Chapter 31 - A Hero’s Lingering Pride
Lin Yiyang pressed his forehead against hers, the heat of their proximity still simmering between them. A thought flickered through his mind: *I really shouldn’t have started calling you Xiao Guo.*
But then he dismissed it. Names didn't change the reality of the pull between them.
He found himself wondering—if he were still that youth at the height of his arrogance and spirit, he would have undoubtedly carried her to the bed right then. He would have stripped away every layer of clothing that constrained her, claiming the body he craved with reckless abandon. To hell with the tournament. Back then, he had stood at the absolute pinnacle, the undisputed king of the table; what was his would naturally be hers.
At that age, he had been a walking contradiction: childish yet conceited, formidable yet profoundly fragile.
Yin Guo bit her lower lip, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh as she tried to suppress the rising tide of sensation. He had left her feeling a dull, throbbing ache that was both foreign and intoxicating. Lin Yiyang watched her for a moment, his gaze dark and unreadable, before he finally reached out to straighten her clothes, his fingers lingering on the fabric.
"It’s pouring outside," he said, his voice low and raspy. "Wait for me in the room. I’ll be back in a bit."
Yin Guo nodded obediently. She reached up to trace the lines of his face—his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his jawline—before her hand slid behind his neck. His hair was short and coarse, freshly trimmed within the week. The prickly ends grazed her fingertips and palms, sending a sharp, restless itch through her skin. It was... agonizingly provocative.
Lin Yiyang felt his heart soften under her touch. He was merely heading out to find a decent restaurant nearby to bring her dinner, yet the simple act of leaving felt like a pull against a tether. He looked at her and asked, "Is there something you want to say?"
"I don't know..." she whispered.
Her mind was a chaotic void—empty of logic, yet overflowing with him. This was a night of firsts; he was the first man she had ever allowed into her private world with such intimacy.
Suddenly, the image of Cheng Yan flashed through her mind—the way women looked at Lin Yiyang, the way they pursued him. She feigned a casual tone, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "Cheng Yan is quite beautiful."
"Cheng Yan?" Lin Yiyang paused, struggling to follow the sudden pivot in her thoughts. "Why bring her up?"
"I just thought of her and felt... jealous. I don't know why."
She hadn't realized she could be this petty. It seemed that falling for someone only made one’s heart grow smaller, more guarded.
He took her hand from the back of his neck and squeezed it firmly. He wanted to explain that Cheng Yan meant nothing to him, but the words felt redundant. Instead, he gave her a wry smile and a final, heavy squeeze of her hand. "I’m going."
In truth, he didn't mind. Seeing the person you love get jealous over you was a peculiar form of emotional validation. Cheng Yan was a mere passerby in his life, a non-entity, yet the suddenness of Yin Guo’s jealousy caught him off guard in the best way possible.
After Lin Yiyang left, Yin Guo retreated to the bathroom. She unwrapped a fresh bar of soap, the scent of clean linen filling the small space as she scrubbed her hands and face. She hadn't had a chance to properly wash up since returning from the match. The light makeup she wore for the cameras felt heavy and uncomfortable, a necessary vanity for the professional circuit.
She felt a lingering discomfort from her bra. After drying her hands, she reached back to unhook the clasp and readjusted it. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she pulled down her collar slightly. Faint red marks bloomed across her skin, though they were beginning to fade. Her face seemed to glow with a soft, ethereal light, and her eyes were clouded with a watery, distant mist. She stood there, lost in a daze.
Her fingers idly plucked at a loose thread on a white towel, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger as her thoughts drifted back to the heat of his touch. Her face flushed crimson again. Tossing the towel aside, she walked back into the silent room.
A large, black single-strap sports bag sat on the carpet by the sofa.
Since the first night she met him, he had carried that same bag. Even in his apartment, she hadn't seen any other luggage. This worn black bag was his only constant companion, following him as he drifted between cities. Yin Guo sat at the desk, resting her chin on her arms, finding a strange sense of contentment just by looking at his belongings.
She gripped her phone, thinking about how Lin Yiyang had pressured her earlier to practice the techniques she struggled with. She grew curious about the true extent of his skill. Since she was surrounded by people who had played against him in the past, she decided to reach out to the one person she usually avoided: the perennial iceberg, Meng Xiaodong.
*Xiao Guo: Is there anything Lin Yiyang isn't good at? On the table, I mean?*
*M: No.*
*M: There is nothing he isn't good at. There is only what he chooses to play or not play.*
*That strong...* Yin Guo thought, her heart skipping a beat. Meng Xiaodong was a man of facts; he never exaggerated. His high praise only made her miss Lin Yiyang more.
Time ticked by slowly. Yin Guo rested her chin on the dark wood of the desk, counting the seconds, wondering where he was and if he was getting soaked. Unable to help herself, she sent him a private, vulnerable complaint.
