SPW 66

Dirty talk was a common occurrence in every match. It was one of the methods used to provoke an opponent, get them worked up, and induce a foul or a card. The referees were usually particularly strict with Sarang. A subtle yet overt discrimination made Sarang a target.

No matter how rough the tackle or physical struggle, the opposing player was never given a warning or a foul. When an opponent suffered the same action, the whistle was blown in an instant, but when Sarang was the one on the receiving end, it was deemed a fair contest and play continued. Naturally, the checks and physical struggles Sarang endured became more aggressive.

Having experienced such things countless times since he was young, Sarang didn’t feel terribly wronged by biased calls or react to every single one. It was because doing so wouldn’t change anything. Instead, Sarang learned how to avoid rough tackles, overcome physical struggles, and avoid getting injured even when tumbling on the pitch. During a match, all he did was express his disappointment with a light gesture, but after the match, it was a different story.

He would greet the referee and the opposing team one by one, sharing a short conversation. He would approach the referee whose call he was disappointed with, the player who had attempted rough fouls throughout the game, or the player who had been assigned to man-mark him, with particular ease. Then, most of them would express their apology or laugh awkwardly, saying it wasn’t their intention, and lightly resolve the tension.

Colin had been like that. There was a Korean proverb that said, ‘You can’t spit on a smiling face.’ By building up small bits of friendliness like that, he would sometimes complain that what happened earlier was too much, or add a compliment, saying he had a really tough time today because of the other’s play, or subtly praise the referee, saying the calls today were good.

Of course, that wasn’t all there was to it. As incarnations of competitive spirit, they were professionals, and targeting and exploiting an opponent’s weakness was not immoral or against sportsmanship. On the contrary, they did not hesitate to actively incorporate it into their tactics to achieve victory.

Sarang worked hard day after day to prove to them that he was a strength to the team, not a weakness, and to become a fearsome opponent, not an easy one. Respect on the pitch was not something that could be earned through character and friendship alone. The players were belligerent dominant alphas, but they were people just the same. They took a liking to skilled players and, in fact, would approach them in a friendly manner to show respect.

But not everyone was like that. To provoke Sarang, who rarely got worked up on the pitch thanks to years of experience, some players attempted fouls that were not just rough but dangerous, and while swearing was a given, they would sometimes hurl unbearably insulting words at him.

Whenever that happened, Sarang appealed to the referee instead of confronting the opposing player directly. Falling for the provocation and playing into their hands would do Sarang no good, and it would also harm the team. It was a side of him he should not show to the fans who hadわざわざ paid their money and time to fill the stands. Sarang never once forgot that fact.

It was a very smart and practical course of action. It was also a survival method Sarang had learned over his long time on the pitch. Some gossiped that he was annoyingly like a rat, not alpha-like, not manly, but most reactions highly praised Sarang’s mentality for not getting easily excited or falling for provocations even at a young age.

The one-sided and baseless malice from the types who would glare sideways at such reactions and instead get stimulated did not disappear, nor did it avoid Sarang. Every time he clashed with them, Sarang judged and acted rationally. When he was younger than he was now, he had retaliated just as angrily and strongly, but what always came back were unfair calls, disparagement for being unprofessional, and criticism of the emotional Sarang.

Now, he was at a point where he could respond to most curses with a smile and a joke, he didn’t avoid contests with players who came at him with intent but won the physical battles, and he had become an expert at dodging dangerous fouls like a flying squirrel.

That Sarang got into a fight on the pitch in his fifth year as a pro.

‘They say the Duke’s asshole is a different class. Does the Duke also spread his asshole and beg to be fucked when he goes into heat?’

Sarang, who was shedding tears drop by drop, didn’t say anything to Florian, who was asking him questions as if to soothe him, and just bit his lip hard. He had no intention of repeating such filth with his own mouth, nor did he intend to let Florian hear it.

It was the first time since he had gotten into a brawl with an opposing player who had insulted Colin during his youth team days. Sarang could let words that cursed, belittled, or treated him as a joke slide right off him. But he could not stand insults directed at his precious people.

So he didn’t regret it. He didn’t regret running at the player who dared to insult Florian with his trash mouth and beating him to a pulp. If such a thing were to happen again, Sarang would do it again. In fact, he regretted not giving him a worse beating.

