Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 226: Rumor Season
The heat of May didn’t let up—not in the streets, not in the gym, and definitely not online. By the time Ji-hye finished her evening laps at the volleyball court, breath burning in her lungs, the notifications on her phone were already blowing up. She ignored them at first. She always did. Messages were a constant—coaches, reporters, fans, LUNE staff, sponsors—but something felt different tonight. The air felt too quiet around her, too tight, as if the world was holding its breath.
She strolled into the locker room, sweat dripping down her spine, peeled off her shirt, and reached for her towel. The moment she opened her locker, she saw it: her teammates frozen in place, eyes glued to their phones. A couple girls glanced up, faces pinched with discomfort. One of them hurriedly lowered her screen, as if hiding something vulgar.
Ji-hye frowned. "What?"
No one answered. Just shifting feet, stiff backs, nervous glances.
Her phone buzzed again. Then again. Then the floodgate opened—her screen lit up with dozens of notifications, screenshots from friends, links, tagged posts, and private messages.
She tapped the first one.
Her ex.
That useless, insecure bastard whose ego shattered the moment she became more famous than him. Their breakup should’ve been quiet, over, done. But now his SNS was plastered with vague threats and pathetic subtweets:
"Funny how some people pretend to be perfect athletes."
"Secrets don’t stay hidden forever."
"I wonder how the public will react when they see the REAL her."
"Some people should be benched. Or retired."
#Karma #TruthShouldBeShared
And worst of all—a blurry silhouette photo of a woman that wasn’t explicitly her, but everyone assumed it was.
Ji-hye’s stomach dropped. Her ears rang. The phone almost slipped from her hand.
"What the fuck..." she whispered.
Before she could say another word, the coaches stormed into the locker room. The assistant coach held an iPad and looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. The head coach—Coach Jang—was stony-faced, jaw clenched so tight a vein pulsed at his temple.
"Ji-hye," he said, voice tight. "Office. Now."
The girls parted like water as she followed him, towel still wrapped around her shoulders, legs trembling with a dread she tried to hide.
Inside the office, the club director was waiting. A middle-aged man in a too-expensive suit, face smooth with artificial calm.
The moment the door closed, he didn’t waste time.
"We won’t be putting you on the team list tomorrow."
It hit like a punch to the sternum.
Ji-hye blinked. "What?"
Coach Jang slammed his palms on the desk. "Director—"
The director held up a hand. "It’s not a benching. You simply won’t be listed for the match."
"That’s the same damn thing," Ji-hye snapped, stepping forward. "Why?"
He turned the iPad around.
Her ex’s SNS feed. Thousands of comments and shares. Rumors spreading like wildfire.
"This... controversy is dangerous," the director said. "Sponsors are extremely concerned. They’re asking questions. We’re in playoff season—we can’t afford bad press right now."
Ji-hye’s heart hammered. "I didn’t do anything. These are lies."
"We know," Coach Jang growled. "But pulling her off the list now will ruin team morale. They need her. She’s our ace."
"And we need sponsor stability," the director countered. "The association is calling. We need to calm the situation."
"So you’re punishing me for someone else’s bullshit?" Ji-hye spat.
The director didn’t flinch.
"It’s temporary," he said. "Just until this dies down."
Coach Jang shoved his chair back, pacing the tiny office. "We are playing the hardest team in the bracket tomorrow. Without her—"
"We will make do."
"That other rival winger wasn’t even good enough for regional qualifiers last year," Coach Jang snapped. "She can’t replace Ji-hye in a thousand years."
The director shrugged. "Sponsors want a clean image. It’s our job to protect that."
Ji-hye stared, throat tight, nails digging into her palms.
"And I’m just supposed to sit at home and smile?"
The director sighed. "For now, yes. And don’t make any posts. No statements. No interviews."
She turned to Coach Jang. "You’re really letting them do this to me?"
He looked at her with guilt carved deep in his features. "I don’t have a choice."
Ji-hye felt her chest collapse.
It wasn’t heartbreak.It was humiliation.
The worst kind—the kind you weren’t allowed to fight.
She left without another word.
The next day, she wasn’t there.
The club pretended everything was fine. Posted cheerful photos of the "team ready for battle." Pretended the scandal wasn’t festering across every timeline and sports forum.
But the fans weren’t idiots.
When the announcer read the lineup and her name was missing, the stadium went quiet for three long seconds—then erupted into angry shouts.
"Where’s Ji-hye?"
"Protect our ace!"
"Bring her back!"
