#chanwoo

Ever since you were a kid, you knew the world wasn’t built to be fair to a girl like you. You learned that the hard way.

You couldn’t have everything you wanted. Not when your mother worked overtime at a daycare just to keep the lights on. Not when your father was a drunk, a gambler, and a cheat. The kind of man who’d come home angry and leave even angrier. Your house wasn’t a home. It was shouting matches, shattered glass. Sometimes bruises. You didn’t grow up with toys—just a single teddy bear. Ragged and dirty. But you held on to it. It was the only thing that ever comforted you.

At least you went to school. That was something. But school didn’t spare you either.

The other kids laughed at your hand-me-down clothes, noticed when you never joined field trips, never brought packed lunches with cute notes. You stopped asking your parents for things when you were eight. You already knew the answer was no.

Then came puberty.

And with it, the only silver lining in your life—you were beautiful.

Painfully, unfairly beautiful.

And you learned quickly how far beauty could take you.

In high school, you turned heads. Boys tripped over themselves to get your attention. Girls stared. Some in envy, others in disgust. You liked that. You weren’t made for friendships or cliques. You were a lone wolf. Mysterious. Dangerous.

You wanted more.

You watched rich classmates flaunt designer bags, latest phones, and stories from family trips to Europe. You watched them live the life you knew you deserved. You envied the models on TV, the actresses in movies, the way they moved like the world belonged to them.

So you started taking what wasn’t given to you.

A lipstick here. A bottle of perfume there. A silk blouse from a department store. You never got caught. You stole things not just to look pretty, but to become someone else. Someone enviable. Someone desirable. You painted your face with stolen makeup, wore heels you couldn’t afford, and walked like you owned every hallway in that school. You used your looks to get good grades from your teachers. It was never about sleeping with anyone. You didn’t need to. A practiced smile. Compliments tailored to inflate their egos. Coffee on their desks before class. Stolen gifts slipped in with notes just flirtatious enough to stay on their minds. You learned how to pull strings without ever being touched.

But it didn’t suffice. All it got you was a high school diploma. A scholarship was possible, but you still needed money to attend college. And you didn’t want that. You were meant for something bigger. You always knew it.

You didn’t like this town, its people, or your life. You hated your life. You wanted to escape, but you had no idea how.

A few months after graduation, you landed a job at a run-down diner—long hours, low pay, barely tolerable. Just enough to keep your mother off your back and food in the fridge. Your father had been gone even before you graduated. Now just another woman’s problem somewhere else.

One slow afternoon, mid-shift, you were wiping down the counter for the third time, killing time. The place was dead. On break, you slipped into a booth, grabbed the remote from under the register, and flipped through the channels on the old wall-mounted TV.

Static. Commercials. Background noise.

Then you stopped.

A sports channel.

You didn’t even care for sports.

Tennis.

Something about the game gripped you—its pace, its tension, its class.

Or maybe it wasn’t the game at all. Maybe it was him.

The magnificent player Kim Jinhwan. Sweat glistening under the sun.

It was electrifying—the way he commanded the court like he owned it. Every swing pierced, each step measured. His movements were lethal disguised as grace. It was like watching a god play dress-up in a boy’s body.

He wasn’t just playing, he was showing off. 

And by the end of the match, you were shouting like you had a front-row seat. The crowd on the screen roared around him like a storm breaking open.

He won.

The camera caught him tilting his head back, jaw clenched, eyes closed—like he was memorizing the moment.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him, like something inside you had suddenly ignited. You couldn’t quite tell if you wanted to be in his place—or if it was something else entirely. But one thing was stronger than the rest. You wanted him. You wanted him to be yours.

---Kim Jinhwan became your reason to leave everything behind.

You watched him obsessively—his matches, interviews, public appearances. You learned his schedule, his routines, the name of his coach, his circle of friends. You even found out about his family—respectable people, low-profile, private. The kind who raised someone like him. He was their golden boy. Everyone’s Mr. Nice Guy. No scandals, no slip-ups.

And then there was her—his high school sweetheart turned fiancée. Simple, pretty, safe. They were just newly engaged.

It didn’t matter.

You convinced yourself it wasn’t just infatuation. He was your way out. Your way up. You believed it—fully, desperately.

So you did what you had to.

You started small—stealing from the diner’s till when no one was looking. Then from your mother’s purse, her hidden cash, her savings. Still not enough. So you went online. Sugar baby sites, dating apps. You used fake names, fake photos. On first dates, you’d smile, make promises, take the money. They’d expect more on the second, but you never showed. You knew better than to give real details. You rotated aliases, met in public, never twice in the same place. You were smart and cautious. 

And all the while, you kept tracking Jinhwan. Studying him like he was an exam you had to pass. The better you knew him, the clearer your plan became.

When you finally had enough money to stay afloat for a while, you packed a bag.

You left your mother a note. I’m leaving for good. Don’t look for me. I have your number. I’ll call if I can.

