Chapter 14 – Fans

The shooting team’s winter training location changes every year—sometimes in Henan, sometimes in Fujian, and sometimes they stay in Beijing. They generally don’t go further north, or else the 50-meter shooters would cry—many of their events are semi-outdoor.

When they stay in Beijing for winter training, the shooting team’s meals are usually mediocre. It’s said that with fixed budgets and Beijing’s high prices, ensuring food safety and nutritional intake leaves little room for taste.

Gu Yiming wasn’t particularly picky about food, especially since training meals tended to be mild, which suited his palate. Among the three athlete meal options (A, B, and C) in the cafeteria, he picked randomly. Hu Xueyue, on the other hand, was the complete opposite—she was the pickiest eater on the women’s team and often schemed with her coach to sneak in snacks. Although shooting isn’t particularly sensitive to body weight, changes in physique and body fat do affect shooting posture and core strength, leading to short-term performance dips during the adjustment period. To prevent this, the coach outright banned her deliveries and even gave her a strict diet plan—Hu Xueyue had to follow it every day.

Gu Yiming asked her, “Does your coach know you’re eating chocolate…?”

Today, they happened to sit at the same table. After finishing her meal, Hu Xueyue furtively pulled out a small piece of Dove chocolate from her tracksuit pocket. As she unwrapped it, she defended herself: “This won’t trigger a doping test.”

Gu Yiming wanted to say that wasn’t what he was asking, but then he realized casually commenting on a girl’s weight might not be appropriate, so he dropped it and instead asked how she’d smuggled it in.

“A fan gave it to me,” Hu Xueyue said. She was three years older than Gu Yiming, a cheerful girl from Liaoning whose accent shifted based on the TV dramas she was obsessed with. Recently, she’d been madly imitating Beijing’s *erhua*¹A phonological feature of some Mandarin dialects (including the Beijing dialect), where a retroflex “-r” sound is added to the end of a syllable., though she wasn’t very accurate: “A few days ago, during the shooting open day, a fan smuggled me a box.”

Yes, Hu Xueyue was one of the rare athletes in this niche sport who had a fanbase—a perk of being an Olympic champion. But thinking of Fang Xiao, Gu Yiming felt he wasn’t doing too badly either. Putting himself in Fang Xiao’s shoes, he sighed, “Having fans is nice.”

“Well, it’s complicated,” Hu Xueyue said. “They’re good to me, but sometimes they make me really unhappy. Fans have their own lives, their own attitudes and boundaries—sometimes they just see you as a symbol… Ugh, they just don’t get it.”

“Some fans don’t understand shooting. They hear the media hype and decide to stan you, thinking they’re super devoted, super classy, super moved by their own dedication,” Hu Xueyue went on, forgetting her erhua in her enthusiasm. “They usually don’t see you as a person. You’re just a cardboard cutout on the field, or—for the more devoted—an account on social media. But their expectations of you are completely different from those of people around you, and their tolerance levels are worlds apart. It can’t be helped—they don’t actually know you. If you shiver during an interview, they think you can’t handle big stages, never realizing the venue’s air conditioning was set to 15°C. If you don’t look at the flag during the national anthem, they think you’re arrogant and unpatriotic, never knowing the angle was flooded with kilowatt spotlights.”

“Fans want to see results—dominance and comebacks. To them, you’re not a person, just a vessel for their desires. A flat thing.” Hu Xueyue pressed her right hand flat against the table. “You can’t take them too seriously, or you’ll flatten yourself too. That’s no good.”

Gu Yiming disagreed somewhat in his heart. He wasn’t good with words, so he frowned and thought for a long time before finally finding the right phrasing: “Calling them ‘fans’ as a collective also flattens every individual who supports you.”

Hu Xueyue snapped her fingers. “Exactly! But here’s the thing… let me put it this way: the ones I don’t know are fans. The ones I do know—even if they started as fans—aren’t anymore. They’re friends now, right?”

Gu Yiming mulled over this for a moment before asking, “Is that fair?”

“Fair?” Hu Xueyue repeated incredulously, then laughed. “Ming’er, you’re not the whole world to your fans, and your fans aren’t your whole world either. That’s what fairness is. Understanding takes time—if it takes one day to befriend one person, it takes a hundred days to befriend a hundred. Sometimes, you have a bad selection trial, and before your coach even says anything, someone’s already leaving comments saying you’ve gotten arrogant. Oh, how disappointed they are! Oh, how indignant! Yesterday they called themselves true fans, today they’ve turned neutral or even anti. And that’s not all—some even spin team drama to defend you. Fair? How could that be fair? Pfft, it’s nothing. Just don’t confuse positions, don’t let it affect you.”

