How the hell did I get myself into this situation?!
I think, as a tall, charming man leans closer and closer towards me. Drenched in sweat, jersey sticking to his perfectly sculpted body making it even more difficult for me to look him in the eye given the situation. I wasn’t sure if the universe was punishing me or handing me and opportunity of solid gold.
But the time for internal debates was up. His face was just centimeters away and my mind was beginning to go blank. The last sliver of a thought, escaping from my grip just before…
***
“..hyun” I hear in shrivels of words and fragments of syllables.
“-aekhyun,” the familiar voice says, getting clearer, as if drawing closer.
“BAEKHYUN!”
I launch myself up, startled by the loud, shrieking call of my obnoxious best friend’s voice.
“Finally,” the boy that went by the name Kim Jongin said in impatience. “Get your head off the table and let’s go.” He ordered.
Rubbing my half-asleep eyes, I comprehend only shards because of my still-dull-from-sleep brain.
“Go where?” I ask, with a furrow of my brows.
“Would you just get your ass up?” the insensitive douchebag rhetorically asked in a tone.
That’s when I remember that we are in the library and I had fallen asleep while doing research on penguins, coming to the sole conclusion that penguins are painfully, torturously boring. Good thing they are cute.
Jongin’s annoyance was now perfectly clear on his face. He doesn’t say a word, just shoots me a dirty look and grabs my wrist to yank me away from my responsibilities that I was so flawlessly failing at accomplishing.
It wasn’t until we had reached the campus gymnasium and sat on the bleachers with the crowd that I stopped fretting about my penguin essay and noticed the world moving around me.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, doe-eyed and completely clueless.
“Watching the game, duh.” He replied nonchalantly.
My gaze shifted to the flurry below
I watched the tall players maneuver and bolt, turn and travel, as if dancing. It was just getting to the heat of the game, you could indicate by the amount of sweat of their bodies and the anxious audience, all at the edge of their seats. The fuss of cheers from eager students and the rhythmic thump of the ball against the floor could make anyone’s blood rush.
And soon but not too soon, the team in red, our school’s team, was suddenly upping their game. It was as if they were all cogs in the same machine, they were so cohesive I could’ve sworn they were reading each other’s minds. The ball was now in the hands of a one fair player with curly hair, also in red. He was it. He was the one who had to make the shot.
