Off Limits (JoongDunk)

𖤓˚𝒟𝓊𝓃𝓀ೃ࿔*:･

If hell had a specific soundtrack, it would be the synchronized squeaking of rubber soles on a freshly polished hardwood floor, underscored by the deafening, frantic rhythm of plastic thundersticks.

I adjusted my glasses, the bridge pinching the top of my nose and stared down at the textbook open on my lap. Macroeconomics: Principles and Policy. I was currently on page forty-two. I had been on page forty-two for the last twenty minutes. It was entirely impossible to internalize the complexities of inflation rates when five thousand people were simultaneously screaming at the top of their lungs.

"Dunk, you're missing it! Look!"

Phuwin's hand clamped down on my shoulder, shaking me with enough enthusiasm to make the text blur before my eyes. I sighed, placing my highlighter between the pages, and finally looked up toward the court.

We were sitting in the visitor's section of Maha Kitja Academy, which wasn't just a university. It was a sprawling, gated empire of glass, steel and old money nestled in the heart of Bangkok. Our own school, Pracha Rat University, was respectable. It had good funding, excellent professors, and a gritty, hardworking reputation. But Maha Kitja?

Maha Kitja looked like it had been designed by an architect who specialized in royal palaces and luxury resorts. And it was no secret why. The entire northern campus, including the state-of-the-art sports complex we were currently occupying, bore the name Archen Philanthropic Foundation.

As in, the family of Joong Archen.

Down on the court, the contrast between the two teams was almost comical. Pracha Rat wore deep navy jerseys, faded at the edges from multiple washes, practical and worn by guys who looked like they spent their summers working part-time jobs. Maha Kitja wore pristine, stark white uniforms with gold trim. They looked less like college athletes and more like a collection of heavily sponsored models who just happened to be terrifyingly good at basketball.

At the center of that white-and-gold storm was my older brother.

Pond was easy to spot. He was the one with the sweat-soaked hair, a scowl etched permanently into his features and a jersey that looked like it had been wrestled into submission. He was brilliant on the court, aggressive, fast and entirely unyielding. He was the kind of person who commanded a room simply by breathing in it. Growing up, I had quickly learned that the easiest way to survive being Pond's younger brother was to simply step back. Why try to compete with a sun that burns that bright? He was the athletic prodigy, the popular socialite, the guy everyone wanted to be around. I was the guy who kept his head down, maintained a perfect 4.0 GPA and preferred the quiet hum of a coffee grinder to the roar of a stadium. We were two completely different species sharing the same DNA.

Right now, Pond was currently playing defense like his life depended on it. Or rather, like his pride depended on it. Because the guy he was guarding was the epicenter of everything Pond hated.

Joong Archen.

Even from the elevated seats of the visitor's bench, Joong's presence was suffocating. He didn't just play basketball. No. He performed. Every dribble was precise, every spin move carried a deliberate, theatrical flair. And the crowd loved it. Every time his fingers so much as brushed the basketball, a collective, shrill shriek would erupt from the student section opposite us. There were literal banners. Massive, glitter-covered signs reading No. 9 Archen, Take My Heart and Maha Kitja's Prince.

Did he know they were there? Of course he did. He fed on it. I watched as he caught the ball at the three-point line, paused just long enough to glance toward a row of screaming girls, winked and then launched a flawless, effortless shot.

Swish.

The stadium practically imploded. The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the third quarter, and the scoreboard flashed the updated tallies. Maha Kitja was up by eight.