Chapter 70: Through the Storm

The drive to the training center was quiet, but not in the awkward, heavy way that left the air thick. It was the kind of quiet that carried warmth—an easy, unhurried silence that didn’t need to be filled. Ji-hye had her seat leaned back just enough to get comfortable, her sports bag resting between her legs. Her hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, a few loose strands catching the sunlight streaming through the window. She gazed out at the blur of passing streets and winter-bare trees, the corners of her lips curved in a soft, unguarded smile. Every so often, when the radio cycled through a familiar track, she would hum along—quietly, under her breath. The sound was almost lost beneath the low, steady purr of the engine, but he caught it every time. Her fingers tapped lightly against her thigh in time with the beat, the smallest, unconscious sign that her mood was lighter than usual. Joon-ho glanced at her in a quick, sidelong look—long enough to take in the brightness in her eyes, the way the morning light brought out the soft warmth in her skin. There was something in her posture, in the way she carried herself today, that made her seem... freer. Almost as if a shadow that had been clinging to her for months had finally loosened its grip. He didn’t have to guess why. Last night had left her shy—embarrassed, even—when she realized how wildly she had moved under him, how shameless her voice had been. But this morning, when he’d woken to find her curled tightly into his side, her face buried against his chest, she’d stayed there despite the soreness in her waist and thighs. It wasn’t the clinging of habit—it was deliberate, like she’d chosen his arms as her safe place. That guarded wall she always kept up, the one built from years of mistrust and disappointment, had cracked. He could see it in the softness of her expression now, in the way she let herself just... exist beside him without bracing for the next letdown. She was humming again, her voice a little louder this time, and for once she didn’t stop when she noticed his gaze lingering on her. "Something good happen?" he asked casually, turning the wheel as the road curved toward the coast. Her eyes shifted to him, catching his in the briefest glance before flicking back to the scenery. The corners of her mouth deepened into a smile. "Mmm... maybe." He smirked, eyes still on the road. "Sounds like you’re in a good mood." "I am," she said after a beat, leaning her head against the seat so she could watch the clouds drift lazily across the pale sky. "It’s... I don’t know. It’s different, knowing you see me as your woman. Not just for now. Not just until you get bored." Her voice was steady, but there was a softness underneath it—a vulnerable note she probably didn’t realize she was letting him hear. His hands tightened subtly on the steering wheel—not out of irritation, but because he could hear the truth wrapped in her words. She might never admit out loud how much reassurance she needed, how deeply that acknowledgment settled into her, but she was showing it in these small, unfiltered moments. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let the hum of the tires and the low music fill the space, giving her the comfort of silence while committing that quiet, content look on her face to memory. They reached the training center sooner than she seemed to expect. The modern, glass-paneled building stood out against the late-morning sky, banners of the national team fluttering faintly in the breeze. Ji-hye unbuckled her seatbelt and grabbed her sports bag. "Go ahead inside," he told her. "I’ll park and come find you." She nodded, stepping out at the entrance. Her sneakers crunched lightly on the stone walkway as she waved back at him before disappearing through the automatic doors. Joon-ho watched her go for a moment before heading toward the parking area. Coach Min’s office was in the corner of the main administrative wing, glass walls offering a view of both the lobby and the edge of the training court. When Joon-ho knocked, a clipped voice called, "Come in." She was seated behind her desk, hair tied back, wearing a navy track jacket with the national team emblem. Her expression softened slightly when she saw him—but only slightly. "Joon-ho." She stood, offering a hand. "Thank you for coming." "Coach Min." He returned the handshake firmly. "Thank you for making time." They sat. She gestured to the stack of files between them. "I’ve gone through the recovery program outline you sent, but I wanted to hear directly from you." He nodded. "Let’s start with Ji-hye’s condition. She’s in excellent shape overall, but you already know she’s had that ligament strain in her left knee a few seasons back. It’s not a critical issue now, but without proper monitoring, especially after high-intensity matches, there’s always a risk of re-aggravation." Coach Min’s brow furrowed slightly as she listened. He continued. "I’ve included in the report her current baseline—joint stability, muscle balance, flexibility measurements—and my recommended protocols for cooldowns, recovery windows, and maintenance therapy. If followed, it should keep her at peak performance while minimizing recurrence risk." She flipped through the report as he spoke, scanning the highlighted sections. Her eyes narrowed when