The walk home from the gymnasium was a slow, heavy-legged procession. The fierce, competitive fire that had burned in them for two hours had been extinguished, leaving behind the cold, aching embers of exhaustion. Every muscle in Tristan's body felt like a tightly-wound cable, protesting the very concept of movement. The victory against Trece Martires High was satisfying, but it was a brutal, physically taxing affair that served as a stark preview of the punishment that awaited them at the Palarong Pambansa.
"I think," Marco announced to the quiet evening air, his voice a weary groan, "that my soul has left my body. It's probably still back there on the court, mopping up the puddle of sweat I left by the free-throw line."
"Your soul is too dramatic to be a janitor," Gab retorted, his own voice flat with fatigue. He was leaning slightly, favoring the leg that Rain Ocampo had collided with on a hard screen. "That was… intense. Matumba is the real deal. Fighting for a rebound against him is like trying to box out a mountain that can jump."
"But we did it," Tristan said, the words carrying the weight of their collective effort. "The third unit held. They weathered the storm. That's what won us the game." He was analyzing it, breaking it down, his mind still locked in the strategic framework of basketball.
Even in his exhaustion, the Floor General in him was running diagnostics.
They walked in a comfortable silence for a few blocks, the rhythm of their footsteps the only sound. As they reached the intersection where they always parted ways, Marco clapped his two friends on their aching shoulders.
"Well, gentlemen, another day, another step closer to national domination," he said, a flicker of his usual bravado returning. "Rest up. We do it all again tomorrow."
With a final, weary wave, they separated. As Tristan continued on his own, the mental chatter of the game—the rotations, the defensive assignments, the perfectly executed plays—finally began to recede. The silence it left behind was quickly filled by a different kind of anxiety, a low, humming pressure that had nothing to do with basketball. It was a pressure that had been building in the back of his mind for days, a challenge for which his System offered no stats, no skill badges, no clear path to victory.
The Prom.
Back in the sanctuary of his room, Tristan collapsed onto his bed without even bothering to change out of his practice gear.
He stared at the ceiling, his body screaming for rest but his mind refusing to quiet down.
The regional championship trophy on his desk seemed to watch him, a silent, gleaming reminder of a victory that felt, at this moment, surprisingly simple. On the court, the rules were clear. The objective was defined. You put in the work, you trusted your skills, and you executed the plan.
But this? Asking Claire to the prom? It was a different universe of complexity. It wasn't just a date. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was the moment. The moment to finally put a name to the comfortable, wonderful, undefined thing that had grown between them.
The thought sent a jolt through him that was more potent than any pre-game adrenaline. The pressure felt immense, heavier than the final seconds of the regional finals. If he missed that shot against Nasugbu, he would have disappointed his team, his school. But if he messed this up… this felt like a purely personal failure, a risk that was somehow more terrifying.
He rolled over and grabbed his phone, his thumb hovering over his contacts. He needed a game plan. He needed his team. He opened the group chat he shared with his two closest friends, a space usually reserved for basketball strategy and ridiculous memes.
Group Chat: Basketball is life
Tristan H.: Guys. I need advice.
A few seconds passed, then the first reply came.
Marco the pogi: Ooooh, this sounds serious. Is this about Coach's new suicide sprint drill? Because I'm already drafting my will. I'm leaving you my good basketball shoes, Gab can have my collection of headbands.
GAB: It's not about the sprints. What's up, Tris?
Tristan H.: It's about the prom. It's about asking Claire.
Marco's reply was just a random letters, shows how excited he is: AIDIENAJOAIDHENSJDJ.
Marco the pogi: OPERATION: C-DAY IS A GO!!! I knew you'd see the light! The time for greatness is now! What's the plan? Do you need me to source a flock of doves? A string quartet? I know a guy who can do a surprisingly good fireworks display on a budget.
GAB: Do not listen to him. He thinks romance is a Michael Bay movie.
Tristan H.: That's the problem. I don't have a plan. That's why I need you guys. I want to do it right. I want to make it special. I'm not just asking her to the dance.