Gu Yiming thought Hu Xueyue’s words made a lot of sense. But even if they did, he didn’t want to follow them. Gu Yiming wanted to influence Fang Xiao and was more than willing to be influenced in return. As Hu Xueyue said, once they got to know each other, they weren’t just fan and idol anymore. He suspected Fang Xiao might be a fake fan… Were they friends?

Gu Yiming felt this conclusion couldn’t be drawn so casually.

When Hu Xueyue left, she remarked offhandedly, “Ming’er, you’ve been talking a lot more lately—that’s good. People need communication to understand each other. No one’s born knowing what’s in your gut. You’ve gotta chat every day.”

Gu Yiming wondered—had he talked a lot? He hadn’t even said five full sentences the whole time.

But upon reflection, he realized the difference: just now, every word he’d spoken was actively seeking conversation, unlike his usual habit of zoning out mid-talk. Even Fang Xiao couldn’t understand him sometimes, so Gu Yiming knew he couldn’t expect too much from others. It was normal for people not to get you—getting you was the rare exception. They had no noble obligation, no reason to indulge your whims. You had to reach out yourself.

That night, Gu Yiming chatted with Fang Xiao and told him about Hu Xueyue. He typed out a long paragraph of thoughts but hadn’t sent it yet when he saw Fang Xiao’s confused reply: Who?

Gu Yiming froze for a moment before realizing Fang Xiao’s “who” was a literal question. He thought Fang Xiao might just need a reminder and prompted: The women’s 25-meter pistol champion from the last Olympics.

Fang Xiao sent a line of ellipses, meekly admitting he didn’t follow the women’s team—especially since Hu Xueyue’s win predated his interest in shooting.

Wait, let me Baidu her, Fang Xiao said.

…See? Fang Xiao genuinely knew nothing. Maybe Tang Shao was right—Fang Xiao watched shooting matches just because he thought the air pistol stance (one hand in the pocket, the other holding the gun) looked cool. Gu Yiming thought calmly. Yet at the same time, he felt a strange thrill. What came to mind wasn’t Hu Xueyue’s “theory of fans” but Fang Xiao’s words during one of their late-night chats:

“I don’t like shooting—I just like watching you compete.”

…So it was true.

Fang Xiao said they’d arrived in Chengdu, and his car needed repairs—he’d probably return to Beijing next week. Gu Yiming felt happy but didn’t know how to hide it, immediately typing out “I want to see you.” Only after sending it did he realize how abrupt it was. For some reason, he panicked and hit recall, regretting it even more afterward. The message alone might’ve been fine, but recalling it made it seem like he was overcompensating.

Gu Yiming agonized over how to reply if Fang Xiao had seen it, but before he could decide, Fang Xiao asked if winter training was closed-door and whether visits were allowed.

—If you’re busy, it’s fine, Xiao Gu, no pressure. Train well—if you don’t want to meet, that’s okay too.

Probably hadn’t seen it, then. Gu Yiming sighed in relief but also felt a faint disappointment and annoyance. Why wouldn’t he want to see Fang Xiao? Tch, Fang Xiao really didn’t understand him at all.

Fang Xiao said he was going to shower. Gu Yiming sent him a waving Minion emoji, exited the chat, and saw another message from that inexplicable “Xing Zongkai,” who’d added and then deleted him.

Reading it again, he still didn’t understand, but the more he looked, the more it bothered him—really bothered him.

After some thought, Gu Yiming remembered Tang Shao had given out his number as Fang Xiao’s, so he called him. When Tang Shao picked up, he didn’t wait for Gu Yiming to speak: “Fang Xiao’s showering, Master Gu—call back later, mwah.”

Gu Yiming said hurriedly, “I’m not looking for him.” Then he corrected himself: “Not right now. I’m looking for you.”

“Me? What’s up?”

Gu Yiming got straight to the point: “Who did you give my number to?”

“Your number?” Tang Shao had probably forgotten and thought for a while before answering: “Oh, your phone number. I gave it to a client at the studio.”

“Does that client have anything to do with ‘Xing Zongkai’?”

