Second/Frame

Forty-five seconds left before the half.

“The ball snaps, Taehyun has it.”

The noise inside Blackline Stadium swells and folds over itself, crowd sound riding the commentary like a second signal. Taehyun drops back, eyes cutting across the field as the pocket holds for just long enough.

“He scans, he sees number four.”

The throw leaves his hand hard and clean, a straight line carving through the air. Seungwon takes it in stride, hands sure, feet driving as he breaks free. He’s five yards out with the end zone open in front of him, white paint waiting.

Then number forty-five comes in low.

Minsik hits from behind, wraps the legs, and drags him down hard at the two-yard line. The collision snaps the air out of the moment.

“Oh no. That would’ve been a perfect walk-in.”

Minsik rolls off and pops up immediately, chest heaving as he throws his arms wide, celebrating while his teammates crash into him from all sides. The play resets around them, whistles cutting through the roar.

Seungwon doesn’t get up.

He rolls onto his back, one knee bent wrong, both hands already gripping his leg as his face tightens. The cameras find him instantly.

“Oh man,” one announcer says, voice dropping. “Seungwon looks injured.”

“Hopefully just a strain,” the other adds, slower now, careful.

The medical team is on the field before the noise fully dies. They kneel around him, blocking the worst of it, hands moving quickly. Seungwon tries to sit up, then pushes like he’s going to stand. He gets halfway before sinking back down again, shaking his head once.

The cart pulls out from the tunnel.

Coach Sungtae stands on the sideline with his arms folded, jaw set, eyes locked on the field as it rolls past. Around him, the bench has gone tighter, quieter. Seungwon doesn’t look at the crowd as they start taking him off.

“Minjae. Get up.”

The shout cuts through the sideline chatter.

Kang-Choi Minjae stands immediately, helmet still resting on his knees where he left it. He jogs over and stops in front of the coach, shoulders already squared.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re up. Take Seungwon’s spot until we hear more.” Sungtae pats his back once, firm. “Be ready.”

Minjae nods. His fingers are already on the helmet by the time he turns. He pulls it on, already heading for the field.

The broadcast returns mid-motion.

“Welcome back. It looks like the Thunderhawks are bringing out second-year wide receiver Kang-Choi Minjae, number twenty-seven, to replace Seungwon.”

“He had a quiet rookie year,” the other voice adds. “Drafted out of university as one of the rising receivers in his class. Let’s see if he can make some noise here.”

Thirty-three seconds on the clock.

The ball snaps.

Taehyun doesn’t hesitate. The pass comes fast and high, leading Minjae into open space.

He catches it with a sharp thud.

His feet slam into the turf. He pivots cleanly, spins through the gap, and cuts straight into the end zone.

The stadium erupts.

Minjae lifts his arms without thinking, a smile stretching wide enough to show through the grille of his helmet as the sound crashes over him from every direction.

“The Thunderhawks take the lead. That’s six on the board.”

He barely remembers the jog back to the sideline. There are helmet taps, hands slapping against his shoulders, somebody grabbing the back of his jersey hard enough to pull him sideways as the kicker lines up.

“Good job,” Sungtae calls. “Way to shift the momentum.”

Minjae pulls his helmet off and runs a hand back through his hair, chest still rising fast. His face hurts from smiling.

“Good shit, man,” Doyun says, knocking his shoulder into Minjae hard enough to jolt him on the bench. “About time they used you for something. I was starting to feel lonely out there.”

Minjae lets out a breathless laugh and drops down onto the bench. “That was a rush.”

“No kidding,” Doyun says. “You looked like you were about to launch yourself into the crowd after.”

Minjae grins wider, still trying to catch his breath. “I might have.”

The kick goes up. Clean.

As the teams line up to head in, Minjae’s smile fades a notch. His eyes track past the tunnel toward the corridor where the cart disappeared.

“I wonder how Seungwon’s doing,” he says quietly.

Doyun glances over at him, then toward the tunnel. “We’re about to find out.”

The Thunderhawks move down the concrete corridor toward the locker room, cleats echoing off the walls. Halfway there, an ambulance idles near the service entrance with its doors open wide.

Seungwon is being lifted inside.

Someone mutters as they pass, low and certain.

“Femur. That’s season-ending.”

Minjae slows without realizing it, helmet tucked under his arm.

Seungwon lies still as the doors swing closed, his face turned away from the lights.

The ambulance pulls off.

Minjae watches until the doors are fully shut before he turns away. Then he turns and follows his team into the locker room, the noise of the stadium sealing itself back behind him.

