Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 241: Practice

Author Notes: There’s a redeem code for 10 people at the bottom, for those who purchase privilege, should be able to access it first

Ji-hye’s phone alarm buzzed her awake, jarring her out of a shallow, tangled sleep. Light filtered through the thin curtains of her Olympic village dorm—too early, too bright, her body still set to Seoul time. For a long moment, she lay in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the rise and fall of other athletes’ voices in the hall, nerves twisted tight as violin strings. Today was her first official practice with the national team, her Olympic debut, and already she could feel the expectations clinging to her skin.

She dressed in silence, tugging on her team tracksuit, lacing her sneakers with shaking hands. In the mirror, she caught her own gaze and made herself smile—brave face, always. Downstairs, the common area was alive with the clatter of breakfast trays and the low, anxious chatter of teammates. Ji-hye slid into a seat at the end of the table, nodding to the girls clustered around bowls of rice and fruit.

Coach Kim ran down the day’s schedule, voice brisk. "Practice at nine. Then video review, then lunch. Remember, this is the Olympics—not your club, not high school. We are here to win. No solo acts."

A few eyes flicked to Ji-hye, not subtle. She kept her head down, chewing slowly, trying not to let the familiar ache rise in her chest. The narrative—selfish, dramatic, high maintenance—was already here, trailing her like a shadow.

Practice was brutal from the first serve. The national squad was stacked with talent, but the chemistry was brittle; sets missed by inches, spikes dug up with barely disguised resentment. Ji-hye threw herself into drills, sweat pouring down her spine, lungs burning with effort and pride. But even her best moments were met with silence or grudging nods. She sensed the wariness: Was she here for glory, or for the team? Did she deserve a spot after everything? Even the coaches were watching her closer, testing her commitment.

It didn’t help that the other teams used every break to stare. The Spanish squad, especially, had staked out a corner of the gym. Their laughter was sharp, their eyes lingering. One of them—tall, tan, hair pulled into a slick ponytail—was impossible to ignore, prowling along the net during warmups, her swagger as sharp as her serve.

During a break, Ji-hye ducked out for water, only to find herself nearly running into the Spanish player at the cooler.

"Careful," the woman grinned, accent thick but words perfectly clear. "You don’t want to injure yourself before I have a chance to beat you in front of all Barcelona."

Ji-hye blinked, startled. The Spanish woman’s eyes glinted with mischief and something more—an open challenge, a flirt of sorts. "You play middle?" Ji-hye asked.

"Setter. And you?" The woman’s gaze slid over Ji-hye, lingering with obvious appreciation.

Ji-hye squared her shoulders. "Opposite. Try not to serve at me unless you want to lose."

The woman laughed, warm and brazen. "I like you, Korea. We should get drinks after we win. Or...after you lose, if you need cheering up." She winked, then sauntered back to her teammates, hips swaying.

Ji-hye stared after her, heart racing for reasons that had little to do with volleyball.

The next hour was a blur of drills, spikes, and tension. Ji-hye was sharp, but so was the atmosphere. A few teammates thawed, others kept their distance. In a stolen moment by the sidelines, her phone buzzed—a text from Mirae, time-stamped in the middle of her summer chaos.

Mirae: "Remember, gold medal or you sleep on the balcony when I get there. Also, are the rumors true about the hot Spanish setter? Spill."

Ji-hye bit back a grin and fired off a selfie—sweaty, scowling, middle finger up for emphasis. "You’re not even here and you’re already causing trouble."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Olympic complex, Joon-ho was making his own kind of impression. The therapy suite was a whirlwind of taped ankles, icy towels, and a parade of battered athletes. Joon-ho worked quietly, skillfully, moving from one player to the next with the easy confidence of someone who’d seen every kind of injury, every shade of nerves.

Korean volleyball players jostled for his attention, some shy, some boldly demanding massages. His name had traveled fast through the team; even a few foreign athletes asked about the "magic hands from Seoul." He played it cool, keeping his voice gentle, his hands professional. But when archer Yoon Hye-jin strode in—her hair up, smile sly—he couldn’t help but relax.

