Chapter Text
“Forty-five seconds left before the half. The ball snaps, Taehyun has it.”
The noise inside Blackline Stadium swells and folds over itself, crowd sound riding the commentary like a second signal. Taehyun drops back, eyes cutting across the field as the pocket holds for just long enough.
“He scans, he sees number four.”
The throw leaves his hand hard and clean, a straight line cutting through the air.
“Arm like a rocket as he sends it to his star receiver.”
Seungwon takes it in stride, hands sure, feet churning as he breaks free. He’s five yards out, the end zone open in front of him, white paint waiting.
Then number forty-five comes in low.
Minsik hits from behind, wraps the legs, and drags him down hard at the two-yard line. The collision snaps the air out of the moment.
“Oh no! That would’ve been a perfect walk-in.”
Minsik rolls off and pops up immediately, chest heaving as he throws his arms wide, celebrating while his teammates crash into him from all sides. The play resets around them, whistles cutting through the roar.
Seungwon doesn’t get up.
He rolls onto his back, one knee bent wrong, hands already gripping his leg as his face tightens. The cameras find him instantly.
“Oh man,” one announcer says, voice dropping. “Seungwon looks injured.”
“Hopefully just a strain,” the other adds, slower now, careful.
The medical team is on the field before the noise fully dies. They kneel around him, blocking the worst of it, hands moving quickly. Seungwon tries to sit up, then to stand. He gets halfway before sinking back down, shaking his head once.
“This isn’t good for the Thunderhawks.”
The camera cuts to the sideline. Coach Sungtae stands with his arms folded, jaw set, eyes locked on the field as the cart pulls out from the tunnel.
“Seungwon’s been on fire since the preseason,” the announcer continues. “Already flirting with a hundred yards three games in.”
The cart stops beside them. The medics help Seungwon onto it carefully. He doesn’t look at the crowd as they start rolling him off.
“We’ll take a quick break,” the voice says smoothly. “You’re watching the Elite Football Association on Blackline Sports Network.”
The noise dips, then swells again with commercials queued.
“Minjae. Get up.”
The shout cuts through the sideline chatter. Kang-Choi Minjae stands immediately, helmet still on his knees where he left it. He jogs over, stopping in front of the coach.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re up. Take Seungwon’s spot until we hear more.” Sungtae pats his back once, firm. “Be ready.”
Minjae nods, already pulling his helmet on as he turns toward the field.
The broadcast returns mid-motion.
“Welcome back. It looks like the Thunderhawks are bringing out second-year wide receiver Kang-Choi Minjae, number twenty-seven, to replace Seungwon.”
“He had a quiet rookie year,” the other voice adds. “Drafted out of university as one of the rising receivers in his class. Let’s see if he can make some noise here.”
Thirty-three seconds on the clock.
The ball snaps.
Taehyun doesn’t hesitate. The pass comes fast and high, leading Minjae into open space. He catches it with a sharp thud, feet slamming into the turf as he pivots cleanly, spins through the gap, and cuts straight into the end zone.
The stadium erupts.
Minjae lifts his arms without thinking, smile stretching wide enough to show through the grille of his helmet as sound crashes over him from every direction.
“The Thunderhawks take the lead! That’s six on the board.”
He jogs back to the sideline to helmet taps and hands slapping his shoulders as the kicker lines up.
“Good job,” Sungtae calls. “Way to shift the momentum.”
Minjae pulls his helmet off and runs a hand back through his hair, chest still rising fast.
“Good shit, man,” Doyun says, bumping him with his shoulder. “About time they used you for something. I was starting to feel lonely out there.”
Minjae laughs, breathless, dropping onto the bench. “That was a rush.”
The kick goes up. Clean.
As the teams line up to head in, Minjae’s smile fades a notch. His eyes track past the tunnel, toward the corridor where the cart disappeared.
“I wonder how Seungwon’s doing,” he says quietly.
“We’re about to find out,” Doyun replies as they stand.
The Thunderhawks move down the concrete corridor toward the locker room, cleats echoing off the walls. Halfway there, an ambulance idles near the service entrance, its doors open wide.
Seungwon is being lifted inside.
Someone mutters as they pass, low and certain. “Femur. That’s season-ending.”
Minjae slows without realizing it, helmet tucked under his arm. Seungwon lies still as the doors swing closed, his face turned away from the lights.
The ambulance pulls off.
Minjae stands for a beat longer than he should, then turns and follows his team into the locker room, the noise of the stadium sealing itself back behind him.
_____________________________________
“Welcome back to the Elite Football Association on Blackline Sports Network. Tough news for the Thunderhawks as their star receiver is officially out for the season with a broken femur.”
The crowd noise rolls back in, restless but ready, the game already reassembling itself.
“That’s a hard loss,” the other announcer says. “Number twenty-seven, Kang-Choi Minjae, will be taking over the role for the remainder of the game. If he can bring the same energy he showed on his first career touchdown, this could still go the Thunderhawks’ way.”
“With three wins and one loss under their helmets, a win tonight would put them at the top of the division.”
Minjae stands near the sideline, helmet tucked against his hip as Coach Sungtae steps into his space.
“Go out there,” Sungtae says, voice clipped, familiar. “Run clean. Don’t disappoint.”
“Yes, sir.”
Minjae pulls his helmet down, the world narrowing as the padding settles around his ears. He jogs onto the field and takes his spot wide, feet planting into the turf as he glances inward, waiting.
The ball snaps.
“Taehyun has it,” the announcer calls. “He’s scanning for the opening.”
Minjae breaks forward, accelerating into the seam as the pocket holds.
