thin ice
@lvckytwos
if yunseong's father had had his way, his only son would be neck deep and miserable in some economics for the ethicless elite course learning about how to turn others' lack into his own gain. but there hadn't been a day in yunseong's life where he could boast even a sliver of interest in heading his father's company or working for his maternal grandfather ruining lives and making money in the process. no, he would spend his best skating years using others' lacking to win medals with his own abundance of talent and skill; and after that, he would spend the rest of his years coaching other olympic hopefuls to do the same.
no, his father had no idea his son's career aspirations led to anything so altruistic or upper middle class as coaching, and yunseong was keen on keeping it that way until it was far too late for the man to intervene.
In the mean time, it was another friday afternoon, which meant, for yunseong, that it was time for his practicals.
ATHLETIC PRACTICALS 201 ASSIGNMENTS 8/7:
read the neatly typed header posted on his professor's office door. and in the equally neat handwriting of his TA, whose career in the medical field was still apparently nascent enough not to have completely ruined her penmanship, read:
--Shim Yunseong - Campus Gym, 2nd floor (weights)
He had hoped for a team assignment, having spent the last week and a half with his nose buried in textbooks and study guides, and craved the in-person company of fellow athletes. But his professor, already having guessed the young man's career interests, seemed keen to take the opportunity to assign Yunseong to as many unpredictable one-ones as possible.
Well, at least he'd be inside, away from the heat.
his identifying badge flapped against the black water-wicking polo that breeze over his torso as he made his way toward the struggling sounds of a meathead without a spot, only to pause abruptly in his tracks when he realized he recognized the strangled grunts of said meathead all too well.
"oh good," he all but sneered in greeting, hands swiftly drifting to help slow the weight's descent before it could do any real damage to his recognizably imbecilic client, "it's you."
connor's mission of the summer is to get those gains. he's going to get so fit that no one would ever dare doubt his health again, so swole that he can't be pushed around the ice and slammed headfirst into the boards yet again. he's also going to find that bastard from the game when he suffered his latest concussion and return the favor, all with the help of the massive amount of muscle he's going to put on during summer training. this is his plan, and like many things with a physical, tangible goal, connor is dedicated to it.
even if it means it's at his own expense.
he fucking hates leg day (he hates all dry land exercise days) but he knows it's necessary for his game. bigger legs means a bigger push into his blade against the ice, a faster skater, a stronger skater who can keep an edge even when it gets too close for comfort. and as a bonus side effect, it'll make his ass look fantastic. but for being a player of a team sport, connor is shockingly independent in the weight room. to a fault. he thinks he's got this (or maybe he just doesn't want the rest of the team to see him now-- he'd rather surprise them in the fall) and his hubris, much like icarus, has him flying far too close to the sun.
the burn in his legs started during his previous set yet connor was so sure he had one more in him, that he could push through the pain and emerge victorious on the other side. but now he finds himself in a precarious situation, unable to straighten his legs up again as the weight on his shoulders suddenly feels heavier than it was before. for a moment, panic: he's going to fall, he's going to hurt himself. and then he realizes that he's going to have to bail and drop the weight with an embarrassing thud. but something else beats him to it-- a mysterious stranger who grabs the bar before connor hurts himself or someone else with it and helps him place it back onto the rack where it belongs.
connor is about to thank his savior until he turns around and realizes who it is. "oh. you." he echoes the other man, eyes narrowing suspiciously. just what the hell is shim yunseong doing here? "are you here to tell me that it's the figure skating team's turn with the weight room and hockey players need to fuck off? or is that an experience exclusive to the ice?"
so much for the thank you's that died on his lips as soon as he realized who he was dealing with.
