77 — Group Stage – South Korea vs Iraq

"So, Jae-il, what do you think our chances are?" Jong-su asked me, puffing out his chest with a misplaced sense of pride. "Think we'll make it?"

"Doesn't matter what I think." I answered, tersely. "We will make it. So we better."

I heard him chuckle, but said nothing. I just kept stretching, one arm crossing my body, pulling the other with it, feeling the pull in my shoulders, the satisfying burn.

We were in our locker room, getting ready for our first qualifying match. Our first hurdle on the road to the World Cup. The atmosphere was thick with tension, with the weight of expectation. It was one thing to play a friendly. Another thing entirely to play a match with real, tangible consequences hanging in the balance.

We had to win the quarter finals of the AFC U-17 Asian Cup to qualify for the World Cup.

The round was divided into groups, and the winners from each group, as well as the runners-up with the best results from all the groups, would move forward.

South Korea was the host nation for Group C, which meant we had to compete against Iraq, Yemen, and Iran. It's funny how geography works sometimes. We were stuck in the middle of our regional rivals. The powerhouse. The underdog. The dark horse. And us.

The host nation.

I barely registered the loud, booming voice of our coach giving his pre-match speech. I'd heard it a thousand times before. About passion. About heart. About representing our country with pride. It was all true, and yet, it felt secondary. My mind was already on the field.

He slammed a hand against the whiteboard. "We start strong. We end strong. We dominate possession, we control the tempo, and we leave no room for doubt. Understood?!"

A chorus of "YES, COACH!" echoed through the room.

"Then get out there. And make me proud."

We all stood up, and I heard the click-clacking of cleats against the tiled floor. The atmosphere quickly turned expectant.

We walked through the tunnel. A single file as I led my teammates out. Right next to us, was the Iraqi team, their faces grim, set with a determination that mirrored our own. Bedecked in their white uniform, looking quite big and threatening.

Compared to Thailand, they weren't that special. Decent. Capable. They could make it difficult if we let them.

On paper, we should win.

But football is not played on paper. It's played on grass.

I felt a slight breeze on my face, heard the low hum of the crowd. Close to thirteen thousand spectators, as far as I've been told. Which was marginally more compared to what this type of tournament usually got.

'You've made so many people come just to watch you, Jae-il. Do you know what that means?' Coach Ahn Ki-seok had told me earlier, his eyes staring right into me. 'It means you have a responsibility to them. They're all watching you. So give them a good reason to keep watching.'

And then he gave me the armband—which meant I had a responsibility to my team as well.

The sound of the crowd started to build, becoming a roar as we emerged onto the pitch. The green turf was perfect, a lush carpet under our feet. I took a deep breath, marveling, preening, under the deafening roar that welcomed us. A sea of red. The sound of a nation. Our nation. The Seoul World Cup Stadium came alive.

The floodlights bathed the pitch in a near-daylight glow. Outside, the sky darkened ever so slightly.

I breathed it all in.

Floodlights—white-hot, merciless, carving the pitch into a glowing island amid the black sea of stands. Here, the noise came from thirteen thousand lungs. Not the polite claps of kiddie-league Saturdays, where mums balanced toddlers on hips and dads filmed on phones held too low. This was a roar that started somewhere behind the sternum of every single person in this damn Korean bowl and rolled forward like a tidal wave, crashing against the advertising boards, rebounding, doubling, until your very heart thrummed along with it. Oh, I loved it.

Then the national anthems began. Iraq's first. I stood there, listening to the foreign melody, my mind a blank slate. Then came ours. I put my hand over my heart, felt the steady beat against my ribs. I opened my mouth, and the familiar words came out. For a moment, I wasn't Jair Campinho. I wasn't a reincarnated Brazilian legend. I was Cha Jae-il. A South Korean boy, about to play for his country, singing his heart out to a flag that now felt less foreign.

Once the anthems ended, we went to our positions. On my left, Sung-tae. On my right, Dae-hyun. Behind me, Kim Jun-hwan. In front of me, the Iraqi offense. Me and Iraq's captain met in front of the referee for the coin toss ritual

I picked heads. The coin flicked, spinning in the air. It landed, shining under the stadium lights. Heads.

"We'll take the kickoff." I said to their captain, a mountain of a man with a thick beard and sharp, dark eyes.

What in the loving fuck did they eat over there for 17 year old kids to be already like this.

He simply nodded.

xXx

Mia’s POV:

Of course Mia was there, high in the VIP box of Seoul World Cup Stadium, flanked by her little sister, her mother, and their father—who'd flown in just for the opener, a rare pit-stop in a life of endless miles. Seoul made it easy for the family to gather. But Mia knew, deep in her marrow, she'd have crossed oceans barefoot just to watch Jae-il step onto that grass. Her brother. Her—

"It's starting." Their father rumbled, leaning so far forward his knuckles whitened on the rail.

