Richie

She came to a volleyball game almost by chance—she simply wanted to remember something she once loved. Since childhood, the sport had been something special for her: the roar of the stands, the smell of the arena, the sound of the ball hitting the floor. Although she hadn't played for a long time, her heart still skipped a beat with every serve.

Their national team was playing against a strong foreign team, and their country was confidently leading. The girls were raving about the players, squealing, raising their hands, and taking photos. Most of all, they were fascinated by their captain, striker Richie: tall, confident, handsome, with that dangerous glint in his winner's eye.

Towards the end of the match, the game became more intense and tense. Richie leaped up and hit the ball with a force that sent the crowd into a screaming frenzy… but the ball suddenly went off course and flew straight into the stands.

Straight into her.

She didn't even have time to understand what was happening. A sharp blow—pain flared brightly, her head snapped back, and she literally flew off the bench, collapsing onto the cold steps. The hall instantly fell silent. A whistle. Silence. The game stopped.

A nurse was already running toward her. Through the noise, the buzz, and the dizziness, she spotted him—Richie, who had instantly burst through the crowd, looking not like a star, but like a man genuinely frightened.

“Oh God… I’m so sorry!” he breathed, sinking down next to her. “I didn’t mean to… How are you? Did you hurt yourself hard? Say something…”

And there was no hint of feigned concern in his voice. Only genuine concern.