You bought a one-way ticket to Seoul, heading straight for him.

 ---When you arrived at the Korea Open for the first time, it wasn’t a dream come true. Not yet. You wore a tight white dress. You weren’t trying to get anyone’s attention—only his. But people stared, and the next thing you knew, you saw yourself on the big screen, zoomed in from the crowd. The camera lingered on you longer than it should have.

Kim Jinhwan still didn’t notice you, no matter how good you looked that day. But that didn’t discourage you. You were just getting started.

In time, you would slip into his circle like a ghost. And for your next move, you didn’t go for just anyone in his orbit. You went for the one closest to him—his coach.

You studied him well. He jogged the park trail every morning, so you showed up too—wearing something skimpy, just enough for him to notice. One time, he brought his dog along, so you adopted one. A small one, easy to manage. You made sure to walk it when he did. His social media told you the rest. Recently divorced, loved reading, big Murakami fan. You spent afternoons alone at his go-to café, a Murakami book propped open, making sure he could see the cover from where he was seated. Some days you pretended to read. Other days, you simply waited.

All your hard work paid off the day he finally came to you.

“That’s a good book,” he said, nodding toward Norwegian Wood in your hands.

You looked up through your lashes. “I can’t say I like it… it’s a little too emotional for me.”

He chuckled at that. “Mind if I join you? Tell me more about it.”

Talking to him took hours, and you were bored to death—but this was what you did best. Pretending. Acting like you were interested, like you were a good listener. Men fed on that—especially when you let them talk about themselves. He did ask a bit about you, though. You told him you were new in the city and worked at a public library. All true. What you didn’t say was why you were really here, or that none of this was a coincidence. 

By the end, he finally said the magic words. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Do you know Kim Jinhwan? I coach him. He’s the best tennis player in Korea right now.”

It only took a few more dates—and sleeping with him—before you were officially together. Just like that, you were already halfway into Jinhwan’s world.

---The first time Jinhwan laid eyes on you, you were dancing by yourself, like no one was watching—but he was. He couldn’t ignore you, not when you were wearing a black, backless silk dress that clung to every curve, the slit cut high enough for every man on that floor to feast their eyes on you. He knew it was wrong to stare—especially drunk, with his fiancée working continents away, unable to be there to celebrate his latest win.

For the first time in his career, he found himself looking at a woman for this long. Sure, he’d met plenty of attractive women along the way, but he loved his fiancée. He never saw anyone else like that. Until you. There was something about you that drawn him in. He held himself back. Thank god he managed to stay in control. That night, he didn’t make a move. Didn’t approach you.

He just watched you leave—with his coach—after the party had quieted down. Watched the way his hand gripped your waist, like he was afraid someone might steal you. Jinhwan understood. It wasn’t jealousy he felt seeing you with him—it was intrigue.

You were something else. Priceless. Like art—meant to be admired, not touched. He couldn’t figure out why you were with someone like him. He didn’t deserve you.

---You already had in mind what you wanted to ask your boyfriend while he was behind you, hands tight on your hips, breathing ragged in your ear. It didn’t mean anything—not to you. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it, silent, compliant, letting him believe he had all of you.

When he finished, he slumped forward, his chest slick against your back. You waited for him to catch his breath before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice flat, calm, like nothing happened. “I kind of want to learn tennis.”

He laughed as he collapsed beside you. “I could teach you.”

“No, that’d be too much… but maybe you could sign me up at your club?”

And he did—without hesitation, he signed you up for private sessions with one of the in-house trainers at the club. The same club where you knew Jinhwan played to pass time and practiced whenever he had a competition.

You started showing up at the tennis court every weekend—light swings, awkward footwork, the occasional stumble. You kept your head down, acted shy, let the ball roll too far just to bend over and pick it up slowly. You weren’t aiming to impress; you were aiming to be noticed by him, Jinhwan. You knew he’d find you in that club—and he did, sooner than you thought.

He recognized you instantly—his coach’s girlfriend. The girl in the black dress from the party. Jinhwan didn’t expect to see you there alone. But there you were. 

He tried to play it cool, but he couldn’t ignore the way you struggled. It was obvious you were new to the sport. Maybe it was the urge to help, maybe just curiosity. But if he was being honest, he knew he couldn’t resist you anymore. You were a magnet, and he was already pulled  in.

You were on the adjacent court when your trainer left to assist another beginner. You stood alone by the bench, taking slow sips from your water bottle, catching your breath. That’s when he crossed over.

“Need a partner?” he asked, racket already in hand.

You blinked, feigning surprise. “Sure… if you don’t mind wasting your time.”

He smiled. “I could use a break from taking things seriously.”

What started as a few soft serves turned into something else. He corrected your stance, adjusted your grip. He moved closer behind you, his breath brushing your shoulder as he guided your hand. Your skin touched. And it stayed there for a beat too long.

From then on, he looked for you every weekend.

