Chapter 74: Hands That Heal, Eyes That Watch

The fluorescent lights above cast a clean, sterile glow across the room, their hum barely audible over the sound of Ye-rin’s steady, shallow breaths. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to every surface, layered with the sharper, almost medicinal tang of menthol ointment from earlier treatments. Ye-rin lay stretched out on the narrow bed, the thin paper sheet beneath her crinkling with each small movement. Her right leg remained propped up, wrapped neatly with a cold compress that had already begun to bead with condensation. The captain stood at her side, one hand lightly resting on the frame, while Coach Han crouched at the foot of the bed to adjust the angle of a pillow tucked beneath her calf. "How’s it feel now?" the captain asked, lowering herself slightly so she could meet Ye-rin’s gaze directly, her tone gentle but laced with concern. Ye-rin took a slow, measured breath before answering, her eyes flicking briefly toward the doorway as if half-expecting someone else to walk in. "Better," she admitted at last. "The swelling’s down, and... the pain’s not as sharp as before." She shifted her head against the pillow, almost in disbelief. "Whatever Joon-ho pressed earlier—it made a difference. A big one." The captain and Coach Han exchanged a quick glance—part surprise, part intrigue—before settling their attention back on her, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging between them. The door swung open with a soft thud against the wall, and Joon-ho stepped inside. Behind him trailed Ji-hye, her gaze flicking between Ye-rin and the bed as if measuring every detail, and Coach Min, who crossed her arms almost immediately, eyes sharp but watchful. Joon-ho didn’t bother with greetings or polite exchanges. His focus locked instantly onto Ye-rin’s leg, scanning the angle it rested at, the way the wrap clung to the muscle, and the subtle tension in her foot. Without hesitation, he crossed the room in three steady strides, stopping at her side. "I’m going to check the muscle again," he said, his voice carrying the calm, clipped assurance of someone used to giving instructions in high-pressure moments. "Tell me exactly where it hurts—don’t downplay anything." "Got it," Ye-rin replied, her tone quieter than usual but steady enough. He placed his fingers along the upper part of her thigh, applying firm, measured pressure in short intervals as he worked his way downward. Every movement was intentional—no wasted motion, no unnecessary fuss. He paused at certain points, eyes flicking to her face each time. Ye-rin’s reactions varied—a sharp flinch here, a quick inhale there—but after each press, the tight pinch of her brow eased a little. Her shoulders began to loosen against the thin mattress, as if each point he found was letting go of something knotted deep inside. Ji-hye, standing slightly behind him, caught herself biting her lip. She knew exactly how those hands felt when they worked an injury, the odd mix of precision and care that seemed to unlock pain rather than add to it. Without breaking rhythm, Joon-ho’s gaze shifted toward the corner cabinet. "Do you have any massage cream or oil in here?" Coach Han was already moving, pulling open a supply drawer and rummaging through the clutter of tape rolls, gauze packs, and antiseptic bottles. After a moment, she straightened, holding up two plastic jars. "Only this—standard sports cream. No oil." "That’ll do," Joon-ho said simply. He set the jars on the rolling tray beside the bed, then peeled the damp ice pack away from Ye-rin’s leg, the fabric wrap cool and slightly heavy from melted condensation. He laid it aside with care before flexing his hands once, preparing to work deeper into the muscle. On the far side of the room, away from the bed, Coach Han, the captain, Coach Min, and Ji-hye had naturally clustered together, voices kept low but edged with conviction. The captain’s arms were folded tight across her chest, her gaze cutting toward the door where the incompetent physio had vanished earlier. "If he can actually get Ye-rin moving again after this? Make him head of the whole medical program. At least then we’d have someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. Our current staff? I wouldn’t trust them to tape my ankle, let alone fix an injury." Han gave a short, humorless laugh. "Exactly. I’m sick of wondering if the person touching leg even knows the difference between muscle tension and ligament strain. At least with him, we can trust the work’s being done right." She shot the captain a knowing glance. "And I know you’ve hated the current medical team for a while now." The captain’s lips thinned. "Because they’re a joke. They patch us up just enough to get back on court, then shrug when it turns into something worse." Coach Min didn’t bother to play devil’s advocate. "We need changes—serious ones. I’ll push the federation to replace the current medical staff. And I’ll start leaning on the clubs harder. No more running these girls into the ground just to fill seats or shoot commercials." Ji-hye stood quietly at the edge of the small circle, her fingers curling into the hem of her warm-up jacket. Pride swelled in her chest at hearing her boyfriend’s abilities recognized so openly... but the thought of "head of the medical program" stuck in her mind. It wasn’t just a title. It meant his hands on every player here, working closely, seeing the parts of them that only doctors and lovers usually did. Her stomach tightened—not with distrust, but with the sharp, irrational sting of possessiveness. These were women she trained with every day. Women she laughed with, competed against. Women who would feel what she’d felt under his touch, even if it was strictly professional. Min, watching