Mia's gaze was already locked on the pitch. He stood out like a single flame in a field of candles: Number 9, captain's band cinched tight around the swell of his bicep. Pride bloomed hot in her chest, but beneath it rolled something darker, silkier, a pulse that settled low between her thighs. Shit.

She remembered the weight of him pinning her to the mattress. Skin sliding on skin, slick with sweat. The rasp of his breath against her throat, the low, broken groans that spilled from him with every deep thrust, every wet slap of hips on hips. His hands—big, calloused, warm—gripping her ass, fingers sinking into soft flesh, guiding her exactly where he wanted. The way her body had opened for him, greedy, not an ounce of shame.

A shiver rippled through her now, delicious and guilty. She pressed her thighs together under the thin silk of her dress. Shit. Shit.

Three weeks. Three weeks since that night, and not a single touch since. They'd laughed about 'round two', 'round three', whispered filthy things over late-night calls that left her soaked and trembling. But schedules, training camps, family. Everything conspired to keep them apart.

So she'd taken care of herself. Night after night. Fingers slipping inside, curling, chasing the ghost of him. His voice still in her ear—Noona, fuck, you feel so good—looping in her head until she came with his name muffled against her pillow. The texts didn't help: a single photo of his abs, sweat-slick after practice; a voice note, husky and teasing—thinking about your mouth, Noona. She'd replay them until her body arched off the bed, desperate, never quite satisfied.

She shifted in her seat, the ache sharp and sweet.

...Perhaps a small part of her even wanted the guilt and shame to feed the pleasure and drive her mad. That was, probably, the sort of complex only a sibling-fucker would ever admit and confess to, however.

At this point, the excitement of their relationship, the whole experience of their rendezvous, made any type of sensuous memory become an equally sensuous torture.

The secrecy and taboo of it all had become such a potent aphrodisiac for Mia. Who’d have thought.

Jae-il's gaze briefly darted to the VIP boxes, and he tilted his head, like he was sending a silent signal, acknowledging that he saw them.

No one really noticed the subtle gesture, except his sisters and parents. Su Ah and Eun Ha grinned broadly. Yeong Gu merely looked down, snickering. Mia gushed internally.

She had her hands on the railings of the VIP boxes, as was the fashion. She didn't like to sit around. The announcer spoke, drawing in the crowds, hyping the audience. A rowdy crowd. Most of these people were probably Korean. After all, it was South Korea that hosted Group C.

The referee blew the whistle.

Mia watched as Jae-il received the ball and passed it back. From then on, everything became a sort of blur. Mia didn't know much about football, but what little she did know was the kind of impression her little brother could bring to the field. The South Korean fans erupted whenever Jae-il made contact, whenever he had possession of the ball.

She even heard a small, dedicated group chanting his name.

Jae-il himself, as if drawing strength from it, dribbled past a defender, nutmegged another, and launched a pass, all with almost surreal smoothness. She barely had time to blink.

That player ran forward, but he was closed down by the offside defender. He didn't lose possession though, passing the ball forward, finding Sung-tae in an open spot.

"Oho!" Mia's father exclaimed, voice booming. "The boy did well."

In that instant, the man on defense leapt up, stole the ball from Jong-su, but in doing so he had committed a foul. The referee's whistle had the Iraqi player seemingly complain to the referee. Mia expected a yellow card; she always found it extremely amusing when football players protested.

No yellow card. Just a warning.

"Tch." Both Mia and Yeong Gu clicked their tongues at the same time.

Freekick.

And not from a dangerous position.

Kim Jun-hwan stepped up to it. He took a couple of steps back, scanned the field, and waited for the referee to blow the whistle.

A sharp shrill pierced the air.

Kim Jun-hwan moved.

A swift kick. A clean, direct cross, flying fast and curling towards the penalty box. For a moment, Mia held her breath. And then, Jae-il moved.

He sprang forward, chest angled perfectly, and the ball slammed into him. He absorbed the impact, his body acting as a shield against the Iraqi defender lunging for the interception. With a sharp grunt, he twisted slightly, physically fending off the challenge.

He let the ball drop gently to the ground in front of him, just enough to tap it forward, keeping it under complete control. The defender skidded past, too late to react, and Jae-il had a fraction of a second to assess the goal.

His eyes locked onto the top corner. He planted his foot, coiled his body, and unleashed a shot.

The ball screamed off his instep, a precise, curling missile that beat the keeper before he could react, lodging high into the net. It was a brutal and elegant, professional, nearly impassable finish.

A half-second of silence, as if the entire stadium was processing what it had just seen. Then, chaos.

The crowd roared, a deafening wave of sound that washed over the stadium. Mia felt it in her chest. Yeong Gu was screaming. Her mother was jumping up and down in delight. Su Ah... well, Su Ah just stared, jaw-slacked, a rare flicker of raw, unadulterated excitement on her face.

"GOOOOOOOLLLLL! GOOOOOOL!" The announcer's voice thundered over the speakers, nearly as loud as the crowd. "THE CAPTAIN! CHA JAE-IL! IN THE 8TH MINUTE!"