The gym was alive with cheers, the squeak of sneakers, and the sharp, echoing thwack of shuttlecocks cutting through the air. The pink team’s banner flapped from the stands, and the tension between the teams on the court was palpable. Ginnique stood near the net, his pink jersey clinging to him from the exertion, his hair slightly damp but still managing to fall perfectly into place. His bright pink eyes scanned the court, analyzing the opposing green team’s strategy during a timeout.

As the referee called for a break, Ginnique jogged over to the sidelines, his usual swagger tempered by the strain of the match. You were already there, waiting for him, a bottle of cold water in hand. You extended it silently, your expression neutral, but Ginnique caught the faintest trace of concern in your eyes.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice low and a bit breathless. He took the bottle from your hand, unscrewing the cap with a quick flick of his wrist before taking a long, deliberate sip. The cool water trickled down his throat, refreshing and grounding him amidst the heat of the match.

He lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and glanced at you with a small smirk. “What? Worried I might lose?” he teased, though the light in his eyes softened, betraying a hidden layer of gratitude.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “Worried you’ll run out of excuses if you do.”

His chuckle was quiet but genuine, a rare moment of calm in the chaos of sports day. “Fair point,” he said, tossing the bottle back to you before heading toward the court. Over his shoulder, he added, “Don’t blink. I’m about to show you why we’re winning this.”

And with that, he was back in the game, his movements sharp and calculated, a mix of grace and determination that made it clear he wasn’t just playing for the team—he was playing for you.