Marco the pogi: HE'S GOING FOR THE WHOLE ENCHILADA! THE GIRLFRIEND PROPOSAL! This requires a new level of grandeur! Okay, brainstorming session, let's go. Idea number one: The Grandstand Play. We get permission to use the school's big announcement screen in the quad. During lunch, when it's packed, we flash a picture of you two—I can photoshop a really good one—and the words "CLAIRE, EVERY SHOT I TAKE IS FOR YOU. BE MY PROM DATE?" It's public, it's heroic, it's unforgettable.
GAB: It's also a recipe for public humiliation and a lifetime of cringing every time you think about it. Horrible idea. Next.
Marco the pogi: You have no soul. Okay, fine. Idea number two: The Musical Declaration. You know how the Glee Club practices by the music room every day after school? I talk to them. You walk by with Claire, and suddenly, they burst into a perfectly choreographed rendition of a love song. At the end, you step forward and ask. It's heartfelt! It's musical!
Tristan H.: I can sing. But I definitely can't dance. I would die of embarrassment before the first chorus was over.
GAB: My turn. You want a good idea? Take her to that little coffee shop near the park you guys go to sometimes. Buy her a milk tea. Sit down, talk like normal human beings, and when the moment feels right, you look her in the eye and you tell her how you feel. Then you ask her. It's simple, it's sincere, and it's private.
Marco the pogi: BORING! That's not a proposal, that's a business meeting! There's no spectacle! No flair! She's a cheerleader, for crying out loud! She appreciates a good performance! Okay, idea number three, my masterstroke: The Epic Scavenger Hunt. I help you set it up. You give her the first clue in the morning. Each clue is a riddle about a memory you two have together. It leads her all over the school—to the classroom where you first met, the spot in the cafeteria where you always sit, the bleachers by the field. The final clue leads her to the gym after her practice. The gym is empty, except for you, standing at center court, holding the last clue and a bouquet of flowers. That's when you ask. It's personal, it's romantic, AND it's a grand gesture.
Tristan read Marco's last idea and paused. He had to admit, it wasn't terrible. It was thoughtful. But it also felt… complicated. And very, very public.
GAB: It's not a bad idea, for you. But it's still too much. You're putting her on the spot in front of the whole school, even if they're not physically there. Everyone will be watching her go from clue to clue. It becomes a performance. Asking someone something this important shouldn't be a performance. It should be a conversation.
Tristan H.: Gab has a point. I don't want to put her under that kind of pressure. But just asking her over milk tea… it feels too… normal. I want the moment to feel as special as she is to me.
GAB: Then make the conversation special. Tell her things you've never told her before. That's more special than any scavenger hunt.
Marco the pogi: You guys are killing me. You're trying to win the heart of the queen, not applying for a library card! It needs to be memorable! A story she'll tell her friends! A story that will make other guys feel inadequate!
Tristan stared at the screen, at the two wildly different philosophies of his best friends. Marco, the showman, believed the size of the gesture reflected the size of the feeling.
Gab, the pragmatist, believed the sincerity of the words was all that mattered. One wanted a movie; the other wanted a quiet, meaningful conversation.
And suddenly, Tristan knew what he had to do. They were both right. And they were both wrong. He needed a plan that wasn't for Marco or for Gab. He needed a plan that was for him, and for Claire. It needed the sincerity Gab was talking about, the quiet intimacy of a private moment. But it also needed the thoughtful, special gesture that Marco was championing. It needed to be a story, but their story.
He knew the perfect place. And he knew the perfect way.
Tristan H.: Thanks, guys. You've helped a lot. I think I have a plan.
Marco the pogi: YES! Which one did you pick? The scavenger hunt, right? I can start writing the clues! I'm a surprisingly good poet. Roses are red, violets are blue…
GAB: He's not picking the scavenger hunt.
Tristan H.: I'm sort of blending your ideas. You'll see. I'm going to do it tomorrow.
Marco the pogi: TOMORROW?! That's no time to prepare! The doves need at least 24 hours notice!
GAB: Good luck, Tris. Just be yourself. She likes that guy.
Tristan put his phone down, a nervous but determined energy humming through him. He got off his bed, walked to his closet, and pulled out a brand new, pristine white basketball. He then found a black permanent marker from his desk drawer. He had his props. He had his stage. Now, he just needed to find the courage.