*Xiao Guo: Just between us... it hurts a little there.*
*Lin: ?*
*Lin: I'll be gentler next time.*
***
Lin Yiyang sat by the window in a pizza shop, waiting for his takeout order. His sneakers were completely soaked. The torrential rain was unforgiving; no pedestrian was spared. In this kind of downpour, an umbrella was a mere suggestion, not a shield. He stared at her profile picture on WeChat, then looked out at the blurred figures of people running through the rain, looking for cover.
For some reason, as he watched the chaos outside, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
***
After delivering the food to Yin Guo’s room, Lin Yiyang headed to Room 1000.
Li Qingyan opened the door. "They're inside," he said.
Lin Yiyang nodded and gave the younger man a meaningful pat on the shoulder. "Up for a few frames later?"
Li Qingyan nodded. "Sure."
Lin Yiyang walked through the foyer and into the suite. A large round table had been moved into the center of the room, crowded with men and bottles of alcohol. Meng Xiaodong and Jiang Yang sat at the head, surrounded by others who were chatting and laughing in low tones. The room went quiet the moment Lin Yiyang entered.
"The latecomer starts with a round," Jiang Yang said with a grin. He wore a grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up, swirling a half-empty glass of liquor.
Lin Yiyang didn't waste words. He grabbed a full bottle, filled an empty glass to the brim, and proceeded to down a shot for every person at the table. When he reached Meng Xiaodong, the latter moved to stand up.
Lin Yiyang pressed a hand onto Meng Xiaodong’s shoulder, keeping him seated. "The guest should stay seated."
He clinked his glass against Meng Xiaodong’s and tilted his head back, draining the liquor in one go.
Five glasses down, Lin Yiyang finally took a seat. The room was full of grown men, yet as they looked at one another, they all remembered the old courtyard of Dongxincheng. They remembered the sweltering summers, the crates of ice-cold beer, and the endless challenges they threw at each other. It had been so many years, yet they were all here together. It wasn't easy.
As the drinking progressed, Chen An’an was the first to succumb. Wu Wei, ever the caretaker, had to haul the boy to the bathroom to throw up. Suddenly, the room felt a little emptier.
Meng Xiaodong had a notoriously low tolerance for alcohol. Usually, he only sipped half a glass, but having downed a full one today, the alcohol had gone straight to his head. He sat there in stony silence.
Jiang Yang leaned forward, smiling. "Xiaodong?"
Meng Xiaodong looked up and shook his head, signaling he was fine.
Jiang Yang slowly refilled Meng Xiaodong’s glass. "Old Six, if there's anything you want to know, now's the time to fish for it."
Lin Yiyang shot Jiang Yang a look, ignoring the jab.
"You want to ask about my sister’s childhood friend? Li Qingyan?" Meng Xiaodong’s voice was steady despite the haze in his eyes. "I never asked them about the details. But Yin Guo’s parents like him quite a bit."
"Even if they had something, it’s definitely over now," Meng Xiaodong added, rubbing his temples. "However, there is someone in Yin Guo’s family..." He paused. "He was the referee for *that* match of yours. He definitely knows about your past."
He fixed his gaze on Lin Yiyang. "You know which match I’m talking about."
The room fell into a sudden, heavy silence. Everyone knew. Meng Xiaodong was referring to the final match of Lin Yiyang’s professional career—the one that ended in his retirement.
Jiang Yang cleared his throat. "Xiao Fan, go get some hot tea for your Brother Xiaodong."
Fan Wencong nodded and hurried out.
Only Jiang Yang, Meng Xiaodong, and Lin Yiyang remained at the table. Jiang Yang had intended to tease Lin Yiyang, but he hadn't expected the drunken Meng Xiaodong to drag up such a painful piece of history. Even more unexpected was the revelation that Yin Guo’s relative had been the referee. The ties between them ran deeper than anyone had realized.
The sliding door creaked open. Wu Wei emerged, having dumped the unconscious Chen An’an onto a bed. He walked to the table and drained his glass. "Exhausting." Sensing the shift in atmosphere, he glanced at Jiang Yang.
Jiang Yang shook his head, silently telling him not to ask.
Lin Yiyang toyed with his glass. No one could see the emotions swirling in his eyes—whether it was lingering resentment, or if he had truly moved on. After a long silence, he set the glass down. "Is there an empty table?"
Meng Xiaodong answered immediately. "I booked half the pool hall. You can play whatever you want."
"I'll have someone clear a table for you," Jiang Yang offered.
Lin Yiyang waved him off. "No need." He looked at Meng Xiaodong. "I have an appointment for a couple of frames with your man."
"They're heading to the Ireland Open soon. Go easy on him," Jiang Yang called out as a warning.
"I know," Lin Yiyang replied without looking back.
The outer room was livelier, filled with players from both Dongxincheng and Beicheng. Almost everyone who hadn't made it to the quarter-finals was there. Lin Yiyang stepped out and signaled to Li Qingyan.
Li Qingyan had been waiting. He stood up from the sofa and told Xiao Zi, "Keep an eye on Xiaodong inside."
The two men walked to the pool hall in silence. It was quiet; most players were resting after the grueling group stages. Only a few hotel guests were playing casually at the far tables.
