°˖➴ falling for lane four | jjk | the first meeting
summary: y/n has always kept her distance from her father’s high-stakes swimming world. Until Jeon Jungkook, a star swimmer on the brink of greatness, becomes entangled in a public scandal that threatens to ruin his career. With no other option, her father, Jungkook’s coach, turns to her for help. Known for salvaging the reputations of celebrities in crisis, y/n reluctantly steps in, only to find Jungkook resistant to her control and far more trouble than she expected. As tensions rise and clashes turn personal, y/n is forced to decide how far she’s willing to go to fix his image, especially when it starts costing her more than just her professionalism.
pairing: jeon jungkook x reader
tags: athlete!jungkook, enemies to lovers, romance, slow burn, sports romance, mature, smut, 18+, coaches daughter, swimmer!jungkook, series
masterlist
a/n: Hi everyone! This is my first fic series on here, hope you all enjoy what's to come <3 please let me know in the comments if you wanna be added to a taglist!
chapter 2 summary: y/n and Jungkook meet for the first time. things don't go as planned, which was expected. Later on y/n finds herself at a bar with her friends and someone catches her eye. (3.5k)
°˖➴ Chapter 2 | the first meeting
This is probably going to end up being the worst day ever. He probably thinks he can take advantage of me or something.
“So, who even are you?” he asks, completely unbothered, like we’re not here because he just blew up his own career.
I stare at him for a second. “Did my dad seriously not tell you anything? You just showed up blindsided?”
There’s a flicker of something across his face, confusion, then realization. His eyes widen slightly.
“Wait,” he exhales. “You’re his daughter?”
I raise a brow. “Took you long enough.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face before quietly adding, “that old man…”
I let out a short, unimpressed laugh. “Yeah, not what you thought, huh? Now that we’ve cleared that up–”
“No,” he cuts in, pushing himself off the door. “No, hold on. He brought you in to handle this?”
“Yes,” I say flatly. “Try to keep up.”
He scoffs, shaking his head like this is all one big joke. “So what, you’re gonna follow me around? Tell me what to say, what not to say, how to breathe too?”
“If necessary.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “That’s not happening.”
I tilt my head, completely unfazed. “You don’t really have a say in that.”
His jaw tightens. “I think I do.”
“Not if you want to compete again, you don’t.”
That lands.
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “He barely even talks about you. I expected you to be… somewhat older.” His tone’s deliberate, like he’s trying to get a reaction.
I let out a short, dry laugh, folding my arms. “What, hoping for someone easier to ignore?”
He shrugs, but there’s an edge to it now. “Would’ve made this less of a headache. Besides, what do you even know, you're like what? 20?”
“25,” I correct, my voice flat. “And clearly more self-control than you. Most people don’t tank their entire career in one night over drinks.”
That does it.
He stills for a second, like it actually hit somewhere, before he lets out a short, hollow laugh, forced, sharp around the edges. He takes a step closer instead of back this time, eyes narrowing.
“Careful,” he mutters. “You’re getting real comfortable talking like that.”
I don’t move. “Someone has to.”
His jaw ticks, irritation flashing clear across his face now. “You don’t know anything about what happened.”
“I know enough,” I shoot back. “I bet coach is so disappointed in you, isn’t he?”
I tilt my head slightly, a mock pout pulling at my lips, not even trying to hide the jab. If he thinks he gets to question my competence, he can take it right back.
He lets out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair again before grabbing the door handle.
“Nah, fuck this,” he says, shaking his head. “This isn’t happening. I’m not doing this with you.”
“Walking out won’t fix anything,” I call after him, unmoved.
He pauses for half a second, hand still on the door, like he’s considering it.
Then he scoffs and yanks it open.
“Watch me.”
The door slams shut, hard enough to probably make the whole aquatic centre fall apart.
I let out a slow breath, staring at the door for a second longer than I should.
Yeah.
This is going to be a problem.
Jungkook storms out of the office, his hair still damp from training, the towel now twisted tightly in his hand like he’s trying not to throw it across the corridor.
He barely looks at anyone as he moves through the aquatic centre, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, anger still buzzing under his skin.
His eyes land on Kim Taehyung near the pool deck.
“Where’s coach?” Jungkook asks immediately.
Taehyung looks up, blinking once before a lazy grin spreads across his face. “Woah, dude. What’s pulling your strings?”
“I’m not in the mood for this shit right now,” Jungkook snaps, grip tightening on the towel. “Where is he?”
The smile drops just slightly, but Taehyung doesn’t look particularly concerned. He adjusts his goggles, unbothered.
“Fuck knows,” he replies casually. “He was in and out all morning. Probably stuck in a meeting or avoiding paperwork like usual.”
Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose, already turning away.