Hallway greetings and small talk turned into him hanging around after practice more often. He stopped mentioning his fiancée, and you never brought up your coach boyfriend. The guilt in his eyes faded the more time he spent with you. Whispers had already begun to spread around the club. People talked—about the way Jinhwan watched you during drills, how often you laughed at something he said, how close the two of you had gotten in so little time. One rumor said someone heard noises from the locker room—that they saw you slip out, followed moments later by Jinhwan.

As for your boyfriend, he wasn’t stupid. He’d had a hunch for weeks. He never caught the two of you in the act, but it was obvious—there was definitely something going on between you and his star player.

He drove you home after practice one night, oddly quiet, knuckles white on the wheel. At the club, he’d acted like everything was normal. Even gave Jinhwan a pat on the back. But you could feel the tension simmering beneath it all.

The moment you stepped inside your apartment, the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the frame.

“You think I don’t know?” he said, voice shaking. “Everyone’s talking. The locker room? Really?”

You said nothing—no guilt, no apology, just silence.

That set him off.

He grabbed your wrist, shoved you against the wall. The next thing you felt was his hand around your throat, squeezing hard. Your feet barely held weight. His face was inches from yours, eyes blown wide with rage.

“I gave you everything,” he growled. “And you fuck him?”

You clawed at his hand, not in fear—but because it was annoying.

He let go suddenly, like your skin burned him. You hit the floor, coughing. He stared down at you for a moment, fists clenched.

“I’m done. We’re over, you fucking bitch,” he spat, then walked out.

You stood there, fixing your hair in the hall mirror. A bruise on your neck, but you were unfazed. You laughed, because at last you got what you wanted. Jinhwan.

A week later, he broke off his engagement and fired his coach, your now ex-boyfriend. The scandal spread like wildfire. Headlines, forums, gossip blogs. Everyone was talking. Not just tennis fans, but everyone. Even people who didn’t follow sports knew your names. His good boy image was thrown out the window. A cheater, a traitor—that’s what they called him. But the backlash you received was even worse. They didn’t just call you a slut. They hurled every ugly name they could think of. Even sent death threats. 

But neither of you cared. Jinhwan was too far gone, too crazy about you. You made him forget her like she never existed. It was that easy for you to take her place. You became the new face beside Jinhwan—at press conferences, during matches, on international trips. You whispered in his ear before every game, smiled beside him at every trophy lift.

He made you move in with him. Made you quit your job at the public library. He was wealthy enough that you never had to work again. He dressed you in designer clothes, gave everything you asked for, and took you to high-end hotels and restaurants. In return, you kept up with Pilates, watched your diet, took care of your skin—and gave him sex he couldn’t forget. You made sure he’d never want another woman again.

You continued your tennis training on the side until you were good enough for Jinhwan to pull a few strings—calling in favors, speaking to directors. Before long, you weren’t just a beginner taking weekend lessons anymore. You had a private coach, access to elite training facilities, and a spot in low-tier tournaments to get your feet wet.

The next thing you knew, you had won—Women’s Nationals, out of nowhere. It was unexpected. Eyebrows raised, because everyone in the tennis world knew Jinhwan was the one who brought you this far. They didn’t know whether to hate you or worship you.

But your triumph came at the cost of Jinhwan’s loss at the Singapore International, where he took a bad fall—foot twisted mid-return.

“Torn ligament,” the doctor said. He’d be out for a year.

You didn’t let him stay at the hospital for long, you wanted him to resume his recovery at home. Jinhwan agreed. He knew you couldn’t stand sleeping there. But after a week, you stopped sleeping beside him.

“I need rest,” you exhaled. “Your brace squeaks.”

Jinhwan didn’t say anything and let you sleep in the guest room—for two months. 

You weren’t around much during those months. So a nurse handled his care—meals, meds, sponge baths. You hated seeing him like that. Weak and helpless. You spent your days at the club, at the spa, shopping, attending matches. You needed a distraction.

And that was when he caught your eye—charming, striking, confident. The young rookie player, Jung Chanwoo.

You watched him from the stands, legs crossed, smirking. He reminded you of Jinhwan in his early days, but he was way cooler, and his moves were cleaner. And that fascinated you.

When Jinhwan’s brace finally came off, the first thing you asked was for him to come watch a tournament with you. Not just any match—Chanwoo’s. It was the last thing he wanted. Watching some other, healthier player compete while he was still recovering, able to walk but far from playing. But when it came to you—how could he ever say no?

To say he was relieved when Chanwoo lost would be an understatement—like the universe had thrown him a bone. Still, he couldn’t deny it—Chanwoo was good. Too good for a rookie.

As the crowd cleared out after the game, you leaned in toward Jinhwan.

“You should train him,” you said, casual. “He’s cute.”

Jinhwan didn’t know how to feel. He could only nod at your request. And for the first time ever, he wondered if he was no longer the apple of your eye. He didn’t question where you’d been the past months or why you didn’t come home some nights. He didn’t ask why you were suddenly interested in another player. He loved you too much to care. If you want him to kiss your feet, he’d do it—no questions asked.

