luna!

Because this isn’t practice, it's evaluation.

You spot James near the halfway line while adjusting your socks. He’s stretching, focused but not tense, his movements controlled in that steady way he carries himself during serious sessions. When he notices you walking toward him, his expression shifts slightly.

“You’re early,” he says as you approach. “So are you.” He gives a small nod, then studies you for a moment longer than necessary. “You nervous?”

You hesitate before answering. “A little. Okay, more than a little. I feel like I’m going to overthink everything.” “You won’t,” he replies calmly.

“I might,” you insist. “Everyone’s been here longer. They know the rhythm. I don’t want to slow anything down.”

James adjusts the tape around his wrist, considering his words before he speaks. “You don’t slow anything down. You speed it up, actually. You read space fast. Coach likes that.” You exhale, not fully convinced but steadier than before. “And if I mess up?” He shrugs lightly, meeting your eyes. “Then you reset. It’s football. One touch at a time. If you get overwhelmed, just look up. I’ll be there.”

There’s nothing dramatic in the way he says it. It’s not a promise dressed in intensity. It’s simple, grounded reassurance. Somehow, that makes it more convincing.

Before you can respond, Coach Kim’s whistle cuts through the air, sharp and commanding. He gathers everyone at midfield, clipboard tucked under his arm, gaze sweeping across the group.

“Today isn’t about flash,” he begins. “It’s about awareness. I want quick decisions, clean touches, and movement without the ball. Two touch unless you have space. If you hesitate, you’re already behind.”

He pauses, letting that settle. “You will rotate every eight minutes. I’m watching positioning just as much as execution. This tournament demands adaptability. If you can’t communicate without shouting, you’re not ready.”

The teams split and by coincidence you and James end up on the same side for the first small sided scrimmage. There’s no conversation about it. You just take your positions naturally, the field spreading out in front of you.

The pace is immediate. Tight passes and no room to dwell on mistakes. The first few touches come and go quickly and you focus on keeping your breathing steady, remembering not to rush.

The ball finds you near the edge of the midfield under pressure. You control it cleanly, scanning instinctively. A defender steps forward. You shift the ball to your right and James is already moving.

You send it to him without hesitation. One touch forward from him, drawing a marker. You push into open space automatically, not needing to call for it. The return pass comes perfectly weighted, landing just ahead of your stride. You take it, glance up, and spot him continuing his run. Without thinking, you thread it back through the gap he’s created.

He adjusts seamlessly and lays it off into space inside the box.

The ball hits the net with a clean snap.

For a moment, the field goes quiet.

Coach Kim’s whistle sounds once. “Reset,” he says evenly but when play resumes, the rhythm continues. It isn’t forced or rehearsed. You aren’t trying to impress anyone. The timing simply feels natural. When he checks back, you adjust. When you drift wide, he fills the center. Neither of you calls loudly for the ball, the movement speaks for itself.

From the sidelines, a few murmurs begin to circulate. “They’ve got good timing.” “Did they train together?” “That sequence was clean.” You don’t react, though you feel the shift in attention. Even Donghwa, standing a few yards away during the next rotation, watches more carefully than before. His earlier confidence is replaced with something quieter, less dismissive. Coach Kim steps forward after the rotation ends, eyes sharp as he addresses the group. “That’s the level of awareness I expect,” he says. “Notice the off ball movement. Notice how the space was created before the pass. That’s not accidental. That’s discipline.”

His gaze flickers briefly in your direction and James’s, before he turns back to the rest of the players.

The drills continue. Defensive transitions, pressing exercises, quick build up play. Each time the ball moves between you and James, the coordination feels effortless, not because you’re trying to be in sync but because you’re both reacting at the same speed.

At one point, you nearly lose possession under heavy pressure but James adjusts his positioning just enough to give you an outlet. You release the ball cleanly, and the sequence resets without disruption. It’s subtle, but effective.

By the time the final whistle blows, your earlier anxiety feels distant. You bend slightly, catching your breath, aware that you’ve played at a level that felt honest and not forced.

James steps up beside you, hands on his hips. Coach Kim gathers everyone one last time.