“No—wait, holy shit!” Tang Shao suddenly yelled. “No wonder they insisted on finding Fang Xiao even though he’s on vacation—it’s that psycho Xing!”

Tang Shao cursed angrily and asked, “Did he give you trouble?”

“No,” Gu Yiming said. “He added me on WeChat and said some weird things.” He paused, omitting the “new boyfriend” part and only mentioning the apology and birthday wishes.

“Birthday wishes?” Tang Shao snorted. “With that guy’s ‘happy birthday,’ Fang Xiao’s birthday would be anything but happy.”

Gu Yiming felt slightly indignant. He thought his own birthday surprise for Fang Xiao had been brilliantly creative—no problem making him laugh. But he wisely kept that to himself.

Tang Shao said, “That guy’s a lunatic, Master Gu—just ignore him.”

Gu Yiming doubted Tang Shao’s assessment: “Yesterday, you called me a lunatic.”

Tang Shao choked. “Xing Zongkai is a hundred times worse than you.”

Gu Yiming was about to ask why when he heard Fang Xiao’s voice through Tang Shao’s poor phone insulation: “What about Xing Zongkai?”

Nothing about Xing Zongkai—but Gu Yiming felt instantly displeased hearing Fang Xiao say that name. Instinctive reaction.

Gu Yiming repeated the story, again skipping the “new boyfriend” phrasing. Fang Xiao listened silently, then softly apologized. No context, no explanation—very unlike Fang Xiao’s usual style. Gu Yiming grew even more displeased.

“Fang Xiao, what’s going on?” His tone was bold and unapologetic, as if he had every right to ask.

Fang Xiao sighed, half-complaining, half-joking: “Since when did Xiao Gu get so nosy?” Still, he’d never been able to refuse Gu Yiming. Gu Yiming heard a door close, followed by wind noise—probably Fang Xiao stepping outside.

Fang Xiao gave a half-hearted account of the past, saying Xing Zongkai was a classmate they’d once been close with. After graduation, Xing started a talent agency, and Fang Xiao signed a singer contract there. Later, things fell apart—the contract negotiations collapsed, and their friendship ended too.

“That year, there was a movie line: ‘Don’t go into business with your best friend.’ So true—emotional factors make already messy disputes even harder to untangle,” Fang Xiao said calmly, as if it weren’t his own experience. “Xing Zongkai might feel guilty and has been wanting to talk, but I don’t really want to. I didn’t expect him to reach out to you—sorry about that, Xiao Gu.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Gu Yiming said.

It wasn’t like Xing Zongkai had been rude—even if he’d cursed, that was his problem, not Fang Xiao’s. Ultimately, Xing Zongkai was just an old classmate, a former friend—or rather, ex-boyfriend. Fang Xiao probably thought his “emotional factors” remark had stayed within the bounds of friendship, but Gu Yiming had seen Xing Zongkai’s “new boyfriend” line. Gu Yiming wasn’t stupid—connecting the dots, he understood immediately.

Gu Yiming thought: So Fang Xiao is gay.

…Fang Xiao is actually gay.

…Fang Xiao was always gay.

No wonder their relationship didn’t feel like fan and idol—friends didn’t quite fit either. So that was it. Seen from this angle, all his confusion suddenly made sense. Fang Xiao was gay—those “I like you” confessions were literal.

Fang Xiao liked him. Fang Xiao had a crush on him.

…No, Fang Xiao had said it multiple times. Not a crush—open affection.

So was Fang Xiao… pursuing him?

Gu Yiming tightened his grip on his phone, his palm sweating.

Fang Xiao noticed Gu Yiming’s silence and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Gu Yiming couldn’t say he was thinking about Fang Xiao liking him, so he deflected: “I’m angry.”

Fang Xiao was surprised: “What are you angry about?”

…Just angry, no logic to it. He hadn’t realized until he said it, but now that he’d admitted to anger, Gu Yiming genuinely felt it. For a zen shooting athlete, anger was a rare state.

Gu Yiming thought: I’m angry someone knew you before I did.

But he couldn’t say that either. Gu Yiming had to keep deflecting. He wanted to be careful, to take his time—but after a long silence, he still couldn’t find the right words.

Finally, Gu Yiming resigned himself: “Fang Xiao, when you’re back in Beijing, let’s meet up.”

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  A phonological feature of some Mandarin dialects (including the Beijing dialect), where a retroflex “-r” sound is added to the end of a syllable.