Chapter 2 — Hockey Stars Can't Overcome My Figure

Scholarships Are Never Sent

The email has been sitting in the draft box for eight months now, subject line: "Confirmation letter of scholarship for Master of Sports Data Science — International Competition Performance Research Institute." Yen Thao opens it every few weeks, rereads each line as a ritual, then closes it without ever pressing the send button to accept the response.

She received that scholarship at the exact moment Tong Bao Duy began to show signs of slowing down after a successful first season — a kind of late psychological crisis that sports psychology coaches call "impostor syndrome," when an athlete suddenly doubts whether his success is truly deserved or just temporary luck. He started losing sleep before every important match, started playing too defensively to avoid mistakes instead of attacking with his inherent instincts.

"If you leave now," Bao Duy had told her one rainy evening, sitting huddled on the steps outside the training ground after a terrible practice session, "I don't think I could last through this season."

It's not a forced sentence. He never asked her to stay. But for Yen Thao, that sentence was enough for her to understand that there was a choice that needed to be made, and she chose the way she believed was the most correct at that time: she left the email lying in the draft box, called the Research Institute to ask for an extension for one year, then another year, until they announced that the scholarship had been transferred to another candidate.

She never told Bao Duy about the scholarship being lost forever. Not because she was hiding it, but because she didn't want him to feel unnecessary guilt. For her, it was her own choice, not a burden she placed on someone else's shoulders.

Six months later, an independent sports data analysis company based in another city — a direct competitor to the internal analysis department of the teams in the VPHL league — contacted her to join the Tactical Analysis Team with a salary three times the unofficial allowance she was receiving from the White Tiger Bang Giang Team (because on paper, she had no official title within the team, just a part-time "analytics associate", despite the amount of work she did). equivalent to a senior full-time position).

Yen Thao responded to that invitation with a serious interview, even flying to that city for two days to visit the office and meet the team. She misses being treated like a true expert — people calling her "Sister Thao," consulting her on every tactical decision, putting her name on official reports. That feeling was so strange that she almost burst into tears on the return flight, not because she was sad, but because she realized she had forgotten what it felt like to be recognized by her real name.

But when the plane landed in Bang Giang, her phone lit up with a text message from Bao Duy: "You just won a friendly match, using the exact strategy I analyzed last week. The captain kept praising you. I wish you were there to witness it."

She read that text message right at the airport, and in that moment, all rational calculations about salary, about promotion opportunities, about being recognized by her real name, disappeared before a much simpler feeling: she wanted to be there, wanted to be a part of those moments, even though no one knew her name.

She turned down the job offer over the phone three days later, citing "unresolved personal commitments." The recruiter, a woman named Do Anh Thu — who later became a sports reporter and would reappear in Yen Thao's life in a completely different way — said something that Yen Thao always remembered: "You have a rare ability, Yen Thao. Don't let it only shine in the dark because of one person."

That statement at that time was just a social comment. Yen Thao did not expect it would become a form of prophecy.

That night, she told the story of turning down the job offer to her father, not to ask for his opinion but simply because she wanted to share. Dai Trong Nghiep sat silently for a long time before speaking, his voice could not hide his concern.

"Daughter, I don't understand what love is," he said, swirling the teacup in his hand. "Your father and mother also sacrificed a lot of things for each other. But true sacrifice is when both people know and appreciate what is being exchanged. If only one person knows, one person silently gives but the other takes it for granted, then it is no longer a sacrifice, my child. It is a debt that the other person never intends to repay."

"Bao Duy is not that kind of person," Yen Thao countered, her voice a bit harsher than she wanted. "He's grateful to you. He just promised you this afternoon that one day he'll make the whole world know you're worthy of recognition."

"I hope so." Dai Trong Nghiep nodded, not wanting to argue further with his daughter at a time when she was full of confidence. But inside, with nearly twenty years of experience observing how the professional sports world operates — where public image, sponsorship deals and public pressure often carry more weight than any personal promise — he couldn't help but worry that his daughter was betting too much on a promise made in an emotional moment, never tested by real adversity.

He did not know that adversity was coming closer than he thought, taking the form of a woman that Bao Duy had never mentioned in the four years he knew Yen Thao - as if the girl named Dinh Ha Vy had never existed in his life, even though in reality, it was the unfinished love affair with her that was the first wound that shaped the deep insecurity in Bao Duy's heart that no analysis of Yen Thao's competitive psychology could reach the root of.

The morning after the tactical meeting about the Song Han Iron Eagle Team, Yen Thao stood in the corner of the meeting room, watching Vu Trong Nam - the team's veteran captain, who had played for Bach Ho Bang Giang for nearly twelve years - present exactly what she had written in last night's analysis, except that he presented it as the coaching staff's own ideas.

"Who came up with this tactic of exploiting the left wing?" A young player new to the first team asked.

"The team's analysis department," Vu Trong Nam replied briefly, his eyes quickly glancing towards Yen Thao standing in the corner of the room, a brief look but enough for her to know that he understood better than anyone else who was the real author. He was one of the very few people on the team who knew her exact role — not because she told it, but because after twelve years of working together, he was sophisticated enough to realize that every "anonymous" analysis carried a consistent, sharp thinking mark in a very unique way.

After the meeting, when everyone had dispersed to the practice field, Vu Trong Nam lingered and approached Yen Thao who was packing up the projector.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "I played hockey for twenty years, met all kinds of teammates. But the best I ever saw at the game never stood on the ice."

Yen Thao smiled slightly, not knowing how to respond. "You're too complimentary."

"It's not a compliment," he shook his head, "it's the truth. I'm just worried that one day that truth won't be recognized when it needs to be recognized."

She did not fully understand the meaning of what he said at that time. Only a few months later, when everything collapsed before her eyes in a press conference crowded with cameras, did she remember those words and understand that Vu Trong Nam, through the experience of someone who had witnessed many ups and downs in the professional sports world, had a premonition of something very early on.

That afternoon, Bao Duy finished practice early and took her to dinner at a small restaurant on the edge of the city, where few people recognized him. It was one of the rare moments they could be themselves without worrying about their public image.

"Thank you," he said, holding her hand across the table. "Because of all the things I do that no one knows about."

"I don't need anyone to know," she replied, "I just need you to know."

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes containing something like guilt and gratitude. "One day I will make the whole world know how much recognition you deserve. I promise."

Yen Thao believed that promise, as she had believed for the past four years in every word he said. She didn't know that promise, like the scholarship email still in the draft box, would never be fulfilled — not because Bao Duy didn't want to, but because when the truly challenging moment came, he would choose a completely different path from what he promised in the small restaurant that night.