The semifinal gym was packed.
Drums from the student section shook the floor. Banners hung from the railing. Teachers pretended the noise was under control. Parents leaned forward with phones ready.
Lâm walked out with his right hand taped too neatly.
Minh saw it from the stands.
His chest went cold.
Lâm did not look at him.
The rest of Lương Thế Vinh looked worse: one player moving stiffly around bruised ribs, one favoring a knee, the first-year guard pale whenever Ernest Thälmann's players came close.
Thiên Phú spoke immediately.
"Pre-match damage."
Gomboc's voice warmed with pleasure.
"Someone touched what is yours..."
Minh gripped the railing.
Five things.
Scoreboard. Whistle. Court line. Lâm's taped hand. The exit door.
Four sounds.
Drums. Sneakers. Breathing. Blood in his ears.
One intent.
Do not move.
Ernest Thälmann entered like they owned the gym.
The announcer called their names.
"Captain, Trần Nhật Quân."
The calm boy in the white jacket raised a hand.
"Guard, Bảo Khánh."
Khánh smiled toward Lâm.
"Forward, Mạnh Hùng."
Hùng rolled his shoulders.
Lâm's face did not change.
That was how Minh knew he recognized them.
------
The game started fast.
Lâm could still run. He could still defend. He could still pass cleanly through gaps most people did not see.
But shooting was different.
His first open three hit the front rim.
Khánh jogged past him.
"Hand still attached? Respect."
Lâm said nothing.
Second quarter, Hùng set a hard screen that clipped the injured hand. Legal enough. Dirty enough.
Lâm's jaw tightened so hard Minh could see it from the stands.
On the next possession, Lâm drove left, drew two defenders, and passed to the corner. His teammate missed.
The crowd groaned.
Quân walked beside Lâm during the dead ball.
"You should have rested."
Lâm finally looked at him.
"You sent them."
Quân's expression stayed pleasant. "No proof."
"You knew."
"Basketball is easier when the shooter can't shoot."
The referee blew the whistle before Lâm could answer.
Minh stood.
Lãnh Phong's hand landed on his shoulder.
Minh had not even sensed him arrive.
"Sit," Lãnh Phong said.
"They did this."
"Yes."
"Lâm—"
"Will hate you if you turn his court into your battlefield."
Minh trembled.
Gomboc snarled.
"Break the polished one first..."
Lãnh Phong's fingers tightened once.
"If you move now, Lao wins without entering the gym."
Minh sat.
It felt like swallowing glass.
------
The final minute came with Lương Thế Vinh down by two.
Everyone in the gym knew where the ball was going.
Lâm received it at the wing.
Khánh closed too fast.
Lâm pump-faked, stepped sideways, and rose.
For one heartbeat, everything looked normal.
His feet were right.
His elbow aligned.
His eyes locked on the rim.
This was the shot he had made a thousand times after practice, laughing under half-dead lights.
Then pain crossed his face.
The release broke.
The ball fell short and struck the front rim.
Hùng grabbed the rebound.
Quân scored on the other end.
The scoreboard made it official.
Lương Thế Vinh lost.
------
Lâm did not cry.
That would have been easier.
He sat alone in the locker room, staring at his taped hand while the team tried to comfort him without knowing where to put their grief.
"We were close," someone said.
Lâm laughed once.
Small.
Empty.
Everyone went quiet.
"I protected everyone," he said.
His voice sounded strange, like it came from far away.
"I protected everyone and still lost."
Minh stood in the doorway.
Lâm looked up, eyes red but dry.
"So this is what they wanted," he whispered. "They didn't just want the match. They wanted me to know."
Something inside Minh cracked.
Not Gomboc.
Not khí.
Something human.
Outside the gym, Lao received a message from Hạo Kỳ.
The shooter missed.
Lao smiled.
"Now," he said, "let's see what crawls out of Minh."
In the changing room, nobody asked Lâm to apologize. That made the silence worse.
The unnamed boys moved around him with the careful efficiency of people cleaning up after an accident. One collected the tape. One pushed the water bottles into a crate. Another sat with his head between his knees, still breathing through a bruised rib. The coach stood in the doorway and looked at Lâm's hand without looking at his face.
"Clinic," the coach said.
"I'm fine."
The coach picked up the score sheet, folded it once, and placed it in the bin. "That was not a question."
At the sink, Lâm tried to turn the tap. His fingers slipped from the metal. On the second attempt he used both hands, hiding the failure inside an awkward grip. Cold water struck the swollen knuckles. He remembered the ball leaving his palm wrong, the rim rejecting it, and the Thälmann defender stepping away before the miss had even landed. The boy had known which side would fail.
One teammate appeared in the mirror. "They knew."
Lâm shut off the water with his wrist. "About the hand?"
"About all of us. Who was slow. Who couldn't breathe. Who had taped ankles." The teammate swallowed. "They weren't guessing."
The defeat moved inside Lâm then. It was no longer one missed shot. Someone had purchased the condition of their bodies before the whistle and called the result a game.
His phone vibrated with Minh's name. Lâm watched it until the screen went dark. If he answered now, Minh would hear the changing room and build revenge from every breath.
He put the phone in his bag.
Outside, the winning team posed beneath white lights. One Thälmann player kept his injured hand behind his back for the photograph, mirroring Lâm by accident or by design. Lâm could not tell which possibility hurt more.
Before leaving, Lâm retrieved the discarded score sheet. He smoothed it against the locker and folded it into his rehab bag. He did not keep the paper to remember the loss. He kept it because every foul, substitution, and injury timeout formed a timeline. If the game had been prepared, the preparation would have entered the record somewhere.