Signs waved in the stands:
WE STAND WITH JI-HYENO PLAYER = NO VICTORYSTOP HIDING THE TRUTH
At the first whistle, the girls were jittery, unfocused. The replacement outside hitter—nervous as hell—muffed her first serve receive, the ball bouncing awkwardly off her forearm and out of bounds. Their rhythm collapsed instantly. They missed defensive coverages, setters hesitated, and passes floated nowhere.
The opposing team saw blood—they targeted the left side over and over, sending spikes and serves right at Ji-hye’s replacement. Every time the ball sailed that way, the entire crowd groaned.
Their attacks lost bite, their blocks mistimed. The girls’ plays shattered under pressure, and by the middle of the second set, you could see it on their faces: panic and resignation, all at once.
Ji-hye sat on her couch at home, wrapped in a hoodie, heart in her throat as she watched it all unravel. Her phone buzzed nonstop—news alerts, gossip threads, clips of the game, commentary exploding with rage.
Then came the first lost set. The team scrambled, missing every cue.The replacement on Ji-hye’s wing flubbed two easy receives in a row.Their confidence shattered—another set slipped away, this time with a ten-point gap.By the time they lost the third straight set, the fans could barely watch.
The scoreline was humiliating—Straight sets, each worse than the last.By the end, even the commentators gave up on optimism.
"It’s clear Ji-hye’s absence is affecting team structure."
"This is what happens when you take your star player off the roster."
"Fans are furious. Management will have a lot to answer for."
After the match, the locker room atmosphere was volcanic. Slammed lockers. Raised voices. Players yelling at each other. Tears. The replacement winger sobbing into her jersey while the others argued over strategies that had fallen apart.
The director didn’t show his face.
But the fans did.
Outside the stadium, they booed during the post-game interviews. When the club posted its usual "Thank you for supporting us!" social media message, the comments section exploded:
"Protect Ji-hye, you cowards."
"Where is she?"
"Why are you hiding her?"
"Bring her back or lose the season."
#WeWantJiHye
Meanwhile at LUNE, the girls were seeing everything unfold in real time.
Mirae sat in her trailer, hair in curlers, scrolling so fast her thumb shook. Every new post made her glare sharper. When Harin’s message popped up—"You seeing this shit?"—Mirae immediately video-called her.
Harin answered from her office, papers and tablets spread across her desk, a darkness in her eyes that wasn’t exhaustion—it was something far more dangerous.
"Her ex started this," Harin said flatly. "I recognized some of the usernames feeding the rumor. Club rivals. A few trainees from a sponsor-connected academy."
Mirae swore under her breath. "They’re trying to force her out."
"And the club is letting them," Harin replied. "The director told Coach Jang not to put her on the team list. Not even bench."
Mirae looked like she wanted to throw something. "I swear, give me one hour with that asshole and—"
"Hush," Harin said, though the smirk in her voice was sharp. "We’re not going to fight this stupidly."
"So we are going to fight?" Mirae asked, fire returning to her eyes.
"Of course we are," Harin said. "She’s one of ours."
Mirae leaned closer to the screen, voice low and fierce. "What’s the plan?"
"First," Harin said, flipping open a folder filled with screenshots and contact names, "we’re going to dismantle the rumors. Quietly. Professionally. Then..." She tapped a document from LUNE’s PR team. "We’re going to make sure the public sees exactly who’s in the wrong."
Mirae grinned, wicked and cold. "And then?"
"And then," Harin said, "we’re going to make sure Ji-hye knows she’s not alone. Whether she wants comfort, war, or revenge—LUNE backs her."
Mirae nodded. "Good. Because if her ex keeps running his mouth, I’ll personally make sure he wishes he’d never heard of her."
Harin’s eyes softened just enough to reveal the heart beneath all her armor. "We take care of our own."
Across the city, Ji-hye sat alone on the edge of her bed, phone buzzing uselessly beside her. She didn’t have the strength to look at it anymore. Not tonight. The loss felt heavy, not because she wasn’t there—but because deep down, she knew she could’ve changed it all. The pressure was a stone in her chest, grinding against her pride and her fear.
She buried her face in her knees and breathed slow, trying not to break.
Then her phone buzzed again.
1 message from: Harin
We see everything.
Don’t crumble.We’re coming.
Ji-hye stared at it for a long time.
Then her phone buzzed again.
From Mirae:
Don’t you dare disappear.
We won’t let them tear you down.
A third buzz.
From Yura:
Come to our house tomorrow.
We’ll handle this together.
Something in Ji-hye’s chest loosened.
Not much.But enough.
Outside, the city hummed with heat and gossip.
Inside LUNE and inside Ji-hye’s heart, something else was rising—not fear,not shame,but the first spark of the counterattack.
Rumor season had begun.
And they weren’t going to let her face it alone.