“Welcome back to the Elite Football Association on Blackline Sports Network. Tough news for the Thunderhawks as their star receiver is officially out for the season with a broken femur.”

The crowd noise rolls back in, restless and ready, the game already stitching itself back together.

“That’s a hard loss,” the other announcer says. “Number twenty-seven, Kang-Choi Minjae, will be taking over the role for the remainder of the game. If he can bring the same energy he showed on his first career touchdown, this could still go the Thunderhawks’ way.”

“With three wins and one loss under their helmets, a win tonight would put them at the top of the division.”

Minjae stands near the sideline, helmet tucked against his hip as Coach Sungtae steps into his space.

“Go out there,” Sungtae says, voice clipped, familiar. “Run clean. Don’t disappoint.”

“Yes, sir.”

Minjae pulls his helmet down, the world narrowing as the padding settles around his ears. The noise dulls into something heavier, more contained. He jogs onto the field and takes his spot wide, feet planting into the turf as he glances inward, waiting.

The ball snaps.

“Taehyun has it,” the announcer calls. “He’s scanning for the opening.”

Minjae breaks forward, accelerating into the seam as the pocket holds.

“He launches it clean down the middle...”

The ball finds Minjae in stride. He tucks it in and drives forward, bodies closing fast. He cuts left, bursting toward the sideline, feet pounding hard as the boundary rushes up to meet him.

The hit comes late.

He’s clipped from the side and shoved out of bounds, momentum carrying him straight through the white line and into the cluster beyond it. He barrels into the sideline, weight tipping forward as the ground disappears beneath him.

He goes down on top of someone.

A camera skids loose across the turf, clattering as it hits.

“Ouch,” one announcer laughs. “That’s a big man at six-two, two-thirty-five. He should be able to shake that one off.”

Minjae pushes up onto his palms, knees bracketing the person beneath him. The impact still rings through his shoulders as he steadies himself, breath coming fast.

He looks down.

The man under him is already moving, eyes wide. They flick up to Minjae, then immediately past him, locking onto the camera lying a few feet away.

“Ah... no,” the man says, scrambling free as soon as there’s space, crawling toward the equipment.

Minjae shifts back onto his heels and rises to his knees, watching him reach the camera and lift it with both hands. He turns it quickly, checking for damage with the kind of focus that shuts everything else out.

“I’m really sorry,” Minjae says, pushing to his feet. He hovers a hand near the man’s back without quite touching him, eyes scanning the ground. “Your lens...”

He spots it near the edge of the green and steps over, picking it up carefully before handing it over.

The cameraman takes it, expression tight as he fits it back into place, fingers working fast.

“It’s alright,” he says, breath clipped, attention already back on the camera as he tests the connection.

Minjae doesn’t move away right away.

The man barely seems to notice him now. His mouth moves under his breath. His eyes keep dropping to the camera, then the lens, then back again, already pulling himself back into the job like the collision never mattered enough to stop it.

“Twenty-seven. Get your ass back on the field!” a referee shouts.

Minjae turns and jogs back toward midfield, cleats striking hard as he resets into position.

Just before he reaches the huddle, he glances back over his shoulder.

The cameraman has already lifted the camera again, eye pressed to the viewfinder, moving back toward the sideline.

Minjae turns and takes his position.

The ball is ready to snap.

“Congratulations on the win, guys!”

The reporter steps into the open space near the tunnel, microphone lifted as the stadium noise rolls and rebounds behind her.

“Jisoo Han, Blackline Sports Network,” she says, turning slightly toward Minjae. “How does it feel to have two career touchdowns under your belt?”

Minjae shifts his weight, helmet tucked against his side, eyes flicking briefly toward the corridor before returning to the camera.

“It feels good,” he says, a grin still pulling at his cheeks. “I hate the reason I got the chance, but if that second one means anything, I wanted it to be for Seungwon.”

A wide, genuine smile breaks across his face.

“That’s awfully sweet,” Jisoo says.

The interview wraps quickly after that.

By the time Minjae gets back into the locker room, pads are coming loose and jerseys half-peeled, the room loud with the kind of restless energy that always follows a win.

“Hell of a game, rookie,” someone calls from two lockers down.

“Second year,” another voice corrects.

“Same difference,” the first one says. “Two touchdowns and now he thinks he’s a star.”

A couple of guys laugh.

Minjae drops onto the bench in front of his locker, helmet hanging from one hand as he ducks his head with a grin.

“You saying I’m not?” he asks.

“Not until you buy the first round,” someone says, shutting his locker.

“That can be arranged,” Doyun says from across from him, already halfway out of his pads.

“Easy for you to say,” Minjae says. “You’ve had starter money longer.”

