Love is Hard for the Captain

The sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor echoed through the empty gym. A whistle pierced the air, and one of your teammates dove low to receive a spike you’d just sent across the net. The ball bounced back up, another boy set it, and you leapt again, smacking it down hard. The impact rattled the floor, the echo almost drowning out the groans of the teammates who failed to block you.

Yep, that’s your focus now—third year, final season. The kind of pressure that didn’t let you waste a single practice. You weren’t about to ease up, not now, not anytime soon. Not when scouts might actually be watching soon. They could be at the practices snooping around at all times.

Well, not today.

“Yah!”

The voice cut across the court like a blade. High, sharp, laced with irritation. You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. Still, you did, and, goddamn it, there she was again.

Jang Wonyoung.

Captain of the girls’ volleyball team, newly appointed just last month, and it is the 4th time she stormed through the practice. Hair tied up in a neat ponytail, tall frame making her presence impossible to ignore, she stood on the sidelines with her arms folded, expression set somewhere between annoyed and smug.

“How long are you guys planning to hog the gym?” she demanded, her voice carrying over the bouncing balls and the shuffle of sneakers.

You rolled the ball in your hand lazily, barely acknowledging her. “We reserved this slot today. Go check the schedule if you don’t believe me, junior.”

“I already checked,” she fired back immediately. Her shoes squeaked against the wood as she marched straight onto your side of the court, ignoring the stares from your teammates. “It’s supposed to be our turn now to practice for matches. Keyword: Now. But what do I see? You boys running full drills like you bought the place.”

“Matches, yeah right.” you repeated under your breath, mocking her words. “Do you girls even play those?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I’m saying,” you said more clearly, tossing the ball up and catching it, “you just got made captain not that long. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

The word rookie landed exactly the way you wanted it to. Her jaw tightened, shoulders squared, and for a moment you thought she might actually launch herself across the net and strangle you.

“I’m not a rookie,” she shot back, voice clipped. “You’re only one year older than me. Don’t act like you’re my coach or something.”

“That one year makes a difference,” you said with a shrug, turning away. “Come back when you’ve got some actual wins to the team you lead, little kid.”

That should’ve been the end of it. You figured she’d stomp out, muttering curses under her breath, and maybe slam the door on her way out. But when you glanced back, she was still standing there.

And she got this shit-eating grin on her face.

“Then I guess this is useless too,” she said lightly, pulling out her phone.

The screen lit up, and your stomach dropped when you saw what was on it.

“Holy sh- WHAT THE FUC—”

There you were, crouched in front of the manga section at the bookstore downtown, eyes glued to the shiny new volume you’d been dying to pick up. The angle was perfect, what the hell. She might have been standing there long enough to snap it without you noticing. You jerk your head up. Your teammates were still running drills, too busy to notice the blood draining from your face.

“Where the actual fuck did you get that?” you hissed, storming toward her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said breezily, holding the phone just high enough to stay out of reach. “The point is, I’ve got it. And… backups.”

You froze. “…Backups?”

“Of course.” She tilted her head, enjoying every second of your panic. “Cloud storage, USB drive, maybe even a framed copy if I feel like it. You can try deleting it, but good luck with that.”

You clenched your fists. “Delete it, Jang Wonyoung. Now.”

“Why should I?” she asked innocently, batting her lashes. “It’s not like I photoshopped it. That’s you. At a manga store. Crouched like a little nerd. See? Right there.”

“That’s… that’s not even embarrassing!” you argued, heat creeping up your neck.

“Oh really?” She tapped her chin theatrically. “So you wouldn’t mind if I sent it to your team’s group chat? Or maybe the student council chat? Or…” Her grin widened. “Your coach?”

“Oi!” You lunged, trying to snatch the phone, but she danced back, raising it even higher. With her long arms and ridiculous height, it was like trying to grab the moon.

“Well, will you please let us use the court now?” she said sweetly, voice dripping with mock politeness.

You stared at her, chest heaving, mind spinning for a way out. Nothing came. And that smug little grin wasn’t going anywhere.

Finally, you groaned, running a hand through your hair. “…Fine. Your team’s turn. Happy now?”

“Very.” She slid her phone back into her pocket like she hadn’t just blackmailed you in broad daylight. “Good boy.”

You bit back the urge to snap something you’d regret, motioning for your team to start clearing cones and rotating out. They grumbled, muttered, shot you questioning looks, but you just waved them off. What were you supposed to say? Sorry guys, I got blackmailed by the girls’ new captain because she caught you reading manga? No thanks.

So instead, you led them out of the gym, setting up laps around the field. Extra cardio and endurance, you convinced yourself.

“Man, she’s got some nerve,” one of your teammates complained as you jogged. “Acting like she owns the damn court already. Hasn’t even proved herself.”