---Chanwoo agreed in a heartbeat the moment Jinhwan made the offer. A chance to train under a name like his wasn’t something you passed up. Even his own coach and that scrappy little team of his were stunned. No one saw it coming.

Jinhwan started mentoring him right away. And to your delight, he even brought him into your home since his own place was too far from the club. Jinhwan couldn’t play, but that didn’t matter. He directed with precision, used a substitute player when needed, and guided Chanwoo through strategy, form, and mental game—relying solely on his presence and words. Chanwoo, on the other hand, listened intently and followed every word. He was learning things his old coach could never teach him.

And then there was you.

You showed him the guesthouse, where he’d be staying until his next match… or maybe longer. Who knows. You always sat beside Jinhwan at breakfast, offering him protein smoothies like a sweet ritual. Sometimes he’d join you both for dinner, until he realized he much preferred it when you brought his meal to his room. You were the passenger princess in Jinhwan’s car, always riding with them to and from the club.

You were everywhere.

Watching their drills. Laughing at his mistakes, but scrolling through your phone whenever he did something right. You’d hand him a bottle of water or a towel, smiling like you knew something he didn’t. It felt like a game. And maybe it was. You still had him wired in ways he didn’t expect. Compliments, stolen glances. You made him talk, and you listened well. There were instances where you’d intentionally graze his arm when passing by, or let your fingers brush his a little too long when handing him a glass. You made it hard for him to breathe sometimes. It was impossible not to look when you strolled through the house in silk nightgowns with nothing underneath, or oversized shirts that barely covered your underwear.

One afternoon by the pool, you asked Chanwoo to swim with you. He hesitated at first—Jinhwan was only ten feet away, buried in his laptop.

“He wouldn’t mind,” you said with a wink.

Chanwoo glanced at Jinhwan, then slipped into the water. Jinhwan never looked. You floated beside him, skin glowing under the afternoon sun. Conversation turned into teasing. Your leg brushed against his when you caught him staring. Neither of you moved away.

Chanwoo wasn’t sure which was more dangerous—this game you were both playing now, or the way Jinhwan never seemed to care.

It’s not that Jinhwan didn’t care. He saw it all—the looks, the touches, the way Chanwoo played along. Again, it was his love for you that made him do anything to keep you, even if it meant letting you be entertained by someone else. Someone younger.

He caught you and Chanwoo in the laundry room one night. You were perched on top of the running machine, legs around Chanwoo’s waist, his shirt halfway off, your head tilted back in pleasure. You saw Jinhwan, met his eyes, and didn’t stop. If anything, you pulled Chanwoo closer.

There was no panic or apology on your face. You wanted him to watch. And Jinhwan—twisted as it was—felt a burning jealousy claw at him, but he was shamelessly turned on by what he was seeing. 

He didn’t leave. He let it happen.

And for the next few months, he kept letting it happen.

You and Chanwoo were reckless.

Bathroom quickies. Practice sessions without Jinhwan that ended in makeouts under the bleachers. The club was gossiping again. Everyone knew—you were cheating on Jinhwan with his own protégé, just like he had once done to his ex-fiancée and former coach. It was déjà vu. Karma. But none of you cared.

Jinhwan would swallow all of it—as long as you still came home to him. Even if you would disappear into the guesthouse for hours, he chose to keep his mouth shut. And when you crawled back, asking to be fucked like nothing had happened, he gave it to you. Rough. Just the way you both liked it.

When Chanwoo won the local championship, you all came home drunk and flushed from the high of celebrating. But it wasn’t over yet. Music blasted from the speakers. Champagne was poured into glasses. You all shrugged off your jackets and danced in the living room, barefoot on polished floors. Your body swayed between the two of them. Laughing, teasing, touching. You only stopped to give them a dare they weren’t ready to hear.

“Kiss each other.”

Jinhwan let out a loud laugh. Chanwoo froze, unsure if you were joking. But the look you gave them said otherwise—you weren’t playing. And you were waiting.

They gave what you ask for. 

Jinhwan moved first, fingers still wrapped around his drink. Chanwoo met him halfway. It started hesitant, almost clumsy, but quickly turned heated—messy and breathless. You watched like it was a show you directed.

You clapped, pleased. “Don’t leave me out.“

The night led you all to the bedroom. The door was left open, clothes scattered across the floor like no one had time to think. Chanwoo’s mouth dragged down your neck, wet and slow, while Jinhwan’s fingers worked you open between your thighs.

Their hands moved like they already knew what you needed—like they’d been waiting for this.

You pulled Chanwoo closer, feeling the weight of him against you. His fingers roamed over your breasts, tracing slow circles around your nipples. You gasped, your back arching into both of them. Jinhwan stepped back, watching, his breath uneven. You looked at him and reached out, switching without a word. He kissed you hard, grunting into your mouth as your tongues collided. Chanwoo moved lower, lifting your leg over his shoulder. His tongue replaced Jinhwan’s fingers. You choked on a moan.