Lin Yiyang picked up a house cue and pointed to a neglected 8-ball table. "Little 8-ball? Know how to play?"
It was a "street" style common in the pool halls of Lin Yiyang’s hometown. Eight balls arranged in a triangle, with the cue ball as the only striker. The balls were racked by hand, the rules were loose, and the goal was simple: after the break, you could hit any ball you wanted. The one who pocketed the black 8-ball won.
For pool hall owners, it was a quick way to make money. For the "wild kids" who played it, it was a fast, satisfying way to win.
Li Qingyan, hailing from the same region, knew the game well. He had played many frames after school as a boy. "I've played. It's simple."
"When I played this back in the day, the stakes were also simple," Lin Yiyang said, picking up a piece of chalk and methodically coating the cue tip. "The loser racks the balls for the winner."
"Fine by me. If I can get you to rack for me, I'll have bragging rights for years," Li Qingyan replied, selecting his own cue.
Lin Yiyang gave him a faint, amused look. It was time to take this kid down a peg.
They played ten frames. They lagged for the break, and without suspense, Lin Yiyang won the right to start. Li Qingyan silently gathered the eight balls into a triangle. The cue ball was placed dead center on the headstring.
Lin Yiyang circled the table, leaning down to check his angle. He chalked his cue again. When he leaned over the table a second time, his body and the cue formed a single, perfect line. The smile had vanished from his face, replaced by the cold intensity of a predator.
*CRACK.*
The sound of the break was thunderous, echoing louder than any other shot in the room. The colored balls scattered like shrapnel, racing toward the pockets. One, two... all eight balls disappeared. Not a single one remained on the felt.
A break and run. A total clearance in a single shot.
It wasn't unheard of, but it usually required a fair amount of luck. Li Qingyan hoped it was just a fluke. But for Lin Yiyang, this first frame was a statement of intent.
"Thanks," Lin Yiyang said calmly, gesturing to the empty table.
The loser racks.
Li Qingyan had nothing to say. He leaned over, fished the balls out of the pockets, and racked them again. The moment the cue ball was set, Lin Yiyang leaned down and delivered another devastating strike. The balls flew true, diving into the pockets one after another.
Another break and run.
"Thanks," Lin Yiyang repeated, his voice level.
Li Qingyan realized then that luck had nothing to do with it. He grew increasingly silent, repeating the cycle of retrieving and racking. For the next ten frames, Li Qingyan did nothing but rack, while Lin Yiyang did nothing but strike. Even when it wasn't a perfect break and run, Li Qingyan never even got a chance to touch his cue.
By the final frame, Li Qingyan felt a flicker of relief that no other professionals were around to see him being treated like a common rack boy. He also realized that Lin Yiyang was showing him a mercy of sorts; he could have called everyone from Room 1000 down to watch the humiliation, but he hadn't. Perhaps it was a gesture of respect for Meng Xiaodong.
A perfect 10-0.
Fueled by the alcohol, Lin Yiyang’s eyes sparkled with the fierce spirit of his youth. He propped his cue against the table and leaned forward, his hands gripping the rail. Under the low-hanging lights of the table, he stared across at Li Qingyan.
"I lost," Li Qingyan said, completely humbled.
Lin Yiyang’s head was spinning. He had downed five glasses of high-proof liquor upon arrival and several more since. The aftereffects were hitting him hard. Hearing Li Qingyan’s admission, he let out a short laugh.
"I have two things to tell you," Lin Yiyang said.
Li Qingyan looked at him expectantly.
"Last time at the table, I saw you were following Meng Xiaodong’s style, training yourself to shoot every twenty-five seconds. That’s a league requirement, but not all Opens are like that." Lin Yiyang pointed toward the snooker table where they had first met.
Li Qingyan was stunned. He hadn't realized that their brief encounter had been enough for Lin Yiyang to dissect his entire training regimen.
"Dragging out every shot to twenty-five seconds will only drain your natural talent," Lin Yiyang said slowly. "You're a player, not a machine."
His speech was slow, weighted by the alcohol. He knew he needed to rest. He needed hot water, or tea. More than anything, he wanted to walk past Yin Guo’s door one last time before she slept. But she was likely already asleep; three matches in one day had surely exhausted her.
Lin Yiyang instinctively reached for his collar, wanting to undo a couple of buttons to vent the heat of the alcohol. It was a habit from his younger days when he was forced to wear shirts in non-competitive settings. Perhaps it was the reunion with his old brothers, or perhaps it was the sight of the pool tables, but he felt a surge of his old, reckless self.
His fingers stopped at the collar of his crew-neck t-shirt. He held them there for a few seconds before slowly lowering his hand to the edge of the table.
"And one more thing," he added.
His voice dropped, becoming dangerously low. "Regardless of whatever history you two have—whether you're chasing her and failing, or if you ever actually caught her—it ends now."
Lin Yiyang’s dark eyes, glazed with drink, shone like polished obsidian. He knit his brows, forcing himself to stay lucid for one final sentence.
"Yin Guo is my woman. Do I make myself clear?"
