Kiyoshi, his mile-wide grin softening into something more measured but still undeniably there, turned to face the Motijheel coach. He was still buzzing with adrenaline, but he knew this moment required a different vibe. He extended his hand, aiming for that perfect bance of respect and 'we just totally schooled you, but in a nice way' sportsmanship.

  "Coach Rahman," Kiyoshi said, his voice carrying clearly despite the lingering buzz of the crowd. "Seriously, good game. Your guys fought hard, man. Really well fought." Internally though? He was still screaming internally, "We actually won! Against Motijheel! Are you kidding me?!"

  Coach Rahman took Kiyoshi's hand, the handshake firm, almost a bit too firm, but definitely missing that usual post-game warmth. It was the kind of handshake that said, "I acknowledge you, but I'm also low-key judging you right now." His face was a study in disappointment and bewilderment.

  His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes held this distant, almost gzed-over look. It was clear his mind was still repying the game, trying to figure out where it all went sideways.

  "Good game?" Coach Rahman repeated, and this time there was a definite edge to his voice, a hint of disbelief mixed with frustration. He let out a long sigh, shaking his head slowly, the kind of head shake that screams, "You have got to be kidding me."

  "Kiyoshi… come on, man, with all due respect… and I do respect you and your team… but 'good game' doesn’t even begin to cover it. Not for us. That wasn’t a 'good game', that was… well, you saw it. You know exactly what that was."

  He gestured vaguely towards the court, as if the answer was written in the scuff marks and sweat stains.

  Kiyoshi nodded, his smile now completely gone, repced by a more serious expression. He totally got the coach's genuine frustration.

  He knew Motijheel had come into this game supremely confident, practically smelling victory already. They were the favorites, the home team, the team everyone expected to crush Banani.

  And now, they were standing here, utterly shell-shocked, having been handed a loss they hadn't even considered possible. He could almost hear the internal screaming coming from the Motijheel bench.

  Coach Rahman’s gaze drifted again towards his own team, still frozen in pce near their bench, looking like they were waiting for someone to yell "Cut!" and tell them it was all just a bad dream. The silence from their side was heavy, punctuated only by the distant, fading cheers of the Banani supporters.

  He sighed again, running a hand over his tired face.

  "You know," Coach Rahman began, his voice ced with a heavy dose of ment, like he was about to unch into a Shakespearean tragedy. "If… if those two had been on the court today… if they'd been healthy… things, Kiyoshi, things would have been… drastically different."

  He said it more to himself than to Kiyoshi, a low, almost mournful murmur of "what ifs" and "could have beens" hanging in the air. It was the cssic coach's ment, the go-to excuse for a devastating loss.

  It was a way to try and make sense of the senseless, to rationalize the unexpected humiliation, and maybe, just maybe, salvage a tiny piece of their team's shattered pride. It was like saying, "Yeah, we lost, but under different circumstances, we totally would have won!"