The morning after felt like waking up in a slightly different, brighter world. As Tristan walked to school, the usual pre-practice anxiety was gone, replaced by a quiet, buoyant joy that seemed to lighten his steps.
He had faced a different kind of pressure, one without a shot clock or a defensive scheme, and he hadn't just won; he had achieved a kind of victory that resonated deeper than the roar of any crowd.
The echo of Claire's simple, written "Yes" on the basketball felt more profound than the swish of his game-winning shot. That basketball, now a sacred artifact, sat on his desk next to the regional trophy. To him, it represented a championship of a different, more personal sort.
He was the first of the trio to arrive at the gym, a rare occurrence. He began his stretching routine, the familiar pulls and strains in his muscles a comforting rhythm.
He felt a sense of calm he hadn't realized he'd been missing. The immense weight of the upcoming Nationals was still there, a vast mountain range on the horizon, but now, it felt like he had a partner for the climb.
A few minutes later, the swinging gym doors announced the arrival of Marco, who moved with the subtlety of a parade float. He spotted Tristan stretching at center court and his eyes immediately lit up with an uncontainable, conspiratorial glee.
"There he is!" Marco boomed, his voice echoing in the cavernous, empty gym. He jogged over, forgoing any warm-up in favor of the debriefing he so desperately craved.
"The man, the myth, the legend… Romeo Herrera! Do not leave out a single, glorious detail. Did she cry? Did you cry? Was there a slow-motion run into each other's arms? I need to know everything!"
Tristan chuckled, finishing a quad stretch. "It wasn't a movie, Marco."
Just then, Gab walked in, his expression as impassive as ever. He set his bag down, gave them a curt nod, and began his own meticulous stretching routine nearby, pretending to be utterly absorbed in his warm-up but positioning himself just close enough to hear every word.
"So?" Marco prompted, practically vibrating with impatience. "Operation: C-Day. Give me the full report, Captain."
Tristan, knowing there was no escaping it, finally relented. He sat up, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips as he relived the moment. "I did what you both said. Sort of."
He explained the plan: waiting for her in the empty gym, the symbolic significance of the location, the way it represented their shared journey of ambition and hard work.
"Okay, good start," Marco conceded, stroking his chin like a seasoned director. "Intimate setting, personal connection. I approve."
Then Tristan described the basketball. He told them about the carefully written questions on the clean white panels, culminating in the final, most important one.
Marco's jaw dropped. He was silent for a full five seconds, a new record for him. Then, his face broke into a massive, triumphant grin.
"A basketball! A proposal on a basketball! That's… that's genius! It's the perfect blend of grand gesture and personal sincerity! It's a movie moment, but it's your movie moment! Why didn't I think of that?!"
"Because your ideas involved doves and a flash mob," Gab said without looking up from his hamstring stretch.
"Minor details!" Marco waved dismissively. "The core concept—the unforgettable, romantic gesture—was mine! I provided the artistic inspiration. Gab provided the… boring, practical advice. You, my friend, synthesized our two philosophies into a masterpiece. I'm a proud mentor."
Tristan shook his head, laughing. "And then she just… she wrote 'Yes' on it. And that was it."
"That was it?" Marco asked, crestfallen. "No dramatic speech? No tearful confession?"
"No. It was quiet," Tristan said, his smile softening. "It was perfect."
Gab finished his stretch and finally looked over at Tristan. He offered no grand congratulations, no effusive praise. He just looked at his friend, saw the genuine, unburdened happiness in his eyes, and gave a single, firm nod. "Good," he said. "It's about time."
For Gab, that single word was the equivalent of a heartfelt, ten-minute speech. It was the highest form of approval, a quiet acknowledgment that things were now as they should be.
The lighthearted moment was abruptly shattered by the sharp, piercing sound of Coach Gutierrez's whistle from the doorway. He walked in, his face all business, his eyes sweeping over them, instantly assessing their readiness.
"Alright, ladies, that's enough gossiping for one day," he barked, though a keen observer might have noticed the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He'd seen the exchange. Not much escaped his notice. "The Palaro is in two weeks. Our opponents are not sitting around talking about their feelings. They are in a gym, getting better. So are we. Let's go!"
The rest of the team, who had been filing in, immediately snapped to attention. The loose, pre-practice atmosphere vanished, replaced by a crackling, professional focus.
The joy of Tristan's personal victory was compartmentalized, stored away. This was a different kind of arena, with a different kind of pressure.
The practice that followed was a masterclass in controlled chaos, designed to simulate the suffocating pressure of a single-elimination game.
"Gather up!" Coach Gutierrez commanded once they were warmed up. "Today, we focus on composure under duress. At the Nationals, you won't just be playing against your opponent. You'll be playing against the moment, against the noise, against the fear of going home. We will practice that today."
He led them to the free-throw line. "First drill. I call it the 'Pressure Cooker.' Every player will shoot two free throws. If you make both, you're safe. If you miss one, the entire team runs a suicide sprint. If you miss both, we run two."
A collective groan went through the team.
"Oh, and one more thing," the coach added, a cruel glint in his eye. "The rest of the team is encouraged to provide… distractions. Make some noise. Talk some trash. Remind the shooter what's at stake. Make it feel real."
The first few players went up. The gym was filled with a cacophony of yells, whistles, and friendly taunts. "Don't let us down, Joseph!" "My legs are already tired just looking at you!" The pressure worked.
Several players missed, and the team was forced to run, their groans echoing with each change of direction on the unforgiving sprints.
Then, it was Tristan's turn. He walked to the line, the basketball feeling light and familiar in his hands. He bounced it three times, his routine a small island of calm in the storm of noise around him.
