Next Day - Basket Ball Court
Ling never missed.
Not on bad days.
Not under pressure.
Not for anyone.
The whistle blew, sharp and final.
Ling rolled his shoulders once, eyes cold, unreadable. The black captain's band hugged his arm like a crown earned through bloodless war.
His jersey clung lightly already sweat beginning to bead at his temples, sliding down his neck.
The crowd was loud.
They always were.
He didn't look at them.
His gaze cut across the court and found Rhea.
Rhea Noir sat two rows up, legs crossed, posture lazy, dressed in fitted black trousers and a sleeveless ivory top, hair loose, nose ring glinting under arena lights.
Expression bored, almost amused.
As if this was beneath her.
Ling's jaw tightened.
Watch, he thought coldly. And learn where you stand.
"Captain!" one of his teammates called.
Ling caught the ball, fingers steady, grip flawless.
First shot.
Perfect arc.
Swish.
The arena erupted.
Ling didn't smile.
Second possession.
Drive. Spin. Fake.
Score.
Again.
His movements were sharp, deliberate no wasted energy, no hesitation. Sweat rolled down his spine now, darkening the fabric at his back, but his breathing stayed controlled.
Rhea looked away. On purpose.
Ling noticed.
Something dark flickered behind Ling's eyes.
Third quarter.
A foul.
Ling straightened, irritation flashing briefly across his face. He dragged the hem of his jersey up just enough to wipe sweat from his head.
White skin.
Hard muscle.
Defined abs tightening with the movement.
The crowd lost its mind.
Shouts. Whistles. Phones raised.
Ling didn't even glance at them.
His eyes were on Rhea.
Rhea's jaw tightened as she looked anywhere but the court anywhere but Ling's body on display like it meant nothing.
Ling smirked faintly.
Liar.
Free throw.
Ling bounced the ball once.
Silence fell.
He shot.
Clean.
No rim.
No mercy.
Mira sat with the group below, clapping just a second too eagerly, eyes fixed on Ling with something sharp and hungry. Ling didn't look at her.
He didn't need to.
Final minutes.
Score tied.
The opposing captain lunged. Ling blocked her effortlessly, stole the ball, sprinted down the court.
Heartbeat steady.
Mind clear.
For one split second, he felt it Rhea's gaze finally on him, heavy, undeniable.
Ling didn't slow.
He jumped.
Released.
The ball cut through the air like judgment.
Swish.
Game over.
The arena exploded.
Ling stood still as his teammates swarmed him, sweat dripping from his jaw, chest rising slow and controlled. He looked up once more just once.
Rhea was already standing.
Eyes unreadable. Expression cool.
But her fingers were clenched at her side.
Ling's smile was sharp and brief gone before anyone could be sure it existed.
He turned away, accepting the cheers like they were owed, like this was nothing more than routine.
Inside, something burned.
Not doubt.
Not desire.
Control tested, strained, but intact.
Lingling Kwong walked off the court undefeated, flawless as ever.
And Rhea Noir walked out pretending she hadn't watched every single move.
>>>>>>>
The corridor was almost empty.
Almost.
Ling's footsteps were unhurried, damp jersey clinging to his skin, pulse steady despite the noise still echoing in the arena behind him.
He reached his changing room door and saw Rhea with her friend Zifa.
Leaning against the wall like she belonged there.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. That damn nose ring catching the light again.
Ling stopped.
Rhea didn't move first.
That alone irritated her.
"You're lost," Ling said coolly.
Rhea's gaze slid over him slow, deliberate taking in the sweat, the loosened jersey, the calm after domination.
"Am I?" Rhea replied. "This corridor seems… exclusive."
Ling laughed once. Low. Sharp.
In the next second, he closed the distance.
His hand snapped around Rhea's wrist not hard, not gentle decisive. He yanked her into the changing room and slammed the door shut with his foot.
Silence swallowed them.
Ling pinned Rhea against the locker, forearm braced beside her head other hand near Rhea waist. Close enough to feel heat. Too close to pretend this was just intimidation.
"Don't stand where you don't belong," Ling said quietly.
Rhea didn't struggle.
She tilted her head instead, eyes dark, lips curving faintly. "You dragged me here," she said. "Looks like I was invited."
Ling leaned in.
Their noses brushed barely.
Electric.
Ling's voice dropped, controlled, dangerous. "You think this is a game?"
Rhea's breath hitched just once but she didn't look away. "You're the one playing," she murmured. "Showing off. Watching to see if I'd look."
Ling's jaw tightened.
"I don't need your attention," Ling said.
"Then why are you this close?" Rhea asked softly.
Ling's thumb shifted on Rhea's wrist, pulse hammering beneath skin. He could feel it. Count it.
He hated that she noticed.
He leaned in further not a kiss, never that just enough that their foreheads nearly touched, noses grazing again.
"You're reckless," Ling said. "You walk into places you shouldn't."
Rhea smiled, slow and wicked. "And you catch me every time."
For a split second, Ling's control wavered.
He stepped back abruptly, releasing Rhea as if burned.
"Get out," Ling ordered, turning away. "Before you mistake tolerance for weakness."
Rhea straightened her sleeve, calm as ever.
At the door, she paused.
"You never miss," Rhea said lightly. "On court… or off it."
"Weren't you watching?" Ling asked coldly, turning halfway, towel slung over one shoulder.
Rhea's brows lifted slightly. "Watching what?"
Ling's eyes darkened.
"Don't insult my intelligence," she said. "The match. Me."
Rhea shrugged lightly. "I saw a game. Nothing special."
That was a lie.
Ling crossed the space between them in three calm steps.
Before Rhea could react, Ling caught both her wrists and lifted them slow, controlled pinning them above Rhea's head against the locker.
Not rough.
Not gentle.
Certain.
"Say it again," Ling murmured. "Say you didn't notice."