“Cool,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
Behind him, Taehyung calls after him, still half-amused. “If you’re about to start something, could you maybe not do it in the middle of my warm-up?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer.
He calls up your dad, the line ringing against his ear as he paces slightly beside the pool, jaw still tight with frustration.
“Jungkook?” your dad’s voice finally comes through the speaker.
“Coach,” he exhales sharply. “Where are you? We need to talk.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end. “I had to step out quickly. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Five?” Jungkook scoffs under his breath, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Fine.”
He ends the call before he hears anything else.
Still irritated, he walks over to the edge of the pool where Taehyung is training, stopping just long enough to watch a couple of laps pass beneath him. He doesn’t speak, just counts under his breath, like the rhythm of the water is the only thing keeping him from snapping again.
Five minutes pass slower than they should.
When the doors finally open, his coach walks in, eyes scanning the pool area before landing on him.
“Jungkook,” your dad calls out. “We’ll talk in my office.”
That snaps his attention immediately.
He straightens, tension flaring again as he pulls away from the poolside.
“I’m not going in there,” he says flatly, loud enough for it to carry. “I am not doing this crisis managing shit with your daughter.”
A couple of heads turn.
Your dad stops walking.
For a beat, there’s silence, just the echo of water and distant movement in the pool.
Then your dad lets out a short laugh, more disbelief than humour, shaking his head slightly as he steps closer.
“What did you just say?”
Jungkook stays silent for a moment, jaw tight, eyes flicking briefly to the pool before he looks back at your dad.
“I’m not going to let your daughter manage my life,” he says finally, voice controlled but sharp. “I don’t even need a crisis manager for god’s sake.”
Your dad stares at him for a beat, like he’s deciding whether to laugh or lose his temper.
Then he exhales sharply.
“You’re fucking with me, right?” he says, stepping closer. “You’re my boy.”
Jungkook doesn’t flinch.
“My daughter is willing to help you fix this mess you’ve made,” your dad continues, voice firm. “And she’s damn good at what she does.”
A pause.
“You’re going to do it,” he adds, colder this time. “For my sake. Don’t piss me off, Lane Four.”
My dad took Jungkook onto his team when he was fifteen. God knows why. He always said he saw “potential” in him, raw talent, discipline waiting to be shaped, all that motivational coach talk I never really bought into.
And fine, I won’t lie. The boy delivers results. Olympics, championships, records, he’s proven that much.
But I never wanted any part of my dad’s world. The pool, the pressure, the constant obsession with performance. It was always something I kept at arm’s length, something I watched from the outside.
Now, somehow, I’m standing right in the middle of it.
Because of one stuck-up swimmer who managed to torch his own reputation in record time.
And for better or worse, his team is about to find out more about who their coach’s daughter is. Me.
But what’s weird is that, when I was researching him last night, I found nothing about his life before swimming. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Not a single article, interview, junior record trail, nothing that usually follows an athlete that successful.
And that’s what doesn’t sit right with me.
Everything about him in the media only really starts the moment he joins my dad’s team. Like someone just cut and pasted a whole life into existence at fifteen and deleted everything that came before it.
Maybe it’s nothing. Bad record keeping. Overhyped PR cleanup. A coincidence.
But in this world?
Coincidences usually aren’t.
I walk out of my dad’s office, my stride sharp, cutting straight through the tension still hanging in the air.
“You know what,” I say without turning back. “I’m giving you two days, Jungkook. Two days. I’ve already got enough on my back. I’m not prioritising a guy who doesn’t even want to be helped.”
I don’t wait for a response. I just keep walking.
“Pumpkin, hold on,” my dad calls after me, voice trying to smooth over the edge in the room. “He’ll do it. Won’t you, Jungkook?”
I pause just long enough to hear it.
Silence.
Of course.
I turn slightly as my eyes land on him. Stubborn. Locked in place, arms crossed. His jaw locked, mouth shut like saying anything would cost him something. The stare he’s giving me could probably melt steel, but I couldn’t care less. I’m a busy woman, I don’t have time for this.
“Right,” I say flatly.
And just like that, I turn back around and walk out of the aquatic centre.
The rest of the day passed in a flash.
A meeting with Jackson Wang and his team dragged on longer than it needed to, all polished statements and carefully rehearsed apologies. Then came the reports, page after page of damage control, phrasing tweaks, and corporate nonsense that blurred together the longer I stared at it.
Somewhere in between, Jimin showed up to collect his jacket like it was some kind of sacred artifact he couldn’t survive without, talking for ten minutes straight just to annoy me before finally leaving again.
And now?
Now I’m on my couch.
Completely unbothered on the surface. Internally exhausted.
The tv flickers through options I’m not even processing properly. Something about cooking shows, reality drama, a documentary I’ll definitely pretend to care about later.