Time blurred. You found yourself in Jinhwan’s lap, his movements slow and steady as he anchored your hips. Each thrust pulled a deep, ragged groan from him, right against your ear. In front of you, Chanwoo knelt—lips swollen, jaw tight, pupils blown wide. You were stroking him before taking his shaft into your mouth. His entire body tensed, a curse slipping past his lips as his palms caressed the back of your hair. Behind you, Jinhwan growled, his pace quickening as he took in the sight.

The room was hot and loud, thick with sweat and cum, as your bodies came undone together.

After that night, being a trio felt like the most normal thing. Jinhwan and Chanwoo each had a piece of you. No rules, no complaints. Jinhwan went along with it, and so did Chanwoo. He still stayed in the guesthouse, but every night, he climbed into bed with you and Jinhwan in the master bedroom. You sat between them at the table—breakfast, dinner, always in the middle. You remained their plus one at the club, as Chanwoo continued to train with Jinhwan like nothing had changed. It impressed you how cleanly they kept the line between personal and professional. Though it was never confirmed, the entire club and even the press were aware of the polyamorous relationship you shared.

Some days, it was just you and Jinhwan—shopping, grabbing a meal, and taking late-night drives while listening to the radio. Other days, it was you and Chanwoo at the market or having a picnic in the park. You’d read to him, and he’d give you foot massages. And of course, you still got to fuck them separately. But you liked it better when it was both of them—especially during trips abroad. They’d spread you legs in the most beautiful places, making you climax over and over again against breathtaking views.

But it was only a matter of time before things began to change. They grew more needy and greedy, wanting you only for themselves. Jinhwan didn’t like it when you faced Chanwoo in bed, or when you laughed too hard at his jokes. Chanwoo hated when you spent more time with Jinhwan or left him out of conversations. Even during sex, it turned into a silent war—who could make you come harder, faster, longer. They ended up leaving you bruises.

Jinhwan would keep you out longer than usual—dinner dates, late-night drives, too many stolen hours. He never said it, but you knew he was trying to keep you away from Chanwoo. You’d come home late, only to find Chanwoo still awake in the living room, sitting in the dark. His expression cold. So he started taking you on day trips without telling Jinhwan. He’d show up early, get you before Jinhwan even woke up. And when you weren’t looking, he’d slip your phone out of your bag. Just so Jinhwan wouldn’t have a chance to text you asking where you were. You’d return home to find Jinhwan pacing restlessly in the driveway.

“Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he’d ask, voice laced with restraint, barely containing his anger.

You never asked Chanwoo why he took your phone. You already knew. If you confronted him, he’d flip it on you. Make it your fault. Say you left it behind. Sometimes he wouldn’t let you leave the guesthouse at all. He’d keep you there. Make you sleep beside him until morning.

---Chanwoo may have finally cracked.

It was one of those nights in the guesthouse. He was rougher than usual, but not the kind you liked. There was something pointed in the way he gripped your wrists, the way he pushed too hard against you on the bed.

You asked him to stop. It was starting to hurt.

“Chanwoo, I said stop!” you repeated, louder this time.

He let go. “What? You don’t like it now?” His voice cracked with something ugly underneath.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, grabbing your robe and storming out barefoot into the cold night, fury buzzing under your skin. 

Jinhwan was on the porch, smoking, when he saw you walk out of the guesthouse. One look at your face, and he knew something was wrong.

He dropped the cigarette, stepped forward. “What did he do to you?”

You tried to stop him, but he was already rushing toward the guesthouse. He glared at Chanwoo like he wanted to kill him.

“What the fuck did you do to her?”

Chanwoo didn’t back down. “You act like you’re any better.”

“If you touch her like that again,” Jinhwan said, voice low, “I’ll break your fucking hands.”

They were chest to chest in seconds. Shouting. Shoving. 

You tried to push between them. Someone’s elbow hit your nose. It bled.

You stumbled back. Appalled. 

They stopped mid fight.

You scowled at both of them, breathing hard.

“I’ve had enough!” you exclaimed, furious, one hand pressed to your nose to stop the bleeding. “Take your alpha male ego bullshit to the court.”

They were speechless. 

“Whoever wins, gets me.”

You turned and walked out. No more games. You were done letting them think they were in control. You hated losing control. 

---The match wasn’t official, wasn’t on record—but it was vicious. And it was televised. You wanted the world to see two men tear each other apart for the chance to keep you, even if they didn’t know it. They thought it didn’t mean anything more than a friendly spar between master and protégé. But the three of you knew better.

Jinhwan hadn’t played in a year. A torn foot ligament had nearly ended him. Doctors told him not to risk it and no coach would clear him. He didn’t listen. He trained quietly, obsessively, through the pain—because he wanted everything back the way it was. When it was just the two of you. With Chanwoo out of the picture. 

