sa crowd. Let’s go back to Coach."
He didn't step down to the court. He didn't get to introduce himself, nor did he learn his name that hot afternoon in Marikina. But as they walked back toward the bus, the image of #17, his cool leadership, his ambidextrous spike, and that rare, shy smile, remained permanently burned into Kim Mingyu's mind.