“Sarang.”

But… Sarang couldn’t understand why the tears were flowing like this.

“Are you upset?”

He was upset. He was angry, sad, and furious. Still, he could have endured it. Biased calls were an everyday occurrence, and that too was part of the game. It was Sarang’s own shortcoming that he couldn’t endure the opponent’s provocation. Starting a fight on the pitch was more than enough to warrant a direct red card. Getting sent off for accumulated cards was, if anything, a stroke of luck.

But the moment he heard Florian’s voice, the moment his warm hand gripped Sarang’s chin and lifted it, the moment he met those blue eyes that rippled like gentle waves, Sarang ended up shedding tears. His sorrow burst forth.

“Sarang.”

“Hk.”

“Sarang did nothing wrong.”

“…”

“If some senseless person questions Sarang’s fault, I will step forward and defend you. If you want, I can even put a bullet in their heads.”

Thick tears fell drop by drop, wetting Sarang’s cheeks, and his lips trembled as if about to cry.

“Even if Sarang is at fault by a hair’s breadth—no, even if Sarang were to smash a referee’s head in on the pitch, or commit murder, I will always be on Sarang’s side.”

Plop, plop. Sarang, who had been silently shedding clear tears like pearls, let out a small sob. Soon, he burst out crying, “Huu-eong,” and tilted his head back. Florian gently cupped the cheeks of the crying Sarang, whose whole face was getting wet, and lightly wiped away the blood from the bridge of his nose that he hadn’t managed to clean off yet.

His lips carefully traced over the black-and-blue eye area and torn lip, which were a result of that alpha bastard’s fist—a bastard who deserved to be stomped to death—and then settled on the red, feverish eyelid.

“You did well, Sarang.”

“Heeu.”

“I would have paid him back in the same way.”

Fingertips as soft as cotton candy touched his red lips. They freed the flesh caught between his teeth and wiped away the blood that had seeped out. In succession, warm, soft lips landed on top. Florian, pressing his lips firmly against the torn spot, released his pheromones.

“No, if someone were to insult Sarang in front of me, a fistfight would not be enough.”

Sarang, who had entrusted his whole face to Florian and was only shedding tears, pushed open the eyelids he had kept squeezed shut.

“I’d have to do enough to make them regret being born to have the nerve to face Sarang, wouldn’t I?”

Florian’s palm, which had kissed the jet-black eyes that looked even more brilliant from being wet and stolen his tears, was also soaked. At Florian’s tenderness, at his single phrase that he would be on his side no matter what, Sarang ended up shedding even more tears.

“I got… sent off.”

“Yes, so you did. I saw that even for the same action, only Sarang was given a foul.”

Comforted by Florian, Sarang’s lips quivered on the verge of tears, and the tears soaking his black eyelashes fell with a plop.

“I, I tried not to… I did my best not to do that.”

“I know, Sarang.”

“We can’t lose today’s match…”

The eyes of Florian, gazing down at the tearful alpha, were endlessly gentle.

“It’s a three-match… suspension, and there might be additional disciplinary action.”

The cheers of the fans flooding in from beyond the locker room sounded only like boos.

“The fans must have been very disappointed too… and the team might have a harder time from now on.”

It was certain that Sarang would be treated harshly both inside and outside the club, by the local press and the media in his home country.

“I don’t regret it.”

Even while shouldering the pressure and fear that were hard for a 21-year-old to bear, and the endless anxiety of having to survive, Sarang did not let the light in his clear eyes die out.

“That’s bad of me.”

Florian suddenly found Sarang—who said it was bad of him not to regret his actions, even though so much would happen because of them—so pitiful, and beautiful.

“No.”

Tears suddenly poured down Sarang’s youthful face, which looked as if he were standing alone in the open sea.

“Sarang is not bad at all.”

“Hk.”

“So don’t blame yourself, Sarang. Everything will be all right. I will be by your side.”

Sarang resented and hated Florian, who gave him affection while saying he didn’t love him. He liked Florian, who had smiled and said there are many kinds of love, so much that he hated him. At the same time, he was relieved that he was by his side. Sarang found that sad and painful. Florian, who held the inconsolably weeping Sarang tight, patted his back and offered his careful comfort.

As if he were a person who had no idea that his very tenderness was making Sarang even more sorrowful.