she reached the later pages. "This... this is more detailed than what we get from the national medical team." She tapped the page. "You have injury recovery timelines down to the week, plus markers for microstrain detection based on movement analysis. And this part—monitoring oxygen uptake rate mid-rally without wearable tech? How the hell did you get this?" He only offered a faint smile. "Observation. Years of it. You’d be surprised what you can read in a player’s micro-adjustments." For a moment, she didn’t speak. Her gaze lingered on him in a way that told him she had more on her mind than just the report. Finally, she exhaled and set the papers down. "This is better than anything our in-house staff put together. Honestly, better than what our tech systems can catch." But then she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "That’s the professional part. Now for the personal one." Joon-ho stayed silent, his expression neutral, letting the older woman take her time. Coach Min’s fingers tapped once against the file on her desk before stilling. "I know," she began slowly, "that you have... more than one woman in your life." Her tone wasn’t accusing, just matter-of-fact, but there was weight behind it. Her gaze stayed locked on his, unblinking. "I don’t pry into my players’ private affairs unless it starts affecting their performance. But Ji-hye..." She hesitated for half a beat. "She’s not just any player. She’s my daughter." He didn’t react outwardly. Just leaned back slightly in his chair, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on her face. The air between them felt still, heavy. "You probably already know," she continued, "that she was hurt badly by her ex-boyfriend. The cheating... the scandal... the way the press twisted the story." Her jaw tightened. "They dragged her name through the mud even though she had nothing to do with it. She never complained to me about it—not once—but I saw it. I saw how she stopped letting people in. How she started holding herself back, even from her teammates. How she became cautious with everyone, especially men." Her voice lost some of its edge as she spoke, softening into something more personal. "Now, she seems... happy. I can’t deny that. I see it when she’s with you. But I also can’t ignore the reality. If your relationship becomes public—and you both know it will, sooner or later—it’s going to be under a microscope. Not just from the public, not just from sponsors, but from the vultures online. The ones who live to tear people down, especially athletes." Joon-ho let the silence hang for a moment before answering, his tone steady but unflinching. "As long as Ji-hye doesn’t want to leave me, I’ll take care of her. Through the good and the bad. Even through the storm you’re talking about." Coach Min’s gaze didn’t waver, as if she were searching for the slightest flicker of doubt or falsehood. It was a long, measuring stare, the kind that could make most people shift uncomfortably. But he stayed still, steady. Eventually, something in her shoulders eased—not completely, but enough to be noticeable. She exhaled through her nose. "I still don’t like it," she admitted, voice low. "But... at least I believe you care." He gave a single, small nod. No thanks, no defense, no extra words to push the point. Just a simple acknowledgment. The conversation was cut short by a sudden burst of sound—bright, youthful laughter echoing down the hallway. It was the kind of noise that didn’t just travel through the building, but seemed to seep into the air, impossible to ignore. The voices grew louder, overlapping in teasing shouts and quick giggles, until the rhythmic squeak of sneakers joined in, each sound bouncing off the polished walls. Coach Min’s eyes flicked toward the door, her lips pressing together in something between resignation and duty. She stood, smoothing the front of her jacket with a quick, automatic motion. "We’ll finish this discussion later," she said, her tone lighter now but still edged with meaning. "For now, you should probably go see your... patient." Joon-ho rose from his chair, mirroring her formality with a short nod. "Of course." The hallway outside was brighter, sun streaming in from high-set windows and spilling across the glossy floor. The air was cooler here, carrying a faint scent of resin from the court. The further he walked, the louder the energy became—a mix of sneakers squeaking in rapid bursts, palms smacking volleyballs, and the soft thump-thump-thump of balls bouncing in warm-up drills. As he stepped into the open space near the court entrance, the whole scene unfolded before him. The team was scattered in clusters—some jogging along the sidelines, others peppering in pairs, the sound of each controlled pass punctuated by laughter. Then his gaze found her. Ji-hye stood near the center of the court, ponytail swaying with each turn of her head. She was laughing at something a teammate said, her smile wide and unguarded, the kind of expression that seemed to draw the light toward her. Her posture was loose, her movements easy—none of the guarded stiffness he’d first noticed when they met. For a moment, he didn’t move. He just stood there at the edge of the court, watching her in the middle of it all. Happy. Light. Unburdened. He intended to keep it that way—no matter how many storms came their way.