Andy mirrored Min Jae’s nod as he put his jacket back on, wincing as it pressed his cold, sweaty shirt against his skin. “Sure, of course.”
The interview suite was larger than the one Andy had recorded in earlier, but was otherwise the same brightly lit cube with the show’s logo plastered on the back wall. The off-camera producer asked them to sit beside one another on a small, vinyl couch the same light blue as Min Jae’s collar while a pair of camera people and boom mic operators set up in the corners on the other side of the room. They were to watch and react to video playback of their practice sessions, the producer explained, before asking them to sit closer together. Andy scooched to the side, close enough to feel Min Jae’s simmering body heat. He may have been the ice king, but he’d worked his body just as hard as Andy had.
A large wall monitor in front of them flickered to life. First, the producer showed them a clip of one of their clumsy, disconnected failures. Andy immediately cringed, the memory of his own frustration still fresh. “Yeah, that was on me,” he announced. “I was too in my head. My timing was off.”
Min Jae nodded. “We started off strong, but we didn’t stay in sync.” Not exactly coming to Andy’s rescue there. At least he acknowledged that they could’ve both been at fault.
They played a second clip, Andy loudly oof-ing when he watched himself miss a step. “I swear I practiced this routine at home,” he joked. “It only looks like it’s my first time.”
Min Jae nodded again. “It was our first time,” he suggested. “Doing it together,” he added.
The clip cut to Hwa Young scowling as she dressed the pair down for their incompetent performance. Andy chuckled. Seeing it on screen, she kinda looked like a cartoon villain. To Andy’s surprise, Min Jae chuckled, too.
“I’d always heard that Soh Hwa Young can breathe fire,” Min Jae joked. “This was my first time seeing it for real.”
The next clip was their final, successful run-through. The difference was night and day. Andy saw how relaxed he looked as he danced. You’d never have known he’d been intensely rehearsing for more than an hour. His chemistry with Min Jae was palpable. Their harmonious movements were easy. He felt it when he saw himself make eye contact with Min Jae. Connected.
“That was pretty good,” Andy admitted.
“It was better than pretty good,” Min Jae countered. “It was pure artistry.”
An unexpected warmth blossomed in Andy’s gut. Had the ice king finally thawed? And all it had taken was a half-dozen attempts and a furious choreographer.
“Wow, what a change,” the producer commented, warm and leading. “Min Jae, how did it feel when you two finally connected like that?”
Min Jae turned slightly on the couch, offering Andy an unexpectedly warm grin. “Andy’s a great partner. When you're performing that close to someone, you have to have absolute trust. I think in that moment, we finally found it.”
Andy was briefly struck speechless. It was like a happy, friendly ghost had sucked out Min Jae’s brain and taken over his body. Maybe he really was haunted. The producer turned to him.
“And you, Andy?”
Andy swallowed, caught completely off his game. “I’ve performed with a lot of dancers,” he finally admitted. “Min Jae iseasily one of the best I’ve worked with. I can’t wait to do it again.”
The producer beamed. “Great. That was perfect, guys. Thank you.” She stood, catching Min Jae’s gaze. “We need to reshoot some of your intro package. There was a small sound issue this morning.” She gestured toward the door. “It should only take a few minutes.”
Min Jae nodded. “Of course.” He stood without looking at Andy, following the producer as she and the camera crew filed out, leaving Andy alone on the small couch in the suddenly silent, brightly lit room.
Andy sat there, his breathing the only sound in the deafening quiet. His mind spun as he played back the moment when Min Jae called him a great partner. Was that even real? There’d been no trace of that Min Jae when Andy had tried talking with him before the rehearsal. Just the wall of ice. No, it had to be an act. A polished lie because they were on camera. He shook his head as he stood and walked away, leaving behind the echo of perfectly performed sincerity as he finally stripped off his jacket again.
6
Min Jae had often visitedthe hospital cafeteria when his mother was getting her chemotherapy. Those were hardly memorable experiences, but it meant staying close to her, and offered cheap, decent meals.
The only quality the Sky Village cafeteria shared with the one in the hospital was the word cafeteria in the name. More like a high-end restaurant open only to the impossibly handsome, Min Jae half expected to be seated by a maître d’ in a tuxedo. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, pleasantly reflecting off the minimalist, light-wood tables and illuminating the stunning view of the forested slopes of Cheonggyesan. It was spacious enough that even a hundred hungry guys couldn’t fill it.
Min Jae picked at the rolled omelette on his tray, only half-listening as Song Dae Hyun, their group’s self-proclaimed top dancer, held court at their table.
“Did you see my close-up in the final formation?” Dae Hyun bragged, shoveling a mouthful of rice and kimchi into his mouth. “The camera fucking loves me. I must’ve had ten full seconds of solo screen time.”
“It was a strong shot,” Min Jae agreed. “Your energy was off the charts.” Because it was so sloppy, he didn’t add. More flashthan precision, but the editors would hide that. His confidence was a useful tool, but it required a strong leader to properly aim it where it needed to go.
Im Chul Min let out a disgusted sigh. As a rapper, he’d had no chance to showcase his skills in the signal song. “I still can’t believe they made us perform that childish shit. The lyrics were written for ten-year-olds.”
Min Jae shrugged. “It’s supposed to have broad appeal,” he gently countered. “A bright, poppy anthem that’ll play well with all sorts of listeners.” He gave Chul Min’s shoulder a rough squeeze. “You’ll get your chance to show off once we start the group missions. They’ll have rap parts for you then.”
Chul Min nodded. “Hell yeah. Once I get a lead rap part, my ranking will shoot up.” He grinned and took a sip of his soup.
Min Jae nodded, even though he disagreed. Chul Min was way too focused on his supposed bad boy image. His unwillingness to be flexible was a huge liability in a group setting. You did what your company told you, or you were out. It was that simple.