"Haven’t seen you since I wrecked my shoulder last year," she teased, settling onto the massage table.

Joon-ho grinned, rubbing his palms together. "You promised to stretch more, remember?"

She laughed, stretching her arms over her head. "I did, and I still get knots. Lucky for me you’re here."

He worked her shoulder, thumbs finding familiar tension. They chatted about her event, old gossip, her frustration with Olympic cafeteria food. At one point, she glanced at the waiting athletes and winked. "You’re too popular, Doctor Kim. They’re going to start a bidding war for your time."

He chuckled, glancing at the door. "Just don’t tell Harin. She’ll have me running a clinic out of the penthouse next."

The session ended with Hye-jin hugging him, laughter echoing down the hall. The volleyball girls outside shot daggers of jealousy, but he just shook his head and ushered in the next athlete, hands and heart steady.

Away from the chaos, Yura moved through her own gentle rituals. The penthouse suite was an oasis of calm. That morning, she’d been pampered with a prenatal massage, the therapist’s hands gentle and sure. Afterward, she drifted through a private yoga class, the instructor guiding her through poses that eased her aches and helped her breathe deep, slow, and full.

Later, Yura slipped out onto the terrace, the city and sea spread out beneath her. She took a slow walk along the promenade, feet bare in the sand, the sunlight warming her through. Every so often, she’d pause, hand resting on her belly, feeling the baby move—a private moment of joy, away from cameras, away from the frenzy. She sent photos to Joon-ho and Ji-hye: her toes in the sand, a view of the endless blue, a quick video of seagulls wheeling in the wind.

Her phone buzzed—another message from Mirae, who never seemed to sleep.

Mirae: "Fashion shoot’s confirmed! I’m flying out in two days. Tell the baby not to come before I get there. Also, did you see Ji-hye’s Instagram? Girl looks ready to eat her competition."

Yura laughed, sending back a selfie in her robe: "Barcelona is a dream. Hurry up."

After evening practice, Ji-hye dropped onto her dorm bed, sweat still cooling on her skin, hair twisted into a knot. She scrolled through SNS—news of the day’s training, fans speculating about the team’s chemistry, and, inevitably, gossip about her.

There was a message from Joon-ho, a photo of his therapy room cluttered with athletic tape, his tired but smiling face.

Joon-ho: "Long day. Athletes are all divas. Miss you."

She smiled, fingers flying.

Ji-hye: "You’re one to talk. Guess who wants to beat me on the court and then buy me a drink? Spanish setter—name’s Lucia. Should I be worried?"

Joon-ho: "Only if she serves better than you. Otherwise, have fun. You deserve it."

Ji-hye hesitated, biting her lip. She typed:

Ji-hye: "Miss you. Wish you were here."

He replied instantly:

Joon-ho: "Always here. Call me later?"

She closed her eyes, letting the tension slip away. She’d call him, let him talk her down from the adrenaline and the nerves. Just hearing his voice would be enough.

As the sky darkened outside, the Olympic village was still buzzing—athletes laughing, music pulsing from open windows, the city alive with possibility. Ji-hye stared out, pulse steadying, knowing that whatever drama waited on the court, she had her anchor. And maybe, if she let herself relax, even a little fun of her own.

Joon-ho finished late, his hands sore, his mind whirring. The suite was silent when he returned, the city sparkling beyond the glass. Yura was waiting, curled on the couch, eyes bright with welcome. He kissed her, slow and grateful, holding on for a long, silent moment. He told her stories of the day, the drama, the laughter—everything but the weight he still carried for Ji-hye.

As he showered, his phone buzzed—a late-night call from Ji-hye, her voice tired and soft, but full of hope. They talked about volleyball, about rivalries, about missing home. She teased him about the girls lining up for his massages. He promised to save his best for her, whenever she was ready. She laughed, low and sweet, and he knew she was going to be okay.

Outside, Barcelona pulsed and sang. Inside, Joon-ho felt the world shrink to the people he loved, the strange, shimmering balance of tension and joy, longing and satisfaction. Tomorrow, the games would begin in earnest. Tonight, they all had each other, scattered across the city but tied by invisible threads—love, ambition, and the promise of more to come.