“Yeah, the girls’ team hasn’t even won a district game in, what, two years?” another added.

“Exactly. And they pick her as captain? Just because she’s tall.” He scoffed. “Height doesn’t mean talent.”

You didn’t answer right away, just kept jogging, the sound of your sneakers crunching against the track filling the silence.

But deep down, the irritation burned. Not just at her. At yourself, too. Wonyoung had only been in the role not that long, and she’d already got you, the senior captain, into her palm. In an instant as well, which was annoying. Even worse, she was enjoying it. That fucking smug little smile when she pocketed her phone. It stuck in your head like a thorn.

You swore under your breath and picked up the pace.

The school was almost silent by the time you were heading out. The halls had emptied, the noise of chatter and slammed lockers fading until all you could hear was the buzz of the ceiling lights and the occasional squeak of a janitor’s cart.

But then you noticed something odd. The gymnasium, usually pitch dark at this hour, still had its lights glowing. A faint echo reached your ears. A ball bouncing, then the sharp smack of a hand against it. Curiosity tugged at you, so you pushed open the side door. And sure enough, there she was.

Jang Wonyoung. Stood alone under the lights, hair tied up high, her practice jersey clinging to her back with sweat. The ball rested in her palm, and with a focused expression, she tossed it upward, bent her knees, and jumped.

Smack. (Get your mind out of the gutter. Yes, you.)

The sound of her hand colliding with the ball echoed off the walls. The ball zipped across the net, landed a little too far to the right, and bounced toward the wall. She jogged after it, scooped it up, then repeated the same rhythm. Toss. Leap. Smack. Again and again, like a metronome.

For a moment, you just leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching. Her movements weren’t perfect nor fluid—her toss was a little too low, her timing a hair late, her footsteps before the jump a bit clunky—but she was certainly relentless. Every serve ended with a frown, a muttered curse under her breath, and another attempt.

Well, at least she was more than the pretty face and a tall height.

“…Didn’t know rookies have to stay after hours,” you called, your voice echoing across the empty court.

The ball slipped through her hands mid-dribble, thudding uselessly to the floor. She spun around, startled, her eyes flashing when she saw you leaning there. “What the—what are you doing here?”

“Relax,” you said, pushing yourself off the frame. Your footsteps echoed against the polished wood as you walked closer. “Saw the lights on, thought someone forgot to switch them off. Didn’t think I’d find you here trying to kill the ball.”

She bent down to grab the stray volleyball, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Of course. I’m practicing harder than everyone else. What do you think captains do after school? Sit around reading manga? Like a nerd?”

You winced, dragging a hand down your face. “…You just had to go there, huh?”

Her smirk grew. “It’s funny, really.”

“Unnecessary jab,” you muttered. “Totally uncalled for.”

“Necessary,” she said, mimicking your tone before tossing the ball again. She smacked it across the net, groaning when it veered too far right.

You shook your head, walking closer. “Still, credit where it’s due—you’re working hard. Good job.”

She paused mid-dribble, blinking at you. For a second, her expression softened, almost surprised. But just as quickly, she covered it up with a snort. “Compliments won’t get these photos gone, mister.”

“Well, damn you then.” you muttered, hands on your hips. Then you gestured toward the ball. “Alright, gimme the ball. I’ll show you something.”

Her brows furrowed. “Show me what?”

“A proper jump serve.”

“I didn’t ask,” she shot back instantly.

“I know, Sherlock.” you said with a grin, already palming the ball. “Which is why I’m doing it anyway. Gotta show you the difference between us.”

She crossed her arms, glaring but clearly curious, her sneakers squeaking as she stepped aside. “Fine. But if you mess up, I’m telling everyone you were bragging about your amazing skills and flopped.”

“Wow, blackmailing me again?” you muttered, jogging back to get your run-up.

You took a few steps back, bounced the ball against the polished floor, and inhaled. Even without proper shoes, muscle memory kicked in. Toss. Jump. Swing. That satisfying smack echoed, and the ball rocketed across the net. It curved beautifully, though it clipped just outside the corner line.

You landed with a soft thud, straightening and glancing at your shoes. “Shit…Okay, maybe not perfect. These kicks aren’t exactly built for this.”

But when you looked back up and turned around, you froze.

Wonyoung wasn’t smirking this time. Her mouth was slightly open, eyes gleaming like she’d just watched fireworks. Almost to herself, she could only mutter a “Whoa…”

“…What?” you asked, a little thrown off.

“That—” she jabbed her finger at you, then at the ball. “That thing you just did! The jump, the swing, the way it curved—ugh!” She stomped her foot in frustration, ponytail swishing. “Why didn’t you teach me this sooner?”