“Results will be posted tomorrow,” he announces. “If you want a place, today should feel like the baseline, not the peak. Dismissed.” As the players begin to disperse, conversations spark back to life.

“You didn’t panic,” You hear James say. You straighten slowly. “Maybe a little.” “Didn’t look like it.” You glance at him. “I found you.” He looks away first. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.” “Thanks,” you say quietly. “For what?” “For being there.” He shrugs. “Told you I would.”

It’s simple with him, easy even. You've never felt like this at your old school. And somewhere behind you, someone says, “They’ve got good chemistry.” You pretend not to hear it but this time, it doesn’t make you nervous It just makes you smile.

The rest of the day passes slowly.

Classes have never been the part of school you cared about most. You attend when you have to, enough to avoid trouble, enough to keep your name on the roster without questions being asked. Sitting through lectures feels more like a formality than anything else, something required to access the parts of Brookhaven you actually love.

Still, you don’t hate it. You don't think you'll ever hate this school.

You like the rhythm of the hallways between periods. The familiar faces, the way teachers recognize you now, even if you’re not always present, you like how Brookhaven feels alive, busy with students who care deeply about something, whether it’s grades, sports, or reputation.

Most of all, you love the fields.

Even on days you skip classes, you find yourself wandering near them. The smell of grass, the echo of whistles, the quiet determination that settles in your chest when you think about playing.

Brookhaven gave you a place where effort mattered more than history or at least you hoped it did.

By the time the final bell rings, you head toward the football field with a calm acceptance that you won't be able to practice James today, somehow that disappointed you.

Coach Kim has everyone sit on the bleachers instead of moving out to the field. Girls and boys mix without much thought, clusters forming naturally. You scan the rows once before spotting James.

He’s seated a few steps up, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. When he notices you, his posture straightens almost immediately.

You take the empty space beside him.

“Guess no practice for us today,” he says quietly, glancing toward the coaches. “Doesn’t look like it,” you reply. He exhales through his nose, half amused. “Coach Kim hates staying back after school more than anything, that's why we have our practices in the mornings. This must be important.” You smile faintly. Sitting next to him feels easy. Comfortable. Close enough that your shoulders nearly brush when either of you shifts.

Coach Kim steps forward, clapping his hands once. “Alright. Settle down,” he says, voice firm but calm. “This won’t take long if everyone listens.”

The noise fades.

“As you’ve probably heard, Brookhaven will be participating in a mixedgender tournament this term,” he continues. “This isn’t an exhibition. It’s competitive, structured, and taken seriously by every school involved.”

He paces slowly in front of the bleachers.

“I’ll be overseeing the program alongside the girls’ coaching staff. Tryouts will be strict. Attendance, discipline, and adaptability will matter just as much as skill.”

A few students shift, suddenly attentive.

“This is not guaranteed playing time,” Coach Kim adds. “And it is not a popularity contest. If you want in, you earn it.”

When he asks who’s interested in trying out or volunteering, hands rise across the bleachers.

You hesitate, then you raise yours and for a moment, nothing happens.

Then you hear someone scoff above you.

“Seriously?”

The voice is loud enough to cut through the air. You turn your head slightly and recognize Donghwa immediately. One of the boys mid defenders. Hes Confident, loud, and entirely unapologetic.

“She hasn’t even been here that long,” he says. “This isn’t something you just walk into.” A few people laugh under their breath.

Your hand drops back into your lap. The familiar weight of doubt settles in your chest, sharp and unwelcome. You stare ahead, heat creeping into your face, suddenly very aware of how new you still are.

James notices and straightens beside you.

“That’s not your call,” he says.

His voice isn’t raised, but it’s firm enough that the bleachers quiet almost instantly. He turns toward Donghwa, expression controlled.

“Coach asked who’s interested. She answered. Being new doesn’t mean she hasn’t earned the right to try.”

Donghwa scoffs, but James doesn’t stop.

“If effort’s the standard, let the coaches decide. Not you.”

You glance at him, surprised. He doesn’t look at you, gaze fixed forward, shoulders squared. There’s no hesitation in him, no doubt.

Coach Kim clears his throat.