Chanwoo didn’t flinch. He was younger, stronger, still riding the high of his local championship win. His confidence was unshakable. He had something to prove, too—that he no longer needed Jinhwan. That he was the better man for you.

You sat high in the stands, dressed in white from head to toe. Slim trousers, a button-down vest top, dark sunglasses hiding your expression. You crossed your legs, head slightly bowed—focused, waiting for the outcome of this whole charade.

The first set was all Chanwoo. His moves were clean, per usual. Fast and ruthless. He taunted Jinhwan with every serve, every smirk. You could feel the message in the air. He’s getting rusty.

Second set. Jinhwan adjusted. He didn’t let ego take over—just grit. He played smarter, worked around his injury. He returned fire.

Third set was brutal. Jinhwan pushed too hard, too fast—slipped. He was limping. The cameras caught the grimace he couldn’t hide. Chanwoo crushed him.

Fourth set. Jinhwan forced it. Pure will. Every swing looked like it hurt. His shirt was soaked. Chanwoo lost control.

By the fifth set, it wasn’t tennis anymore. It was war.

No one sat still. The tension gripped the audience. Every serve, every footstep echoed loudly. Chanwoo cursed under his breath. Jinhwan gritted his teeth. At one point, he tore off his bandages mid-changeover, rewrapping them with trembling hands. Jinhwan’s foot was clearly failing. His shoe was soaked with sweat and blood. But he didn’t stop. Neither did Chanwoo. Each rally dragged on, painful and desperate. You watched in silence as they ripped each other apart, proving who deserved you more.

Match point came after the longest rally of the game. Jinhwan landed a drop shot just over the net.

Chanwoo couldn’t reach it.

Silence.

A wave of disbelief swept through the stands.

You stood and took off your sunglasses. The sun hit your face. Your eyes locked on the scoreboard, stunned—it blinked Jinhwan’s name.

Victory.

Shouts and scattered applause rippled across the court. 

Jinhwan dropped to his knees, chest heaving. Chanwoo stood frozen at the baseline. Breathing hard, staring at the ground.

And that was the last time you saw Chanwoo. 

When you got back home, all his clothes and belongings were gone from the guesthouse. Meanwhile, Jinhwan was back in the hospital. The doctor said it was uncertain whether he’d ever be able to play tennis again. It was the result of pushing himself too hard during the match with Chanwoo. Recovery would take at least another year—maybe more.

In the following months, you didn’t dare check up on Chanwoo. Not once. You didn’t want to know where he’d gone, what he was doing now, or if he ever thought about you.

The house felt quieter without him. It was just you and Jinhwan. Mornings were the same. You brewed coffee. He took his medication. You helped him wrap his injured foot. He winced less now, but still limped. He’d whisper a thank you and gently kiss the back of your hand. Sometimes, you’d read on the porch while he rested. Sometimes, you’d drive out alone just to feel movement again. There wasn’t much sex. Not because he didn’t want you—he did. But his body couldn’t keep up, and yours wasn’t always in the mood either. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but you both felt it. Something had shifted, something dull. 

You tried to fill the space—gym, spa, shopping. Everything you used to do to feel good. But now, it barely registered.

You started to feel it. Boredom, discontent, unhappiness.

Jinhwan saw it—of course he did.

But he didn’t question it. He knew you wouldn’t want to talk about it. When had you ever really opened up to him? He believed you wouldn’t leave. Not now. Not after everything he’d done to win you back. And in some way, he was right. You weren’t going anywhere.

Until an invitation came. An international competition in Barcelona—something new. It piqued your interest. You decided to go and compete again, but you didn’t want to bring Jinhwan with you. Even though he was happy for you. He couldn’t, anyway. He wanted you to go alone. Said he didn’t want to be a burden. Someone limping next to you wouldn’t look good.

Neither of you spoke during the entire car ride to the airport. It was the day of your flight, and Jinhwan had insisted on sending you off at the very least. But just as you were about to board, he pulled you into an embrace.

“Shall we get married?” he murmured in your ear. 

You stiffened, unsure how to respond. All you could manage was, “I have to go.“

Jinhwan only nodded.

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll call you when I land.”

 ---You lost.

The final score flashed on the board. It was over.

There were no tears in your eyes. You refused to cry. Lips tight, you stayed seated on the empty player’s bench tucked behind the baseline, hands clasped between your knees—like a wounded animal. Tired and defeated.

The stadium had cleared. Staff swept the court. But you didn’t move.

“Thought I’d find you here,” a voice said behind you.

You turned. Chanwoo stood in his tracksuit, a gold medal around his neck, damp hair sticking to his forehead. 

You tried to mask the jolt that ran through you at the sight of his familiar face.

“You won,” you said, hollow.

He nodded. “Men’s singles. Finals wrapped up an hour ago.”

You looked away, staring at the court. “Good for you.”