“Yeah, and I spend it better too,” Doyun says, not looking up from his pads.

Minjae glances over. “On what?”

Doyun pulls the toothpick from his mouth just long enough to gesture at himself.

“Obviously.”

That gets another laugh out of the room.

Minjae shakes his head under his breath and starts tugging at his gloves. Across from him, Doyun drops his shoulder pads to the floor and sits back like he has all night.

They’ve known each other long enough that Minjae can read half his moods from the way he sits down.

College roommates. Draft class. Same leap into the league.

Only Doyun landed on his feet faster, starting games as a lineman while Minjae spent most of his rookie season waiting for his number to be called.

“You good?” Doyun asks, glancing over.

Minjae looks up. “I think so.”

Doyun studies him for a second. “You look like you got hit harder after the whistle than during the game.”

Minjae leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees.

“Filling in for someone whose season just ended,” he says.

He leans back, staring at nothing for a second.

“Seungwon’s been that guy for three seasons.”

Doyun glances at him, then looks down at the tape in his hands.

“Seungwon’s good at his job.”

He pauses. “So are you.”

For a moment, the noise of the room carries on around them without either of them adding to it.

Then Coach Sungtae’s voice cuts across the room.

“You guys have a few days off. Practice is Wednesday at nine a.m. sharp.”

A few tired cheers go up.

Sungtae looks toward Minjae.

“Minjae, stick around for a minute. We have to go over some details.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time Minjae is done with Coach and heading toward the exit, most of the room has thinned out. Bags are zipped. Hoodies are pulled on. The postgame buzz has started to settle into something looser.

He finds Doyun near the door, bag slung over one shoulder, a toothpick already tucked into the corner of his mouth.

Minjae breaks into a grin he doesn’t bother hiding.

“They actually moved me up,” he says. “Coach said I’m first string now.”

Doyun gives him a look.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Minjae laughs.

“I’m serious,” Doyun says, nudging him with his shoulder as they walk. “You’ve been right there since camp. It was going to happen sooner or later.”

They push through the doors toward the parking structure.

“We should celebrate,” Minjae says. “We’ve got a few days off. No practice.”

“Obviously,” Doyun says. “The others are meeting at Skyline. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

Minjae blinks.

“I didn’t forget.”

Doyun glances sideways at him. “You definitely forgot.”

Minjae adjusts the strap of his bag.

“I was a little busy tonight.”

Doyun laughs around the toothpick. They’re already near the lower level when he turns toward his car.

“Just don’t show up looking like you got dressed in the dark,” Doyun calls back.

They split near the lower level of the structure, Doyun heading toward his car with an easy lift of his hand.

Minjae starts toward his own, slowing when he catches sight of a familiar shape just as it clears the staff exit. Camera bag on one shoulder, the same measured pace.

Before he can think better of it, he angles toward him.

“I’m sorry about your camera again,” Minjae says, breath uneven as he comes up alongside him, already closer than the conversation probably calls for.

The man looks up, startled by the interruption, then exhales audibly. His eyes move over Minjae once, quick and assessing, before settling somewhere just past his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he says, shifting the bag higher on his shoulder. “It’s insured. This isn’t the first time it happened.”

Minjae nods, standing a little wider than he needs to, bag hanging from one hand.

“Still. I hit you pretty hard.”

“It’s fine,” the man says, not quite looking at him, gaze somewhere over Minjae’s shoulder instead. “No permanent damage.”

“That was a pretty hard hit.” Minjae rubs the back of his neck, a small, sheepish motion, drifting half a step closer without seeming to notice he’s done it.

The man’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, there and gone before it fully forms.

“Good game today.”

Minjae lights up immediately.

“Thanks.”

The word comes out easy, followed by a laugh he can’t quite contain.

“First touchdowns in the league, and Coach pulls me aside after and tells me...” He lets out another small laugh. “I guess I’m starting now.”

The man nods once, watching him with the same unhurried attention he’d given the camera lens, like he’s checking Minjae over for damage too. He shifts the bag higher on his shoulder.

“What’s your name?” Minjae asks, before he can stop himself.

The man hesitates, like giving it away costs him something, before answering. “Seo Taesung.”

“Minjae. Kang-Choi Minjae,” he says, then immediately winces at how eager that sounded.

“Nice to meet you,” Minjae says, bowing without thinking.

Taesung lingers, then turns away.

“Have a good night, Minjae.”

“You too.”

Taesung rounds the corner and disappears from view.

Minjae stays where he is for a moment, bag hanging loose from his hand, still looking at the corner Taesung disappeared around.

Then he turns and heads for his Jeep.