Chapter Text
The trade broke at 9:12 a.m., which meant it had been decided long before anyone was awake enough to object.
Oh Haewon learned this the way she learned most things now—indirectly, without ceremony. Her phone buzzed once on the bench beside her while she was retaping her stick, the adhesive already rough against her fingers. She ignored it until the vibration came again, sharper this time, insistent. When she finally glanced down, the notification wasn’t from the team, or the league, or even the group chat that usually caught fire at the first hint of rumor. It was a push alert from a sports account she didn’t follow, headlined in clean, neutral font.
She read it once. Then again.
She did not look up.
Around her, the rink continued as if nothing had happened. Blades scraped ice. Someone laughed too loudly. A puck cracked against the boards and skittered away. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and unbothered, the way they always were. This place had taught Haewon that nothing stopped just because you needed it to.
“Captain?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her name had started to feel like a title rather than a sound—something people used when they needed permission or absolution. She pressed her thumb into the tape and tore it clean, the rip sharp and final. Only then did she lift her head.
“What,” she said, not unkindly.
Kyujin stood a few feet away, helmet tucked under her arm, jaw set in that familiar way that meant she was already angry on someone else’s behalf. Her eyes flicked, quick and assessing, from Haewon’s face to the phone in her hand. She didn’t ask. She never asked when she already knew.
“So it’s real,” Kyujin said.
Haewon locked her phone and slid it into her jacket pocket. The movement was deliberate, practiced. “Looks like it.”
“That’s it?” Kyujin’s voice sharpened. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”
Haewon rose from the bench, the weight of her gear settling over her shoulders like something she’d chosen. “We’ve got practice.”
Kyujin scoffed, a short, incredulous sound. “You’re kidding.”
Haewon met her eyes then. Not hard. Just steady. The kind of look that had ended arguments before they’d learned how to grow. “We’ve got practice,” she repeated.
Kyujin stared at her for a moment longer, searching for something—for anger, maybe, or permission to let hers loose. Whatever she found, it wasn’t enough. She turned away with a muttered curse, skates already carrying her back toward the ice.
Haewon watched her go. Then she took a breath and followed.
She told herself she was thinking about drills. About the way the new defensive pairing still hesitated on the left side. About the upcoming road stretch and the back-to-back games that would test their conditioning. She told herself all of this because it was easier than thinking about Lily.
Lily, who had once stood exactly where Kyujin had been standing just now—too close, too familiar, grinning like the world hadn’t taught her better yet. Lily, who had learned fast. Lily, who had left faster.
The announcement had been clinical. Numbers. Clauses. A quote from management about “mutual benefit” and “long-term vision.” There was no mention of the way Lily had stayed late after practice last season, perfecting a shot everyone else had already given up on. No mention of the quiet way she’d packed her locker at the end of away games, meticulous even when exhausted. No mention of the night Haewon had found her sitting alone in the darkened rink, skates unlaced, staring at the ice like it might answer her back.
That night hadn’t made it into the press release either.
Haewon skated hard, letting the burn in her legs drown out the rest. She blew the whistle when she needed to, corrected where correction was due, kept her voice level. If anyone noticed that she didn’t once look toward the far end of the ice—the side Lily had favored when she was still here—they didn’t say anything.
By the time practice ended, the news had fully spread. Phones were out again. Messages stacked up unanswered. Somewhere, someone was already cutting together highlight reels set to music that suggested triumph instead of fracture.
In the locker room, Haewon sat at her stall and unlaced her skates slowly. The routine grounded her. One knot. Then the other. She peeled off her gloves and lined them up just so, the habit older than her captaincy, older than the team as it existed now. Across the room, conversation rose and fell, careful where it brushed against her, like everyone had silently agreed to orbit at a respectful distance.
Sullyoon’s locker was a few rows down. Haewon did not look at it. She didn’t need to. She could map the room blind if she had to—every crack in the bench, every loose hook. She knew where Sullyoon would be later, too. Knew the cadence of her days well enough to predict them without asking.
That knowledge used to feel like comfort.
Now it felt like another thing to carry.
When Haewon finally stood, she felt the weight of the room shift, subtle but real. Leadership had taught her that people watched for cues even when they pretended not to. She gave them none. She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door, posture easy, expression neutral.
Out in the corridor, away from the noise, she pulled her phone out again.
She did not open the article.
Instead, she opened a photo she hadn’t deleted. It was old enough that the edges had softened slightly, the lighting imperfect. Lily was mid-laugh, head tipped back, hair escaping its tie. The moment had been unguarded. Accidental. The kind of thing that never survived once people started posing for history.
Haewon stared at it for exactly three seconds. Then she closed it and locked her phone.
By the time Lily came back wearing different colors, everyone would have decided what the story was. They would call it ambition or betrayal or inevitability, depending on who they were and what they needed it to mean. They would say it was just business. Just a game.
Haewon knew better.
She pushed through the exit doors and into the cold, breath fogging in front of her. Somewhere down the line, there would be a first game, a first faceoff, a first collision that would feel like accident and intention all at once.
She would be ready.
She always was.