Framed by My Captain, Reborn on My Rival's Team novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Three Years Early
Lu Zhiyan dies in a crash the night his captain lifts the world trophy, wakes the day before signing his life away, walks out at 3 a.m., and the rival captain opens his door.
The truck came through the red light without braking.
Lu Zhiyan saw it in the side mirror and thought, not tonight.
Through the bar window at the junction, a TV was showing Seoul.
Gold confetti fell on Cheng Boyuan while he lifted the world championship trophy over his head, smiling.
Then the truck hit, and the whole screen went white.
"Sign tomorrow, little brother."
The voice was warm, and it was right above him.
Lu opened his eyes on a ceiling he knew.
He was lying on the long grey couch in the Vanguard Gaming living room, with a blanket over his legs and his heart pounding.
There was no glass in his hair or blood in his mouth.
Cheng sat on the arm of the couch in his navy team jacket, holding a blue folder.
He looked twenty-seven, the way he had looked for years, and he was smiling down.
"You were out cold," Cheng said. "Twelve hours of scrims, and you drooled on my couch."
"What day is it?"
"Thirty-first. Contract's at ten tomorrow." He dropped the folder on Lu's chest.
"Three years, a raise, and I handle your paperwork so you can just play."
He smiled wider.
"Sign tomorrow, little brother. Then we eat."
Lu held the folder very still.
His hands were smaller than he remembered.
His silver ring was on his left index finger, and he'd stopped wearing it at twenty-one, after the ban.
He opened his phone with a thumb that didn't shake.
The date on it was three years ago.
"I'll read it tonight," Lu said.
"Read all you want." Cheng ruffled his hair like he was twelve, and went up the stairs whistling.
Lu waited until the whistling stopped.
Then he turned to page nine.
Clause fourteen, in small print: the club's financial agent shall open and manage all bank, payment and prize accounts in the player's name.
He had signed that clause with a smile and a borrowed pen.
Eighteen months later, the league had shown him six games and a stack of betting slips.
There had been a bank record with his own ID number on it.
Banned for life, at twenty-one.
At the junction outside the noodle shop, a woman had spat on his shoe and called him a rat.
He had never been able to prove who opened those accounts.
Lu closed the folder.
On the shelf over the TV stood three Vanguard trophies in a row.
He had helped win two of them.
He took his hoodie off the chair, and his phone, and the 41,000 yuan card from the drawer.
He laid the pen across page nine, uncapped, and left the folder open on the couch.
At the front door he stopped.
There had been one voice in the whole mess that had said it out loud.
Ji Mingye, captain of Nightjar, standing at a podium after the last Worlds qualifier.
He had a mic in his fist, and no one near him.
"The ban is wrong," Ji had said. "Release the VODs."
Then nothing.
For a year, not one message, and not one visit to the rented room.
Lu had hated him for it more than he'd hated Cheng.
He pulled the door shut behind him without a sound.
Moonlake Road was empty under the orange streetlights.
Vanguard's glass front stood behind him.
Across the street was Nightjar, narrow and made of old brick, with a grey bird painted over the door.
There was one light on, on the third floor.
A broad back sat at a desk in front of a monitor, very still.
Lu crossed the road.
His legs felt like someone else's, and his chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the crash.
Five seasons, he thought.
Five seasons across the lane from that man, and Ji had looked bored in every one of them.
The door opened before he got to it.
Ji Mingye stood in the frame in a grey T-shirt and black sleep pants, his short hair flat on one side.
He was twenty-one, and his eyes were thin and dark and gave away nothing.
He had never once looked surprised in Lu's presence, and he didn't now.
His gaze went to Lu's empty hands.
No folder, no bag, no pen.
Then he reached out, took Lu's wrist, and turned it over.
His thumb settled on the pulse, which was going like a drum.
His skin was warm, and he held on a second longer than anyone should.
"You're three years early," Ji said.
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