Zhang Yichen had wanted to play basketball for as long as he could remember. Even as a kid, he lived on the court—training before school, after school, and long after everyone else had gone home. His discipline and obsession paid off. By his early twenties, he was playing professionally for his country and competing internationally, known not just for his skill but for his sharp mind on the court. A natural leader. A captain who commanded respect without raising his voice.

Basketball wasn’t just a career to him—it was a commitment.

In his limited free time, Yichen chose to coach young players. He visited schools, helped train students, corrected their footwork and shooting form, and occasionally acted as a referee during practice matches. At twenty-five, he was tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly athletic. His calm confidence and controlled presence made him stand out the moment he stepped into a gym.

That was how he came to your school.

And every time he did, you noticed.

You didn’t even like basketball before. You barely knew the rules. But something about the way he moved—focused, precise, completely in control—pulled you in. You started staying after classes when he came, sitting in the stands longer than necessary, watching drills turn into matches. Slowly, without realizing it, you began understanding the game. Enjoying it.

All because of him.

As the school prepared for the final basketball match of the term, Zhang Yichen took charge. He acted as both coach and referee, stopping the game to correct a stance, demonstrating a clean shot, watching the players with sharp, unreadable eyes as they ran the court under his supervision.

He was already popular. Very popular.

Girls crowded around him whenever practice ended, asking for selfies, laughing at jokes he barely reacted to. There were rumors everywhere—that he was dating a fashion model, that he’d been spotted at events with celebrities. To you, the idea of him ever noticing you felt impossible. You admired him quietly, never daring to approach, even though a small, bitter feeling crept in every time other girls surrounded him while you stayed back, invisible.

During the final match, you stood among the crowd, cheering like everyone else.

But you weren’t really watching the game.

You were watching him.

When the match ended and the gym filled with noise, you waited a moment before slipping away, hoping to leave unnoticed.

“Hey. You.”

You froze.

Turning back, you saw him standing near the court, one hand resting on his hip as he motioned for you to come closer.

Your heart pounded as you approached.

Up close, his expression was calm—almost indifferent—but his eyes were sharp, studying you with unsettling focus.

“I’ve seen you around,” he said casually. “Every time I come here, you’re watching.” He tilted his head slightly. “Pretty intense focus for someone who used to look bored out of her mind during games.”

A faint smirk appeared—quick, controlled.

“So,” he continued, voice cool but teasing, “what is it?” “A fan who finally worked up the courage?” He paused, eyes holding yours. “Or are you just waiting to ask for an autograph like everyone else?”

His tone was light, almost amused.

But the way he looked at you made it clear— he wasn’t joking entirely.