The ice cream in my lap is melting faster than I can make a decision, the spoon just sitting there like it’s judging me.
Perks of indecisiveness, I guess.
I sigh, leaning my head back against the couch, letting the silence finally settle.
For the first time all day, nobody’s calling. Nobody’s arguing. Nobody’s trying to blow up their own reputation or mine along with it.
Peace and quiet.
I was wrong, yet again.
I watch as messages pop up on my phone from Chi, a.k.a my partner in crime, the person i do all bad decisions with.
Chi: bar tonight. girls night. you in?
Chi: manon’s already agreed
Chi: sophia said yes before i even finished typing lmao
I stare at the screen for a second, thumb hovering.
A drink wouldn’t hurt.
Actually… it might help.
My eyes flick to the half-melted ice cream in my lap, then back to the messages.
Me: define “girls night”
The reply comes instantly.
Chi: wine. gossip. questionable life choices. possibly regretting everything tomorrow
I let out a quiet breath through my nose.
Yeah.
That sounds about right.
I set my phone down for half a second, staring at the ceiling like it might give me a better answer than I’m capable of making myself.
It’s not working.
I grab my phone again.
Me: fine. give me 20.
I send it before I can overthink it.
Then I finally push myself off the couch, already mentally debating outfits, ignoring the fact that my brain is still stuck somewhere between meetings, athletes, and one very irritating swimmer I absolutely do not need to think about tonight.
I arrive at the bar, dressed casually, but in a way that slightly demands attention. Paired with minimal jewellery and clean, effortless hair that sits somewhere between casual and put-together. My eyes dart around before seeing Chi, Manon and Sophia at a table.
“You made it, babe! Sit down, sit down,” Chi calls out, waving me over immediately.
I slide into the seat with a small exhale, letting the noise of the bar wash over me for the first time tonight. “It’s quite packed tonight, isn’t it?”
“It’s Friday night, y/n,” Manon says, already grinning as she takes a sip of her drink. “Did you expect it to be dead?”
We all laugh together, the kind that comes easy when nothing feels urgent for once.
“So.. has anything new happened recently?” Sophia asks, looking between all of us as she swirls her drink.
“Well, David and I are planning to maybe move in together soon,” Manon says, a soft excitement slipping through her otherwise relaxed tone.
I lift my glass slightly. “About damn time,” I retort. “You basically live at his place already.”
Manon nudges my arm lightly, laughing. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“Honestly,” Chi adds, leaning back in her chair, “it’s nice you’re both actually looking at places instead of just pretending you’re still ‘figuring it out.’”
Manon rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “We are figuring it out.”
“Sure you are,” I say, taking a sip. “You’ve been ‘figuring it out’ for like six months of basically living at his place full-time.”
That earns another round of laughter around the table, the kind that fills the space easily, like none of us have anything heavier going on outside of this moment.
“And you?” Sophia turns to me, smirking slightly. “Men?”
I don’t even get a chance to answer before Chi leans forward, eyes narrowing playfully. “Girl, come on. We would’ve known by now. Unless you and Jimin are hiding something you’re not telling us…”
I nearly choke on my drink.
“Ew. Absolutely not,” I say immediately, setting my glass down. “Guys, seriously?”
Chi raises a brow, clearly amused. “I’m just saying. You two are weirdly close.”
“Yeah, like siblings,” Sophia adds, nodding.
“Exactly,” I point at her. “We argue like we’re related. Nothing romantic about that chaos.”
Chi laughs, but she’s still squinting at me like she doesn’t fully believe it. “Mhm. Sure.”
I lean back in my chair, shaking my head. “I could say the same about you and Mingi, though.”
The table erupts instantly.
Chi’s mouth drops open before she bursts out laughing. “You did not just play that card on me.”
“I absolutely did,” I say, way too pleased with myself.
Sophia is already doubled over. “That was foul.”
Chi points at me, still laughing. “You’re lucky I like you, y/n. And to clarify, no. There's nothing happening with Mingi and I.”
“You’re such a bad liar!” I say immediately, pointing my glass at her like that settles it.
We’re all still laughing and chatting away, voices overlapping, the kind of easy chaos that makes the whole day feel distant.
And then.
Something catches my eye.
Just at the edge of the bar.
My laughter fades mid-sentence.
I turn my head slightly, brows knitting together as my focus locks onto a figure moving through the crowd.
Who.
The.
Fuck.
Is that.
A tall man cuts through the space like he doesn’t even need to try. Broad shoulders, calm presence, the kind that makes people subtly shift out of his way without realising it. His hair is a blonde buzz cut, sharp, unexpected, almost too bold to be accidental. He’s dressed casually, black shirt and dark trousers, but somehow it still looks structured on him, like even “casual” has a dress code he’s enforcing.