from the corner of her eye, caught her daughter’s tense posture and the subtle pinch between her brows. She didn’t comment, didn’t tease—only arched a brow faintly, filing it away in the quiet way mothers did when they already knew the answer. At the bed, Joon-ho twisted open the jar and scooped out a small amount of the cream, rubbing it between his palms to warm it before smoothing a thin layer over Ye-rin’s thigh. The faint scent of menthol filled the air. The moment his hands made contact, her muscles went rigid. "Relax," he instructed, his tone steady but leaving no room for argument. "If you tighten up, your muscle will fight me, and that means more pain, not less." Ye-rin tried, but her breathing was uneven. "Usually... this part hurts like hell when the club physio does it." "That’s because they’re pressing in the wrong direction and forcing the fibers against the strain," he said without missing a beat, fingers already beginning a slow, deliberate rhythm over the affected area. "They’re not actually releasing the tension—they’re aggravating it." From her spot against the wall, Ji-hye shifted forward in her chair, her gaze flicking between Ye-rin’s face and Joon-ho’s hands. "Just trust him," she said, voice low but sure. "When I tore my calf last year, he fixed it in half the time the team physio estimated. And it barely hurt." Something in her tone—soft, certain, and tinged with quiet pride—seemed to get through. Ye-rin exhaled, the tension in her shoulders dropping as her thigh muscles finally began to yield under his hands. Joon-ho worked with methodical precision, thumbs pressing in small, controlled circles before sliding along the muscle fibers, rolling and kneading until he felt the stubborn knots start to melt. Each time the tightness gave way, he adjusted the pressure, coaxing the fibers to release fully. The deep, aching pain that had been locked in her leg began to shift—still there, but no longer sharp and punishing. For the first time since the injury, Ye-rin’s face eased into something that almost resembled relief. After a few minutes, his expression shifted slightly. "You’ve got more than just a quad strain. There are points here that could lead to a long-term problem if they’re ignored." She blinked at him, a mix of surprise and uncertainty crossing her face. "Like what?" "Turn over. Lie on your stomach," he said, his voice leaving no space for negotiation. Ye-rin hesitated, then shifted carefully, keeping her injured leg supported by the pillow as she rolled onto her front. The bed’s vinyl covering squeaked faintly under her weight. Joon-ho moved to her side, his hands firm but controlled as they began working down the back of her leg, tracing the long line of muscle from her hamstring up toward her hip. "Your pelvic alignment is off," he said evenly. "That’s why you’ve been overloading your right side during landings." He paused, then pressed his thumb lightly into a spot just along the crest of her hipbone. "Tell me if I’m wrong—but you’ve been getting sharp pain here, especially after aggressive spikes, right?" The reaction was immediate. Ye-rin stiffened under his touch, breath catching. "...Yeah. Even normal landings have been hurting lately." She exhaled in frustration. "But the club told me it’s just normal discomfort after my last injury." His tone shifted, hardening with certainty. "It’s not normal. You’ve been compensating for pelvic pain by dumping more weight into this leg every time you land. That’s why you keep straining it over and over. And if we don’t fix this now, you won’t just miss matches—you could cut years off your career." From across the room, Coach Min’s expression darkened at those words, her arms folding tightly as the weight of what he was saying settled over the room. Across the room, Coach Min’s jaw tightened. Neither the national team’s medical staff nor the club had ever flagged this. Her gaze darkened. "I’m going to reset the pelvic alignment and release the surrounding muscle," Joon-ho told her, his voice calm but with that undercurrent of warning. "It’ll hurt." Ye-rin’s chin lifted, stubbornness flashing in her eyes. "I can handle it. I’ve had plenty of therapy massages before." The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "We’ll see." He shifted his stance, bracing her hip with one hand while his thumbs zeroed in on the pressure points just below the hip crest and deep along the upper hamstring. The moment he drove in with precise, unyielding pressure, Ye-rin’s eyes flew wide. Her breath hitched—then tore out of her in a sharp, unfiltered scream. The sound cracked through the medical room, raw and high, bouncing off the walls. It wasn’t the restrained hiss or clenched-jaw groan of a player gritting through pain—it was the kind of sound that made people whip their heads around. The captain actually flinched, her hand halfway to her own leg in reflex. Coach Han blinked, eyebrows shooting up. "Shit—!" Ye-rin gasped between sharp breaths, gripping the edges of the treatment bed so hard her knuckles blanched. "That’s—god—that’s not normal massage pain!" Joon-ho didn’t let up, his thumbs holding steady on the point as her leg twitched involuntarily. "Of course it’s not. This is the part everyone else skips because they’re afraid of making you yell. But this is what’s been locking your pelvis for months." Ji-hye winced from her spot near the wall, half torn between sympathy and grudging admiration at how unfazed he was by the volume of her teammate’s scream. "Almost there," Joon-ho said, tone still maddeningly calm. "Breathe through it. If you fight me, it’ll take twice as long." Ye-rin let out another choked cry, her voice breaking into shaky exhales as the initial bolt of pain began to ease into a deep, throbbing release.