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.