You blinked, then chuckled. “You never asked. Too busy trying to get some practice, remember?”

She puffed out her cheeks, shooting you a glare, but her eyes were still sparkling. “Still! That was so clean, if you just aimed for the line—it would’ve been perfect!” She shuffled closer, ball in her arms. “Do it again. Right now. I need to see it hit the damn corner.”

You held the ball behind your back, smirking. “Well…only if you delete those photos.”

Her face dropped. “W-What?”

“You heard me,” you teased, holding the ball hostage. “Delete them, and maybe I’ll tell you how to.”

She clutched her phone like it was her child, eyes darting nervously. “…But that’s my… leverage.”

“Leverage?” you repeated with a laugh. “The hell, you’re taking me hostage now?”

Her silence made it even funnier. You could only shake your head, holding up your free hand. “Aish, I’m joking. I’m not gonna kick you or your team off the court. What kind of shitty senior do you think I am?”

Her shoulders slumped with relief, and when she looked up again, her smile… it wasn’t smug this time. It was genuine. Soft. Kinda cute, really.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “It’s nice of you…”

You felt something catch in your chest. The way her eyes softened, how the corners of her lips curved—it was so warm it didn’t fit the version of Wonyoung who strutted around and kept on pestering your team. And for some reason, it stuck in your head longer than you wanted it to.

Of course, the moment didn’t last long.

“Alright, enough staring,” she said suddenly, poking your arm with the ball. “Do it again. Properly this time. And explain exactly how you swing your arm. Don’t hold back.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Why do I always regret opening my mouth around you?”

“Because you underestimate me,” she sang, bouncing on her toes. “Now hurry up before I change my mind and send those photos anonymously to your group chat.”

“Rude,” you muttered again, setting up for another serve.

Her laughter rang through the empty gym, bright and victorious. And before you realized it, you were tossing the ball up again.

The gymnasium felt like it was holding its breath. The scoreboard glowed, the squeak of shoes echoing with every movement. 15-15. This was it. Your team’s final chance. Championship or nothing. The referee’s whistle rang sharp in your ears as you stepped back, ball in hand, the weight of everything suddenly on your shoulders.

You bounced the ball twice, staring at the other side of the court, then glanced at the crowd. Rows of faces blurred together, but one stood out (totally not because of her height). Wonyoung. She sat stiffly in the middle of the stands, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes following every twitch of your hand.

And just like that, your head somehow drifted back to that one…interesting memory.

“You’re teaching me wrong,” she complained, her voice echoing in the empty gym as you tried to demonstrate your serve a few weeks back.

“I’m not teaching you wrong, you’re just not fucking getting it,” you shot back, tossing the ball up lazily before missing the toss entirely. It thumped to the floor, and she immediately spiked it at you like you were a practice dummy.

“Ow—hey! Watch it, you fucking tall bean!” you yelped, rubbing your arm.

“That’s for being a shitty teacher.” she huffed, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You don’t explain anything properly. How am I supposed to learn from that?”

You scratched your head, realizing she had a point. Explaining things was never really your strength. “I mean… it’s not that hard, you just gotta… feel it? Like, when you’re about to serve, it’s all about rhythm.”

“That’s dogshit, mister.” She crossed her arms. “Give me something concrete. A real tip.”

You hesitated, looking anywhere but at her. “…There’s one thing I do, but…”

“But what?” she pressed, tilting her head.

“It’s embarrassing…”

“Spit it out,” she said flatly, borderline scolding you.

“…repl…op…” You grumbled under your breath.

“What? Say it louder.”

“…replay…ani….opening…”

“Oh my fucking — man up and say it properly!” Her glare could slice you into two right then.

Finally, you burst out, voice echoing louder than you intended: “Fine! I just replay anime openings in my head, okay?!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Wonyoung blinked, her lips twitching as though she was deciding between laughing or pretending she didn’t hear that. “…Which anime?” she asked, deadpan.

“Doesn’t matter. Just—don’t use the same one as me,” you muttered quickly, ears burning.

Her brows furrowed. “What if I don’t even have one? I don’t watch that many anime.”

“Then… uh, use your favorite childhood show?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “…I don’t remember.”

“…Hero shows?”

“Not my thing.”

You just stared at her, defeated, ball dangling uselessly in your hand. She gave you this look like wow, you’re pathetic.

“Anyway, why an anime opening though?” she finally asked, genuine curiosity slipping through.

“Because it’s cool!” And for once, you lit up. “Like—you know when the main character’s about to win against impossible odds, and the opening theme plays? That’s how it feels when I serve. Like I can dig any shot they throw, like nothing can stop me. Like… I can make a miracle happen.”

