The gym in Chiang Mai pulsed like a heartbeat.

Heat rose off the court in waves, trapped under high metal beams and bright white lights. Every shout bounced off the rafters and poured back down—chants, whistles, the sharp smack of the rattan ball as it rocketed over the net.

“Match point!” Win’s voice cracked over the noise, somewhere behind him. “Phayu, you ready?”

Phayu Rattanakorn didn’t answer with words.

He rolled his shoulders back, bounced on the balls of his feet, and let his hands rest loosely at his sides. The Bangkok Kites logo curved across his jersey, navy and white sticking to his skin with sweat. His breathing had settled into that familiar rhythm—fast, but controlled. Heart pounding, but not frantic.

20–20.

One more point and the preseason match in Chiang Mai was theirs.

The crowd knew it. The chants had turned into a single name, rhythmic and relentless.

“Pha-yu! Pha-yu! Pha-yu!”

He shouldn’t love it as much as he did.

Across the net, Niran from the Chiang Mai home team narrowed his eyes, mouth quirking into a half-smile. “Show-off,” he muttered, just loud enough for Phayu to hear.

Phayu tilted his head, lips curling in a lazy grin. “You can always sit down and watch, if it’s too much for you.”

Niran huffed, dropping into position. “Try not to break yourself this time, city boy.”

The referee’s whistle cut through the gym. The ball was set into play.

Win received the serve with a smooth chest touch, nudging the ball up to the middle. The rally was fast—too fast to think, just enough to react. Feet, chests, shoulders, heads. No hands. Never hands. The ball spun between them in whipping arcs.

Then Win called it, voice sharp and clear.

“Phayu! Now!”

Everything else dropped away.

The ball rose on Win’s perfectly timed set, spinning slow against the harsh lights. For a split second it looked suspended there, waiting for someone to claim it.

Phayu stepped, planted, and jumped.

The ground vanished beneath him. His body remembered the motion better than his mind did—torso twisting, hips snapping, right leg cutting through the air in a crescent. For one suspended breath, he could see the entire court from above: the startled tilt of Niran’s face, the open gap in the back corner, the hopeful tilt of his own teammates’ heads.

His foot connected with the ball with a sharp, satisfying crack.

It sailed past the block, over the outstretched bodies, and slammed into the open space at the back of the court.

Silence.
Then—eruption.

The crowd exploded. The referee’s whistle signaled the point, and the entire gym surged to its feet.

Win whooped behind him. “That’s my striker!”

“Bangkok Kites win! 21–20!” the announcer shouted over the loudspeakers.

Adrenaline burned through Phayu’s veins. A grin split his face as he dropped from the air—

—and the world tilted sideways.

He landed, but not how he meant to. His left foot hit first, sliding on a faint sheen of sweat on the floor. His right knee, the one he’d been telling himself was “just a little tight” all week, took the rest of the impact at a twisted angle.

Something deep inside the joint screamed.

Pain lanced up his leg, sharp and white-hot.

His knee buckled. His victory roar died in his throat. For half a second he tried to hold it, tried to force his body to obey.

Then he went down, hard.

The cheering melted into a wave of shocked gasps. Whistles shrilled again, this time frantic. The rattan ball ran lazy circles across the floor and bumped to a stop against the boundary line.

“Phayu!” Win was there first, dropping to his knees beside him. “Hey, hey, talk to me. What is it?”

Phayu’s fingers dug into the polished floor, nails scraping uselessly. The pain ebbed and surged in sick pulses. He tried to straighten his leg and almost blacked out.

“Nothing,” he hissed between his teeth. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Niran’s voice came from the other side, surprisingly close. Breathless, wary. “You okay?”

Phayu swallowed a curse and forced a weak smirk. “Didn’t know you cared.”

Niran scowled, but his eyes stayed on the swelling knee. “Idiot.”

Coach Prasert shouldered his way through the cluster of bodies. Mid-forties, short hair streaked with gray, he didn’t bother hiding the concern on his face.

“What happened?”

Win shot a look between Phayu and the knee. “Landed wrong. I think—”

“I said I’m fine,” Phayu cut in. The words came out sharper than he meant, panicked. He pushed up on his elbows, chest heaving, trying to sit.

His knee disagreed.

Agony lit up his leg again. He grunted, jaw clenching, vision blurring at the edges.

Coach Prasert’s expression hardened. “You’re not fine.” He jerked his chin at two nearby players. “Take him to medical.”

“I can walk,” Phayu snapped.

“Good,” Coach said. “Then walking to the stretcher won’t be a problem.”

There was laughter around them—a short, nervous ripple—but no one disobeyed. Hands slid under his arms and back, steady but firm. Phayu hissed as they helped him up, weight barely touching his injured leg.

The crowd started clapping again— softer now, more like encouragement than celebration. A few voices called his name. Phones hovered, catching everything.

This is not how they’re going to remember me, he thought, teeth grinding. Not getting carried off like some—

“Head up,” Coach murmured under the noise. “You won us the match. Let them see that, not you wincing.”

Phayu swallowed hard and lifted his chin.

He smiled for the crowd. Or something close enough to it.

But inside, beneath the roar and the bright lights, the pain curled into a quiet, throbbing fear.