The next day at school was a special kind of torture. Every class felt twice as long, every tick of the clock a slow, deliberate beat of his racing heart. He felt more nervous now than he had in the tunnel before the regional finals. He saw Claire between classes, and she gave him her usual bright, effortless smile. He felt his carefully constructed plan threaten to dissolve into a puddle of incoherent mumbling. He just smiled back, his heart doing a frantic staccato rhythm against his ribs.
Finally, the last bell rang. The school day was over. The main event was about to begin.
He went to his locker and retrieved the basketball, hidden inside a plain paper bag. His hands were slick with nervous sweat. He walked to the gymnasium, his footsteps echoing in the nearly empty hallway. As he had hoped, the gym was quiet, save for the rhythmic thump of a lone basketball. Coach Gutierrez was there, shooting free throws, his own way of decompressing.
"Tristan," the coach said, surprised, as he sank a shot. "I thought you'd be heading home."
"Just wanted to get a few shots up, Coach," Tristan lied, his voice steadier than he felt. "And… I was hoping I could borrow the gym for a few minutes after you're done. Privately."
Coach Gutierrez looked at him, then at the paper bag in his hand, then back at Tristan's nervous face. A rare, knowing smile touched the coach's lips. He was a master of strategy, not just in basketball, but in life. He understood.
"The gym is all yours, son," he said, grabbing his things. "Just make sure you lock up when you're done." He paused at the door and looked back. "Good luck."
Tristan was left alone in the vast, empty space. It was their sanctuary, the place where they both pushed their limits, where they had celebrated victories and endured grueling practices. The air smelled of sweat, rubber, and hardwood—the scent of their shared ambition. It was the perfect place.
He waited. Ten minutes later, just as her own practice was ending, Claire walked in, just as he knew she would.
"Hey, I thought you'd be gone already," she said, her smile tired but happy. "Don't tell me Coach has you doing extra drills already."
"No, nothing like that," Tristan said, his heart feeling like it was trying to dribble its way out of his chest. "I was… I was waiting for you, actually."
Her smile faltered slightly, replaced by a look of curiosity. "Oh? Is everything okay?"
"Everything's great," he said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. This was it. The moment of truth. "I just… there's something I wanted to ask you."
He reached into the paper bag and pulled out the basketball. He held it out for her. On the clean, white panels, written in his neatest, most careful handwriting in black permanent marker, were a series of questions.
Panel 1: Will you go to the Prom with me?
Panel 2: (Please don't say no, my backup plan involves Marco and a flash mob)
Panel 3: But more importantly…
Panel 4: Will you be my girlfriend?
Claire's eyes scanned the words, her expression shifting from curiosity to surprise, to amusement at the Marco joke, and finally, to a soft, heart-stopping tenderness as she read the last panel. She looked up from the ball, her eyes shining, a breathtaking smile slowly spreading across her face.
Tristan's carefully rehearsed speech evaporated from his mind. He was left with only Gab's advice: just be sincere.
"Claire," he started, his voice a little shaky, but clear and true. "The last few months… they've been the craziest of my life. The games, the pressure, the championship… it's been a lot. But the best part of all of it, the quiet part that no one else sees, has been having you there. You're the first person I want to tell when something good happens, and the only person I want to talk to when it's tough. You're smarter, funnier, and stronger than anyone I know. You're my best friend."
He took a step closer. "I know a basketball is a weird way to do this, but this place… this is where I feel most like myself. And I want to be myself with you. Officially. So…" He gestured to the ball in her hands.
She didn't say anything for a long moment. She just looked at him, her eyes searching his. Then, she took the permanent marker he was holding, and on the last empty panel of the basketball, she wrote a single, perfect word.
Yes.
She handed the ball back to him and, without a single word, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug that was filled with all the unspoken words and shared moments of the past few months. Tristan dropped the basketball, the sound of it bouncing once on the hardwood echoing through the empty gym as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.
It wasn't a championship victory. There was no roaring crowd, no confetti, no trophy. But as he stood there at center court, holding the girl who had just become his girlfriend, Tristan knew, with absolute certainty, that he had just won something far more important.