Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 236: YOU BITCH—!
The arena was alive with noise, banners snapping, drums echoing, a thousand cellphones held high. Game five—the decider. Ji-hye strode through the bowels of the home stadium, duffel banging against her hip, a fresh layer of tape on her right knee. Joon-ho was by her side, wearing a slim-fit team polo with a visitor badge clipped to his collar. He wasn’t just here for moral support. He was her official "performance coach"—the club had no choice, after everything, but to let him at courtside. LUNE’s muscle, a half-apology for nearly ruining her career.
She didn’t care about the whispers, the sidelong looks from teammates and rival fans. The only thing that mattered was him at her side, a steady hand at her back as they emerged into the glare and thunder of the court. She paused at the entrance, scanning the stands, then looked at him, the nerves beneath her mask breaking through.
"You ready?" he said, voice pitched low.
Ji-hye smirked, but her hands shook. "Don’t you get tired of people thinking I’m getting special treatment?"
"Only when you start losing," he murmured, lips grazing her ear. "Go out there and make it worth the drama."
She laughed, a short bark, then pulled away to join her team, who were stretching on the baseline. Joon-ho leaned against the scorers’ table, eyes never leaving her.
The first set started hot. Ji-hye’s club played sharp, tight, riding the electricity of the home crowd. Every spike she delivered snapped like a whip, echoing off the rafters. Joon-ho called out cues between points—subtle hand signals, a word or two at timeouts, little things only she’d catch. Her teammates were watching, of course, but they needed her tonight, needed her hunger. The score ticked up—6–4, 10–6, 17–12. Ji-hye’s knuckles throbbed from hard sets, sweat pouring down her back, but she smiled every time she glanced at Joon-ho. The set finished 25–21, a four-point cushion, the crowd roaring as her kill sealed it.
She jogged to the sideline, gulping water. Joon-ho caught her wrist as she passed. "Good pace. Don’t overthink the cross-court—they’re cheating left."
She nodded, breathless, trying not to grin. "You sound like you know what you’re doing."
"I did watch your last hundred matches," he teased, squeezing her fingers. "Don’t let up."
Second set. The visitors adjusted, pressing higher, targeting Ji-hye on every serve. The rallies got longer, sharper—diving digs, fingertip saves, impossible blocks. Sweat stung her eyes, lungs burning. The score closed—every point a knife’s edge. Ji-hye set up for a back-row attack, but her shot skimmed the net and landed wide. Her coach shouted, but it was Joon-ho’s voice she found in the chaos: "Shake it off!"
She did. A perfect dig, a monster block, but the opponents wouldn’t break. The set ground on, nerves raw, each serve greeted by groans or shrieks. 23–24. Ji-hye served, heart pounding. The return came back high—she dove, fingertips scraping the floor, the ball popped up, but the rally ended with a kill from the other side. Set lost, 24–26.
Ji-hye smacked her palm against the floor, then rose. Sweat streaked her cheeks. Joon-ho’s eyes were a lighthouse in the storm. She walked over, jaw tight. "Sorry."
"Don’t be." He put a hand on her lower back, subtle, almost intimate. "Final set. Be greedy."
She gave him a wild, shaky grin. "Greedy. Got it."
The deciding set was madness. The gym was a pressure cooker—drums pounding, chants rolling, parents and superfans standing. Every serve was a war. Ji-hye played possessed—one minute flying for a pancake save, the next slamming a cross-court spike that left the libero sprawled. Her legs were jelly, her chest a furnace, every heartbeat a drum in her ears.
18–18. The ball was a blur, bodies colliding, sneakers squealing. Ji-hye rose for a crucial serve, hands trembling, but she tuned out everything except the weight of the ball. Toss. Swing. Ace.
The home crowd exploded. Joon-ho’s voice, somehow cutting through it all: "Finish it!"
20–19. Match point. Ji-hye’s teammate set her up—high, perfect, the world slowing down. She jumped, muscles screaming, and crushed it down the line. The ball landed fair by a breath, paint flying up, the whistle shrilling.
The place erupted—players dogpiling, coaches screaming, confetti cannons blasting. Ji-hye lay at the bottom of the heap, laughing and sobbing, sweat and tears mixing. Joon-ho was there at the edge, grinning, pride pouring off him. For a moment, the world shrank to the sound of her heartbeat and his hand on her shoulder.
The celebration spun out—medals, photos, wild hugs. Ji-hye was hoisted up, trophy in hand, flashbulbs popping. The stands shook with chants, banners waving her name.