“I knew you’d be here.”

You gave a dry laugh. “Of course you did.”

He sat beside you. For a while, no one said anything. Just the sound of distant chatter and a cart rolling past.

“Why’d you come?” you finally asked.

“To see you lose,” he replied, smirking.

You rolled your eyes. 

“Hey, I’m only kidding,” he chuckled, holding his hands up. Then, softly, he said, “I came because I wanted to see you again.”

You didn’t glance his way. Just kept staring ahead. All quiet. 

“I’m staying another week,” he told you. “In case you feel like talking.”

Chanwoo stood and walked away, leaving you to your thoughts.

Jinhwan was on the phone with you. It was the third time you’d spoken since you arrived in Barcelona. Once when you landed, once before the match, and now, on the day you were supposed to fly home.

“I’m going to stay a few more days,” you said. “I need to clear my head.”

He wanted to say no. To demand you take the flight back. But he didn’t.

When the call ended, he stayed frozen, phone clenched in his hand. His jaw was tight. Eyes narrowed at the screen of his laptop—an article announcing Chanwoo’s win in Barcelona.

His gut twisted. He knew you were with him. And the worst part was—he couldn’t do anything about it.

He didn’t want to lose you. His vision blurred. Tears welled up, hot and bitter.

For the first time in months since Chanwoo had been out of your lives, you were able to feel something again. Here he was, making you forget the weight of your recent loss. More than that—he made you forget Jinhwan. Or at least, he made you stop thinking about him.

The days in Barcelona moved differently with him. You wandered through the Gothic Quarter, hands brushing as you dipped in and out of narrow alleyways and small boutiques. You stood side by side beneath the towering spires of the Sagrada Familia, heads tilted back, soaking in the view. In the afternoons, you rode bikes along the boardwalk at Barceloneta Beach, the sea wind catching your hair. When you found a spot away from the crowd near the shore, you laid out a mat on the sand and stretched out on your stomach—the waves just within reach. Chanwoo sat beside you and smoothed sunscreen across your back. You liked how there was no need to exchange words with him. Your eyes did all the talking.

“Let’s swim,” you grabbed his hand with a grin. 

He didn’t need convincing. In the water, you played like kids. You splashed water at him and tried to swim past, but he caught you around the waist and lifted you effortlessly, slinging you over his shoulder. You squealed, half-laughing, half-protesting as he spun you toward the deeper end, both of you soaked and breathless with joy.

You spent a wine-stained dinner in El Born, sharing jokes and laughter in between bites. The two of you curled up in a corner table like newlyweds on a honeymoon. You could tell Chanwoo carefully avoided any mention of tennis. You wouldn’t have minded if he did, but it was better this way. You’d never admit it, but you liked the gesture.

Barcelona’s nightlife burst with neon lights and noise, spilling over cobblestone streets crowded with exuberant locals and tourists. You and Chanwoo slipped into bars where the music throbbed and the drinks burned. He watched as you sipped a small glass of vermut, then something sweeter. Licor 43 over ice. You pushed a shot of orujo toward him. He took it in one go, wincing. “Burns like hell,” he muttered. You laughed. He took another shot like a dare, and motioned for one more round.

The thumping beat inside the tight bar called to you. Soft red light scattered through the haze. You grabbed Chanwoo’s hand without thinking and led him to the dance floor. You moved first—hips swaying lazily, gaze locked on his. He followed, hands finding your waist. As the music pulsed harder, his touch grew bolder, sliding lower. You spun around and pressed your back to his chest. Your bodies moved together in rhythm, like you’d never been apart. His breath was hot against your cheek. You clung to him like you were weightless. Drunk on it all.

Back in his hotel room, he didn’t rush despite the alcohol in his system. He was gentle with you—not like at the guesthouse. And you let him take his time. From the way he undressed you to how he kissed you, to the way he held you. He explored every part of you like he was trying to relearn your body. And your body responded—he could tell how much you’d missed his touch. He missed it too. Your scent. The sound of your whimpers as his mouth moved over your folds. Above him, you looked disheveled but still beautiful—even in all your mess. By the time you were close, he laid you down and slid into you. Pace slow, deep thrusts. He wanted you to feel every inch of him. Your fingers dug at the sheets as he went faster. You moaned loudly when he hit the right spot again and again. You felt your body convulse, your legs giving up on you, but Chanwoo made sure they wouldn’t fall off his shoulders. He savored your cumming face as you finally released it all to him.

Afterward, you lay together in the dark. His arm tucked under your head, the other tracing your spine in lazy, slow strokes.

“Leave him.”

You glanced up at him, not expecting it. He was lying beside you, bare-chested, arm draped across your waist.

“Come back with me,” he added. “I’ve got a place in Jeju near the ocean. It’s peaceful, it’ll just be us. I bought it from my wins. I’ve been saving—there’s more than enough now. I can spoil you.”

You didn’t answer him.