"Come on, Captain!" Marco yelled, his voice the loudest. "Don't think about Claire watching! Don't think about the prom! Just think about our poor, tired legs!"
Tristan smiled faintly. He blocked it all out. He thought of the System, of the number 70 next to his Free Throw attribute. It wasn't just a number; it was a representation of thousands of repetitions, a foundation of muscle memory. He raised the ball, his form perfect. The first shot was pure.
Swish.
The second was a mirror image.
Swish.
He had passed the test. As he walked back, he felt a new level of confidence. The pressure, both external and internal, felt manageable. Having settled the most important thing in his personal life, the challenges on the court seemed clearer, less daunting.
The next drill was a five-on-five defensive gauntlet designed to break their discipline. Coach Gutierrez called it the "Cebu System Breaker." The offensive team (the second unit) had to complete ten consecutive passes before they were allowed to shoot. The defensive team (the starters) had to get three consecutive "stops"—a deflection, a steal, or a shot clock violation—without fouling.
The drill was maddeningly difficult. The offense, with no pressure to score, made simple, safe passes, forcing the defense to maintain perfect focus for an extended period.
"Stay down in your stance!" the coach yelled as Aiden lunged for a pass and missed.
"Don't get lazy!"
"Talk! I can't hear you!" he roared as a cutter found an open space. "Call out the screen, Cedrick!"
Ian and Cedrick were a wall in the paint, but the test was on the perimeter. Marco, usually an offensive-minded player, was forced to expend all his energy chasing his man through a series of screens.
"I'm dying out here!" he gasped during a brief pause.
"Good," Coach Gutierrez shot back. "The NCR guards run non-stop. Get used to it."
Finally, on the seventh possession, they did it. Tristan, reading the passer's eyes, jumped the lane and deflected a pass. On the next, Gab, who had subbed in, perfectly timed a rotation and drew a charging foul. On the third, their relentless ball pressure forced the offense into a shot clock violation.
They had passed the test. Their reward was a thirty-second water break before moving on to the final, most brutal part of practice: the full-court scrimmage.
Coach Gutierrez split them into two teams, deliberately creating challenging matchups. He put Tristan, Marco, Aiden, Felix, and Gab on Team White. Team Green was comprised of Ian, Cedrick, John, Daewoo, and the backup point guard, Mark. It was a classic offense vs. defense matchup, but with the added wrinkle of splitting the twin towers.
The scrimmage was played with a running clock under Palaro rules: one ten-minute quarter. The intensity was higher than the Trece Martires practice game. These players knew each other's every tendency, every weakness, and they exploited them without mercy.
The first few possessions were a defensive slugfest. John and Daewoo were hounding Marco and Aiden, their defensive prowess frustrating the two elite scorers. Felix and Gab were waging war in the paint against the bigger duo of Ian and Cedrick.
"You're not getting that position in here!" Gab grunted, using his lower body to force Cedrick a foot further from the block.
"Just keep holding me, old man!" Cedrick shot back, fighting for every inch.
It was Tristan who broke the game open. With his primary scorers locked down, he took control. On one possession, he used a screen from Felix. Ian switched onto him. It was a speed vs. size mismatch.
Tristan used a hesitation dribble that froze the big man for a split second. He blew past him, drove the lane, and as Cedrick rotated over to help, he dropped a perfect no-look pass to Felix for an easy dunk.
"That's on me!" Ian yelled, clapping his hands in frustration. "Too slow!"
A few plays later, Team Green answered. Mark, playing with a newfound confidence since the TMH game, patiently ran the offense. He saw Ian seal Gab deep in the post and threw a perfect entry pass. Ian used a quick drop-step and scored over his tenacious but undersized defender.
The game was a chess match. Tristan would create a shot for Aiden; Daewoo would answer with a steal and a fast-break layup. Marco would finally get free for a three-pointer; Cedrick would come back with a powerful offensive rebound and put-back.
With a minute left, the game was tied. Team White had the ball. This was the moment.
Tristan dribbled at the top, surveying the court. He saw the fatigue in the defenders' eyes. He called for a high screen from Felix.
As he came around it, he saw Marco's defender, John, anticipating the pass and cheating a step in that direction.
He's overplaying, Tristan thought. He thinks I'm looking for the assist.
Instead of passing, Tristan planted his foot and rose up from behind the screen, launching a deep three-pointer. The shot felt perfect the moment it left his hand. It swished through the net, a clean, beautiful sound that cut through the noise of the gym.
It was the dagger. His team held on to win by that single basket.
The final whistle blew, and the players collapsed, every ounce of energy spent. They were no longer teammates and opponents; they were just one team, united in their shared exhaustion.
They went through their cool-down stretches in a tired, satisfied silence. The practice had been a crucible, designed to forge them in the fires of pressure, and they had emerged stronger.
As they packed their bags, Marco draped a sweaty arm over Tristan's shoulder.
"Okay, I have to admit," he panted, "that was a pretty clutch shot. You're almost as good under pressure as I am."
"Almost," Tristan agreed, a tired smile on his face.
"So," Marco said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now that the hard part of the day is over… did you get a 'yes' on the prom proposal, too? Or did you miss that shot?"
Tristan looked at Marco, then at Gab, who was listening intently. He thought of the basketball sitting on his desk, of the simple, perfect word written on it. He felt the weight of the grueling practice, the immense pressure of the upcoming Nationals, and the quiet, unshakeable joy of his new reality.
"Swish," Tristan said, a full, happy grin spreading across his face. "Nothing but net."