She blinked again, watching you ramble with way too much excitement, her face unreadable. You finally realized what you were saying and quickly waved it off. “B-But don’t tell anyone, alright? It’s lame.”

The memory snapped, and you were back in the present. One deep breath, and you tossed the ball high, legs coiled and leapt. For a heartbeat, everything slowed, just like in those scenes you’d rambled about. Your palm connected—smack—the ball soaring across the net.

But the rally that followed was brutal. Both teams diving, shouting, scrambling for every point. Your lungs burned, your knees screamed with every movement, but you pushed through. It’s the deciding match. You need to win it. For yourself. For the team. And maybe for her. Maybe.

You repeated it like a mantra, eyes locking onto the ball like a hawk. Until—

Thud. The ball slipped past your outstretched hand as you dived, brushing the floor by a hair. Hit at the corner. The whistle blew.

16-15. Game over.

You collapsed onto the hardwood, clutching your knees, chest heaving. The crowd cheered…but for the other team.

You forced yourself through the motions: bowing to the crowd, shaking hands, clapping for your teammates, telling them they did fantastic. But every step toward the bench felt heavier, the sting of disappointment clinging to your skin like sweat. You made your way alone to the drinking fountain outside, bending over to gulp down water, trying to steady your breathing. The cold water did fucking nothing to wash down the knot and frustration in your throat.

What’s when you notice a shadow looming over you. A tall bean, actually.

You turned, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. She was there. Wonyoung was there. Clutching a chilled can of soda, her eyes swollen and wet. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she held it out to you silently.

“…Why are you crying?” you asked softly, voice still rough yet amused.

“You… you worked so damn fucking hard,” she said, her voice trembling, almost breaking. “I just—” She cut herself off, pressing the can harder against your arm.

You didn’t even think. Your hand moved on its own, gently brushing her tears away with your thumb. Her skin was warm under your touch, fragile in a way you hadn’t seen before. She bawled.

Then, without a word, you ruffled her hair like always. She pouted through her tears, swatting at your hand weakly. “S-stop it. I’ll cry.”

But her smile and tears—small, trembling, and impossibly warm—stuck in your head far more than the loss ever would.

“Ugh, I seriously fucking don’t get people sometimes,”

Wonyoung’s voice rang out, sharp and full of energy even though she’d been lying across your back for the past two hours. Her legs kicked lazily in the air, phone in hand as she scrolled through another manhwa. “Like—why do these damn trashes on the internet act like enjoying anime or manhwa automatically makes you a nerd loser? Newsflash, you don’t look cooler just because you hate things people enjoy.”

You turned a page of your manga, the paper crinkling softly under your fingers, and side-eyed her. From your spot sitting cross-legged on the floor, she was basically draped over you like a giant smug cat — her chin resting on your shoulder, her hair tickling the side of your face, her whole weight pressing comfortably into your back.

Just another usual Sunday afternoon at the apartment that you two now called home.

“I mean, what’s the point?” she continued, voice growing more animated. “It’s so obvious they’re just jealous that people get so into stories. Like, oh no, someone has passion! Heaven forbids!” She scoffed, scrolling with more force than necessary. “Bet those dumbasses don’t even have hobbies. Just boring lives and too much free time to make fun of people who actually enjoy things.”

You slowly looked at her, lips twitching, before speaking, “…This all comes back to you, doesn’t it?”

Her head tilted innocently, her long hair brushing against your shoulder as she peeked at you. “…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she asked, her voice sweet but way too practiced.

“Uh-huh.” You turned a page slowly, deliberately. “Captain Jang Wonyoung, defender of anime and manhwa nerds everywhere, but also the same junior who roasted and blackmailed me for saying I think of an anime opening during serves.”

“Shh.” She pressed her phone closer to her face, pretending to be absorbed. “That never happened, jackass.”

“Oh, it happened,” you shot back, smug. “You called me lame. Multiple times.”

Wonyoung clicked her tongue, refusing to dignify that with a response. Instead, she shifted her weight deliberately, leaning more of herself onto your back until your shoulders sagged forward.

“Oi, get off my back, tall bean.” you groaned, trying to push her up with your back while keeping your manga steady.

She just grinned, snuggling her chin against your shoulder with all the fake innocence in the world. “Nope. This back is mine to lean on.”

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m delicate.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You married me.”

You exhaled through your nose, muttering a defeated “fine, I married you”, and returned to your manga. She let out a victorious hum, scrolling away again, muttering insults at faceless internet users under her breath while using your back as her personal lounge.

Yep. Even after all these years, she hadn’t changed, still sharp-tongued, still ignoring the word “respect”, and still pretending to be innocent when being called out. But with her weight settled comfortably against you, her hair brushing your neck…

It’s definitely the biggest win of your life.