“I’ll take his place. His throne.” His voice dropped. “The papers said he’s going to retire.”

There was a pause. You stared at the ceiling.

Chanwoo sat up, shifting to face you. “Say yes,” he whispered, cupping your face in both hands. “Please.” He kissed your cheek. “Say yes?” He kissed your forehead, your jaw.

You sat up slowly, still quiet.

“Please,” he repeated again, nearly begging now.

You gave a small nod, forcing a smile. “Yes,” you said calmly.

His face lit up. He leaned in, kissing your lips softly.

“Let’s lie back down,” you told him.

He pulled you close, his head on the pillow beside yours, eyes closed, a smile still playing on his face.

That night, you barely slept.

By morning, you were gone.

---You didn’t call ahead.

You let yourself into the house quietly. It was dark, lit only by a single lamp in the living room. The speakers were still on, a faint hum left behind from music that had just stopped. Jinhwan was asleep on the sofa, still in the clothes from the day before, one arm slung over his stomach. Bottles of beer littered the table in front of him.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him.

Then you stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He stirred, tense at first. Then he blinked, waking slowly. His hand reached up to touch yours. He turned to look at you, eyes wide.

“Let’s get married,” you said, before he could even speak.

Jinhwan stared at you. He couldn’t believe those words had come from your mouth. 

It brought him to his knees, arms wrapped around your legs, forehead pressed to your thigh.

He kissed you there—once, twice, over and over.

He didn’t say a word.

He couldn’t. He was too overwhelmed to speak.

Finally, you had chosen him. Not Chanwoo. Not anyone else.

Just him.

---It started with fatigue, but you already had a hunch about what was behind it. Then came the nausea. Jinhwan was too busy preparing everything to notice. He didn’t want you to stress about the wedding, so he took most of the planning on himself. Or maybe it was because you didn’t let him. You were good at hiding things like this.

When your period didn’t come, you bought a pregnancy test. Alone in the bathroom, you stared at the result with cold hands.

Positive.

You sat on the closed toilet lid for what felt like hours, the stick still in your hand. From the other room, Jinhwan was talking to you—saying something you couldn’t quite make out. He was folding gift bags, arranging place cards. He sounded excited. But he had no idea what you’d just found out.

You knew he wasn’t the father.

You hadn’t told him. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t stop yourself from keeping tabs on Chanwoo.

After Barcelona, he didn’t slow down—he dominated. Paris. Rome. Shanghai. Montreal. Win after win. The world didn’t just feast on his victories—they obsessed over his personal life.

You saw videos of him stumbling out of clubs with strippers, photos of him smoking on balconies. Every week, a new woman by his side—models, celebrities, influencers.

He had become the wild card of tennis, both on and off the court. Netizens called him reckless, a disgrace—but as long as he kept winning, he still brought pride to the country. His career was soaring. Sponsors continued to line up. He even landed a multi-million dollar deal.

One article called him the new Kim Jinhwan—like a cocky version of him, but better.

You didn’t want to care. But you did. Jealousy and regret consumed you, no matter how much you hated to admit it. You knew it had been a mistake—leaving him in Barcelona without a word. No note. No call. You just disappeared. But deep down, you knew why you did it.

You wanted him back.

Eventually, you reached out. A message. Then another.

No reply.

You tried again. Still nothing.

Days before the wedding, the pressure became unbearable. You were desperate. You sent one more message:

“I’m pregnant. It’s yours.”

This time, he answered.

“Where?”

“Let’s talk,” you wrote.

You made up an excuse to skip a final wedding appointment. A venue check. Jinhwan didn’t ask questions—he never did anymore. You went to the restaurant Chanwoo agreed on, wearing one of those loose outfits you favored lately—anything to hide the small bump growing in your belly. 

You sat by the window.

You waited.

And waited.

The food turned cold. The waiter came back three times. Your stomach churned.

Then your phone buzzed.

“How do I even know that’s mine? Don’t ever contact me again.”

You sat there, staring at the screen, unable to move. The noise of the restaurant drifted out. And for the first time in your life, you cried uncontrollably—pure, raw heartbreak.

Chanwoo never intended to show up. It was payback.

You cried until they asked you to leave.

 ---Years passed.

Jinhwan still plays tennis sometimes with your kids. Not professionally—just silly games in the backyard. You had two boys. He raised both like they were his. Even Chanwoo’s. You never told him the truth, and he never asked. That was the unspoken deal.

His name lives in museums now. You stopped playing a long time ago.

These days, you work at an art gallery. Jinhwan writes as a sports columnist, covering everything—except tennis.

The last you heard, Chanwoo was still competing. Mentoring rookies. Engaged to a Russian supermodel. It looked like he was finally ready to settle down. 

Sometimes, you catch yourself staring at old trophies. Dust gathering at their edges. Or you find your finger hovering over an old clip—that match. Jinhwan versus Chanwoo. The one that ended it all.

Some nights, you watch it again. Alone. Just to relive it.