My friends notice I’ve gone quiet, my attention drifting in the same direction my eyes keep landing. They don’t even need to ask, they already know what’s going on.
Chi clocks it immediately and smirks.
“You know what,” she says, leaning back in her seat, “it’s y/n’s turn to get the drinks.”
“My turn to what?” I say distractedly, turning my head back toward the table.
Chi, Manon and Sofia are already giving me that look, like they’ve seen everything and are just waiting for me to admit it.
“What?”
“Go get us more drinks,” Manon says, a grin tugging at her lips, “and maybe have a chat with that guy you can't stop eyeing.”
“Oh, whatever,” I mutter, pushing back from my seat as I stand.
Their laughter follows me as I start walking toward the bar, Chi’s voice trailing after me like she’s won something.
I ignore it.
Mostly.
The closer I get, the louder everything becomes, glass clinking, low music thudding through the floor, voices overlapping in a constant hum. I focus on the counter ahead, already rehearsing the order in my head.
One round of drinks. In and out. Easy.
I step into the queue and shift slightly to find my place, glancing up at the bar and my thoughts immediately snag.
Because he’s still there.
Closer now.
Leaning near the bar like he’s been there the entire time, one arm resting loosely as he speaks to the bartender. The black shirt fits too well, like it was made for him, and the blonde buzz cut catches the light every time he shifts.
I see him look in my direction.
I look away instantly.
Too fast.
My focus suddenly becomes the bottles behind the counter, anywhere but him, like that will somehow fix the fact that I’ve clearly been caught looking.
He steps away from the bar, coming closer, right into my line of space. “You’re too pretty to be waiting in a line,” he says, a slight pause like he’s giving me time to react, “let me buy you a drink?”
“I’m actually–”
I stop.
Because I don’t even finish the sentence. My brain does that thing where it just… gives up.
You know what. Fuck it. I’ll abandon the girls for a few minutes.
“Sure,” I say.
His mouth twitches, like he’s not surprised, like he expected that answer the moment he walked over.
“Name is Namjoon, by the way,” he adds.
His voice is crisp. Smooth. Calm enough that it cuts through the noise of the bar making everything around him feel a little quieter just by contrast.
I blink once.
“Y/n,” I reply automatically.
“Y/n,” he repeats, like he’s testing how it sounds. Then he nods slightly toward the bar. “What are you having?”
“I’ll have a hugo spritz.”
He glances toward the bartender without missing a beat. “One hugo spritz for the lady,” he says, then after a brief pause, “coke, for me.”
We fall into conversation easier than I expect.
And, surprisingly, I feel myself relax a little, like all the weight from mr. professional screw up, isn’t sitting so heavy on my chest anymore.
“What do you do for work?” he asks.
“I’m the one who solves everyone’s problems,” I say, watching his reaction.
It earns a low laugh.
“I’m a crisis manager.”
“Interesting… and if I have a crisis, what happens?” he asks, a hint of something playful in his tone.
I glance at him, taking a slow sip of my drink before answering.
“Then I fix it,” I say simply. “Or I make it disappear.”
His brow lifts slightly, clearly entertained.
“Disappear?” he repeats.
I shrug, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Depends how bad it is.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Good to know.”
There’s a brief pause, comfortable, not awkward.
“And what do you do?” I ask.
“Oh. me? I’m a professional swimmer.” He says.
Of course you are.
You’ve got to be kidding me. This is just what I needed in my life. Another fucking swimmer.
I keep my expression neutral, though, letting out a small hum like it’s nothing.
“Makes sense why you ordered a coke then.” I say
“Yeah,” he nods, glancing at his glass, “shouldn’t really be drinking with the Aquatic Games coming up.”
Responsible.
Unlike someone.
We keep talking for a while longer, the conversation easy, flowing without effort. And for a moment, I almost forget, until I glance over his shoulder.
My friends are gathering their things, already half-standing, watching me with very obvious interest.
Right. I’m supposed to be with them.
“Ah,” I say, stepping back slightly, “I should probably go.”
Something shifts in his expression, subtle, but there.
“Can I at least give you my number?” he asks. “For the future.”
I hesitate for half a second, studying him.
Then I pull my phone out of my bag and hold it out instead.
“Sure.”
He takes it from my hand, fingers brushing mine for a second longer than necessary before he looks down, typing his number in with ease.
I watch him for a moment, quiet, observant, before he hands it back.
“I’ll see you around, y/n,” he says, like it’s not even a question.
Like it’s already decided.
“Yeah,” I reply, slipping my phone back into my bag. “See you.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer, then gives a small nod before stepping back, letting the space between us return.
I turn, heading back toward my friends already knowing I’m not going to hear the end of this.
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