“He launches it clean down the middle—”
The ball finds Minjae in stride. He tucks it in and drives forward as the space collapses around him, bodies closing fast. He cuts left, bursting toward the sideline, feet pounding hard as the boundary rushes up to meet him.
The hit comes late.
He’s clipped from the side and shoved out of bounds, momentum carrying him straight through the white line and into the cluster beyond it. He barrels into the sideline, weight tipping forward as the ground disappears beneath him.
He goes down on top of someone.
A camera skids loose across the turf, clattering as it hits.
“Ouch!” one announcer laughs. “That’s a big man at six-two, two-thirty-five. He should be able to shake that one off.”
Minjae pushes up onto his palms, knees bracketing the person beneath him. The impact still rings through his shoulders as he steadies himself, breath coming fast. He looks down.
The man under him is already moving, eyes wide as they flick up to Minjae and then immediately past him, locking onto the camera lying a few feet away.
“Ah—no,” the man says, scrambling free as soon as there’s space, crawling toward the equipment.
Minjae shifts back onto his heels and rises to his knees, watching as the cameraman reaches the camera and lifts it with both hands, checking it over with quick, practiced movements.
“I’m really sorry,” Minjae says, pushing to his feet. He hovers a hand near the man’s back without quite touching him, eyes scanning the ground. “Your lens—”
He spots it near the edge of the green and steps over, picking it up carefully before handing it over.
The cameraman takes it, expression tight as he fits it back into place, fingers working fast.
“It’s alright,” he says, breath clipped, attention already back on the camera as he tests the connection.
Minjae stays where he is, just long enough to notice the way the man’s eyes keep dropping to the equipment, the way his mouth moves when he mutters something under his breath, the focus pulling him inward even with the stadium roaring around them.
“Twenty-seven! Get your ass back on the field!” a referee shouts.
“That was nice of him to help the guy find his camera,” one announcer says, still amused. “I don’t know why they sit so close to the sidelines anyway.”
Minjae turns and jogs back toward midfield, cleats striking hard as he resets into position. Just before he reaches the huddle, he glances back over his shoulder.
The cameraman has already lifted the camera again, settling it against his shoulder as he moves toward the edge of the sideline, disappearing back into the controlled chaos.
Minjae faces forward.
The ball is ready to snap.
________________________
“Congratulations on the win, guys!”
The reporter steps into the open space near the tunnel, microphone lifted as the stadium noise rolls and rebounds behind her.
“Jisoo Han, Blackline Sports Network,” she says, turning slightly toward Minjae. “How does it feel to have two career touchdowns under your belt?”
Minjae shifts his weight, helmet tucked against his side, eyes flicking briefly toward the corridor before returning to the camera.
“It feels really good,” he says. “It’s unfortunate the reason I was able to get the touchdowns, but I made sure if I were to get one after the first it would be for Seungwon.”
A wide, genuine smile breaks across his face as he finishes.
“That’s awfully sweet,” Jisoo says.
The interview wraps quickly after that. The camera pulls away. Pads come loose. Jerseys peel off as the room fills with overlapping voices and movement, the edge of the game finally dulling.
“You guys have a few days off,” Coach Sungtae says, voice carrying without effort. “Practice is Wednesday at nine a.m. sharp.”
He looks toward Minjae. “Minjae, stick around for a minute. We have to go over some details.”
“Yes, sir,” Minjae says, standing straighter as the others begin to file past him.
Time passes in fragments. Conversations blur. Bags are packed and slung over shoulders.
Later, near the exit, Minjae breaks into a grin that he doesn’t bother to contain.
“Can you believe they moved me from second string to first?” he says, energy spilling through the words.
Doyun pops a toothpick into his mouth and shrugs. “Not really. Especially after how you played today. I figured it would happen.”
“We should celebrate,” Minjae says, already turning his head toward the doors. “We got a few days off. No practice.”
“Yeah, man,” Doyun replies. “That would be good. I could use a drink. I’ll text you later.”
They split near the parking structure. Minjae adjusts the strap of his bag and jogs toward his car, slowing as he passes the area where staff and crew funnel out.
He catches sight of a familiar shape just as it clears the doorway.
Camera bag slung over one shoulder. The same measured pace.
Minjae’s jog stutters into a stop, then resumes as he angles toward him.
“I’m sorry about your camera again,” Minjae says, breath slightly uneven as he comes up alongside him.
The man looks up, startled by the interruption, then exhales audibly.
“It’s okay,” he says, shifting the bag higher on his shoulder. “It’s insured. This isn’t the first time it happened.”
Minjae nods, standing wide-legged where he stopped, his grin still in place.
“Do you need help carrying that?” he asks, taking a step forward.
“No, I got it.”
The man pauses, then adds, “Good game today.”
“Thanks!” Minjae says. “Can’t believe I got my first touchdowns in the league.”
The man nods with a professional smile and shifts his body to leave.
“Hey!” Minjae calls. “What’s your name?”
He adds quickly, “Just so I can give you a heads up in case I roll over you again,” and lets out a small giggle at the end of it.
The man pauses, just long enough to turn his head.
“Seo Taesung,” he says evenly.
“Nice to meet you,” Minjae says, bowing without thinking.
Taesung lingers for a beat, his expression unreadable, then turns away.
“Have a good night, Minjae.”
“You too!”
Taesung rounds the corner and disappears from view.
Minjae stays where he is for a moment, bag hanging loose from his hand, his smile easing into something quieter as he watches the empty space Taesung left behind.
Then he turns and jogs back toward his car, the stadium lights still burning overhead.