She had just climbed down, breathless, arm slung around a teammate, when chaos hit. A sudden, frantic shout cut the din. "JI-HYE! YOU BITCH—!"
A man in a gray hoodie broke through the sideline, sprinting onto the court, something glinting in his hand. Ji-hye froze, heart plummeting. The crowd gasped, a tidal wave of confusion and fear.
Joon-ho reacted before anyone else. He vaulted the advertising barrier, body low, a snarl on his lips. The man closed in—knife flashing, hate twisted into every line of his face.
Ji-hye’s teammates shrieked, stumbling back, but Joon-ho intercepted the man at full speed. Bodies slammed together, the knife skittered away. For a heartbeat, time snapped—Joon-ho’s fist cracked against the attacker’s jaw, dropping him. The guy crumpled, blood on his lip, still howling, "She ruined my life! She should have paid! Fucking bitch!" 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖
Security crashed in, pinning the man, wrenching his arms behind his back. He spat at Ji-hye, still shrieking, "I lost everything because of you! You should’ve just shut up and paid!"
Joon-ho stood between him and Ji-hye, chest heaving, eyes murderous. For a second, no one moved. Every phone in the building was up, recording.
The attacker struggled, but security clamped a hand over his mouth, dragging him away. Blood pooled on the court, whispers flying.
Ji-hye’s whole body shook. Her teammates crowded around her, but her gaze locked on Joon-ho—her anchor, her shield.
He turned, checking her over, hands gentle. "You okay? Did he touch you?"
She shook her head, breath shuddering. "No, you—you stopped him."
He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "You’re safe. I promise."
The team huddled tighter, a wall of bodies around Ji-hye. Coaches and club officials ran in, talking in urgent, panicked whispers. The game was over, but now a different kind of circus had begun.
Cameras flashed, fans shouted questions, social media already a wildfire. Unholynuna, the infamous fan page admin, posted video in real time:
[Unholynuna @fanpage]
COFFEE PRINCE JUMPS TO THE RESCUE!Video: Joon-ho tackles knife-wielding maniac on court after Ji-hye leads team to victory.
Is this real life or are we living in a drama?
#JiHyeStrong #CoffeePrinceHero #FinalsDayMadness
The comments exploded:
[@ballislifequeen]: Holy shit, that’s her boyfriend?!
[@secondserves]: Did you see him hit that guy? Better punch than our star setter tbh
[@shippingwars]: Ji-hye AND Mirae both dating him? Girl, drop your skincare routine
[@unholynuna]: That’s our Coffee Prince, always protecting his women
[@skeptic4u]: Is this staged? Why is her coach that hot?
[@realvolleydad]: Hope Ji-hye is okay, that psycho needs prison for life
[@sourgrapes88]: Not shocked. She was asking for it with all the drama, tbh
[@teamLUNE]: LUNE never leaves their own behind—respect
In group chats, the scene was breaking down in slow motion—Joon-ho’s flying tackle, the knife spinning away, Ji-hye’s frozen terror. In one trending meme, a freeze-frame of Joon-ho’s punch was captioned: "When you touch my girl, expect this."
Ji-hye scrolled through her phone in the locker room, hands trembling. Her teammates buzzed around her, some crying, some stunned silent.
Mirae sent a string of frantic messages: "You okay?? Holy fuck, I’m coming over."
Harin posted a story with a photo of Ji-hye, red-eyed but smiling, tagging it: "Unbreakable. #Family."
Club officials bickered over statements to the press, the police hovered in the hallway, security doubled at every exit. Joon-ho pushed through the knot of people and found her, crouching beside her bench.
He caught her hands, kissed her knuckles. "It’s done. He’s gone. You did it."
Her voice broke. "I don’t want to be a headline, Joon-ho."
He smiled, sad but proud. "Too late. You’re a champion, and you survived. Let them talk."
The arena was emptying out, but the world outside was lighting up. SNS feeds were a storm:Fan edits, rumors about who the attacker was (her ex, her stalker, a crazy fan, a paid plant), hot takes about Joon-ho’s punch, even threads about LUNE’s rumored involvement in "cleaning up" the mess.
Some praised her, some called her cursed, others speculated wildly about her love life and Joon-ho’s "harem."
But the final word was a photo: Ji-hye, standing at center court, trophy in hand, Joon-ho’s arms wrapped around her, their faces close, eyes bright with exhaustion and relief.
The comments rolled on, but for a while, all she heard was his voice, whispering against her hair, "I’m here. You’re safe. Let them say whatever the hell they want."
And for tonight, at least, that was enough.
