Sitting two rows up. Legs crossed. Expression unreadable. Chin lifted like she didn't care.
Ling smiled.
Not wide.
Not playful.
Instinctive.
Rhea felt it without looking.
Her jaw tightened. She stared straight ahead, refusing to turn, refusing to give that satisfaction.
Don't look, she told herself.
Don't give him anything.
The whistle blew.
Ling moved like he owned the ground.
From the first sprint, it was clear, this wasn't control.
This was domination.
He cut through defenders like they weren't there. Footwork sharp, ruthless. He took hits without slowing, shoulder-checked boys twice his size and kept running.
The crowd lost its mind.
"KWONG... KWONG... KWONG..."
First goal.
A brutal strike from outside the box, clean, violent, unstoppable.
Ling didn't celebrate.
He just adjusted his jersey.
Second goal.
This time he sprinted the length of the field, slipped between two defenders, flicked the ball over the keeper's shoulder like it was nothing.
He tugged his jersey up briefly to wipe sweat from his face.
Skin flashed.
Hard abs.
Lines carved by discipline and hunger.
Sweat glistening under the stadium lights.
The crowd exploded.
Rhea's breath hitched before she could stop it.
Her fingers curled in her lap.
Ignore it.
Third goal.
Ling leapt, twisted mid-air, and slammed the ball in with his head. He landed hard, rolled, sprang back up like pain didn't exist.
He finally looked up again.
Straight at Rhea.
This time he didn't smile.
He held eye contact for a full second, silent, unapologetic.
This is me, the look said. Look or don't.
Rhea turned away sharply, heart hammering against her ribs, heat crawling up her neck.
Around her, people were screaming Ling's name like a prayer.
By halftime, Ling was drenched in sweat, chest rising fast, eyes bright with adrenaline. He paced the sideline like a predator barely contained.
Final score, a massacre.
Ling had scored more than the rest of the field combined.
When the whistle blew, the team swarmed him, hands slapping his back, shouting, laughing.
Ling didn't care.
His gaze went back to the stands.
Rhea.
Ling watched, chest still burning, not from the game.
From the fact that even at his loudest, his strongest, his most untouchable,
Rhea Noir was still trying not to look.
And that only made Ling want her attention more.
The crowd was still screaming when Ling vaulted the barrier.
Not toward his team.
Not toward the tunnel.
Toward the stands.
Gasps rippled outward as people realized who he was moving toward.
Rhea had already turned to leave.
Too late.
Ling reached the row in three long strides. Sweat-soaked jersey clinging to his skin, chest rising, eyes burning with leftover adrenaline.
He stopped directly in front of Rhea.
Rhea looked up despite herself.
Ling didn't speak.
He grabbed the hem of his jersey and pulled it over his head in one sharp motion.
Skin flashed under stadium lights, sweat-slicked muscle, collarbones sharp, abs tight from exertion.
The crowd lost it.
Before anyone could react, Ling twisted and threw the jersey into the air.
Hands reached. People screamed.
Ling didn't look back.
His attention was locked on one person.
He stepped closer, too close.
Rhea's breath stalled.
Ling lifted his hand and caught Rhea's chin between his fingers, firm, controlling, not rough but unmistakably possessive.
"Look here," Ling said low, voice still rough from the match. "Why are you looking away?"
Rhea's pulse thundered in her ears. Her instinct screamed to pull back, but pride rooted her in place.
"Let go," Rhea said coolly, eyes flicking aside again.
Ling tightened his grip just enough to stop that movement. "No," Ling said simply.
The word wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
"You come. You sit where I can see you. And then you pretend I don't exist," Ling continued, gaze unwavering. "Don't insult me like that."
Rhea forced herself to meet Ling's eyes.
Up close, Ling was overwhelming, heat, sweat, dominance barely leashed.
"I didn't come for you," Rhea said sharply.
Ling's thumb brushed once along Rhea's jawline, an unconscious tell he didn't even register.
"Liar," Ling said.
The crowd around them buzzed, phones up, whispers spreading, but Ling acted like the world had narrowed to one point.
Rhea's lips parted for a retort.
Then she stopped.
Because Ling's eyes weren't playful.
They were furious.
Demanding.
And something dangerously close to relief, like seeing Rhea there had anchored him.
"Don't look away from me again," Ling said quietly. "Not when you're right in front of me."
For a split second, Rhea felt it.
Safety.
Heat.
Gravity.
Then revenge snapped back into place like armor.
Rhea lifted her chin against Ling's fingers, not pulling free, not yielding. "Don't tell me what to do," she said.
Ling's mouth curved, not smiling. "Then don't test me," he replied.
He released Rhea abruptly and stepped back, already turning away as if the moment had never happened.
The crowd erupted again.
Rhea remained frozen for half a second longer, heart racing, skin burning where Ling had touched her, furious at herself.
Because despite everything she told herself,
she had looked.
"What do you think of yourself?" Rhea snapped. "That no one can beat you?"
Ling turned and tilted his head, sweat still tracing his neck, eyes glinting with something dangerously amused.
"You?" Ling said lightly. "You can try."
The crowd leaned in.
Ling stepped closer, voice dropping just enough to feel private despite the noise.
"We can play. Just you and me. Alone." A pause. A deliberate glance. "Maybe... private."
Rhea scoffed, refusing to let her pulse show. "I don't even know football. You'll win. Obviously."
Ling smiled, slow, predatory. "I can teach you," he said. Then, like it was nothing, "One advantage."
Rhea narrowed her eyes. "What advantage?"
Ling lifted one finger. "You just have to stop me from scoring in the first minute," he said calmly. "If I don't goal in the first minute, you win."
A beat.
"And if I lose," Ling continued, eyes locked on Rhea, "I'll give you whatever you want."
A hush rippled through the people closest. Even the players nearby had gone still.
Rhea studied Ling's face, searching for arrogance.
Found certainty instead.
"What if you win?" Rhea asked.
Ling shrugged. "Then you will give me what I say."
Rhea's jaw tightened.
"...Fine," she said. "Okay."
Ling's smile sharpened.
"Next week," Ling said. "Same day. Same timing."
He leaned in just enough that only Rhea could hear the rest.
"And before that... training," Ling added. "Sharp five p.m. Daily. You show up late, you forfeit."
Rhea stiffened. "You're serious."
"I don't joke about games," Ling said quietly.
He straightened and raised his voice just enough for everyone around to hear.
"I'll teach her."
Shock exploded.
"What?"
"He never teaches anyone..."
"Ling Kwong doesn't train people..."
Mira, watching from the edge, went completely still.
Rina, somewhere in the stands, smiled like she'd just seen fate grin back.
Rhea felt every eye on her, but Ling didn't look away.
"Five p.m.," Ling repeated. "Don't make me wait."
Rhea held his gaze, refusing to blink.
"I won't," she said.
Ling nodded once, satisfied, then turned and walked away, leaving behind noise, disbelief, and a challenge that was already no longer just about football.
Because everyone saw it.
Ling Kwong didn't just choose a game.
He chose Rhea Noir.
And Rhea, still wrapped in revenge, had just stepped onto a field where Ling never lost.