“That’s enough,” he says. “Comments like that aren’t productive. Everyone gets evaluated the same way. Let’s move on.”

The tension dissipates slowly. Conversation returns to logistics, schedules, and expectations. But something has changed.

You sit there quietly, heart beating faster than before, hands folded together. James leans slightly toward you.

“You okay?” he asks under his breath. You nod. “Yeah. Thank you.” He shrugs, almost awkward. “Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

When the meeting ends, students file out in no particular hurry. You and James walk side by side toward the exit, steps unhurried.

You don’t bring it up again but the thought lingers, steady and warm.

James noticed, he stepped in and somehow, that matters more than you expect it to.

© @leaderwon 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

James is already there.

He stands near the center circle, stretching like he’s done this a hundred times, but the second he notices you, he straightens too fast. You almost laugh. Almost.

“Hey,” you say. “Hey,” he replies, voice steady enough that he clearly worked for it.

You drop your bag, pull on your boots and for a moment there’s an awkward pause where neither of you knows who should move first. Then James clears his throat and gestures toward the cones he’s set up.

“So Coach Kim,” he starts. “He’s big on first touches. Like, really big. If your control’s clean, he already likes you more.” You nod, listening closely. “He hates wasted movement,” James continues, pacing as he talks. “If you sprint, there has to be a reason. He watches positioning more than people think. Where you are before the pass matters just as much as what you do with it.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You sound like you’ve been through this trauma.” He snorts. “Years of it.”

You start moving through drills together. Short passes and euick turns. He corrects you gently, never condescending, just small adjustments.

At one point, he demonstrates a movement and you try to mirror it but your foot catches awkwardly in the turf. You stumble forward before you can catch yourself.

James reacts instantly.

His hands come up, gripping your arms and steadying you before you fully fall. Your momentum carries you closer anyway, chest brushing his, his grip firm but careful. For a split second, neither of you move.

You’re painfully aware of how close he is. His breath is warm, jis hands are still on your arms, his eyes flick down, then back up clearly unsure where to look.

“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Sorry.” “No! I mean, It’s fine,” he says quickly, releasing you like he’s been burned. “I should’ve warned you about that patch.” You laugh softly, shaking it off. “Guess the ground wanted me humbled.”

He smiles before he can stop himself, the kind that sneaks out when you’re not guarding it.

Practice continues, but something changes.

James keeps his distance now, like he’s afraid of repeating the moment but his focus on you sharpens. He watches the way you move through drills, how fast you adapt, how easily you absorb feedback and make it your own. You don’t hesitate nor second guess, you play like this is where you’re meant to be and he really likes that about you.

That’s when it hits him.

Not all at once. More like a slow, sinking realization that settles deep in his chest, This isn’t just a crush, no. He genuinely likes you for the person you are.

He tells himself to calm down, to stop being dramatic, you’re just good, you’re just nice and he’s just being helpful, that’s it.

Except his eyes keep following you even when he looks away and that his chest feels tight when you laugh at something he says.

Except the thought of anyone else training you like this makes something ugly twist in his stomach.

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. Get it together.

From the corner of his eye, he catches movement near the fence to see his friends. All four of them pretending very badly not to watch. Keonho mimes exaggerated binoculars, Martin is already laughing, Juhoon nudges Seonghyeon, who covers his mouth like he’s witnessing live entertainment.

James groans quietly and rolls his eyes.

You notice his distraction. “Everything okay?” “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Just… ignore them.” You glance over, spot the boys instantly, and laugh. “Your friends?” “Unfortunately.”

The sun dips lower by the time you wrap up. You’re both sweaty, tired, but lighter somehow. James kneels briefly to adjust a cone, then looks up at you, more confident now.

“You did really well,” he says. “Especially your off the ball movement. Coach Kim’s gonna notice that.” Your smile is small but genuine. “Thanks. This helped. A lot.”

“We can do this again,” he offers, trying to sound casual. “If you want.” “I’d like that,” you say easily. “Same time tomorrow?” He nods, heart doing something stupid in his chest. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

You shoulder your bag and wave before heading off, leaving James standing there a moment longer than necessary, watching your back disappear past the bleachers.

He exhales, long and slow.

“Shit man.”