The ten-minute halftime was a strategic and emotional whirlwind. The game, which had started as a simple tune-up, had transformed twice. First, it was a tactical chess match. Now, with Aiden Robinson's pained exit, it had become a deeply personal crusade. The Dasmariñas starters—Tristan, Marco, Daewoo, Cedrick, and Ian—walked back onto the court for the final ten-minute quarter, not with the loose confidence of a team in a practice game, but with the grim, locked-in focus of soldiers defending a fortress.
The Imus High, to their credit, matched their intensity. They were competitors, and they recognized the shift in the air. The friendly, surgical precision was gone, replaced by a harder, more physical edge. The score was a razor-thin 40-38. The final quarter was about to enter its most brutal phase.
Start of the Fourth Quarter: Dasmariñas 40 — Imus 38
Dasmariñas had the ball, and Tristan was in complete control. The time for diagnostics was over. The time for feeling out the opponent was a distant memory. This was now about execution and will.
Tristan brought the ball up, not with the frenetic, chaotic pace of the third quarter, but with a cold, deliberate speed. He called for a high screen from Ian. As he came off it, Andrew Quinahan executed his drop coverage, sagging back to protect the paint.
Jamie Alapag, fighting over the screen, was a step behind. Tristan saw the 18-foot space that the Imus defense was conceding. He didn't hesitate. He rose up, his form a perfect, fluid motion, and drained the mid-range jumper.
Score: Dasmariñas 42 — Imus 38
"That's his shot!" Marco yelled, clapping his hands. "All day, Tris!"
Imus responded, their composure unshaken. They went right back to their high-post offense through Quinahan. He caught the ball at the elbow. Daewoo, who was now the team's designated defensive stopper, was glued to Joey Joson. Marco was denying Jeffrey Chan the ball with a relentless, physical tenacity.
Quinahan, seeing his primary cutters locked down, took it upon himself. He faked a handoff and drove hard at Ian. Ian, disciplined, stayed grounded, his hands high. Quinahan spun back to his left and threw up a tough, contested hook shot. It missed. Cedrick fought off Villanueva for the rebound.
"Run!" was the only word Tristan shouted. The instant the ball touched his hands, he was a blur. He saw Daewoo, his fastest teammate, already sprinting down the right sideline. Tristan fired a one-handed, Tom-Brady-style outlet pass that hit Daewoo perfectly in stride. Daewoo caught it without breaking his sprint, took two dribbles, and laid it in.
Score: Dasmariñas 44 — Imus 38
The play was a surge of pure, unadulterated speed, and it had taken less than five seconds. The Imus players looked at each other, their hands on their hips, their chests heaving. The Dasmariñas team was playing with a desperate, emotional energy that was beginning to overwhelm their tactical, methodical game.
But Imus was an elite team for a reason. They didn't panic. They adapted. On their next possession, they abandoned their complex sets and went to their simplest, most effective one-two punch. A hard screen from Quinahan for Jeffrey Chan. Chan came off it, and for a split second, Marco was caught behind the massive center. Chan elevated from three-point range.
The shot was pure.
Score: Dasmariñas 44 — Imus 41
"My bad! My bad! I got him!" Marco yelled, pounding his chest in frustration.
"Doesn't matter! Get it back!" Tristan commanded.
The game became a furious exchange of blows. Tristan, now shouldering the offensive load left by Aiden, began to hunt for his own shot. He used another pick-and-roll, but this time, when the defense sagged, he didn't settle for the jumper. He used his upgraded speed to accelerate past the help defense, got into the paint, and as Quinahan stepped up, he hit him with a devastating hesitation dribble. The big man, expecting the acrobatic layup, was frozen for a split second. It was all Tristan needed. He went by him and finished with a clean, uncontested layup.
Score: Dasmariñas 46 — Imus 41
"He's too fast for him!" Ian roared from half-court.
Imus came right back. Jamie Alapag, the stoic point guard, sensed his team was flagging. He took control. He called for an isolation, facing Tristan. He used a series of probing dribbles, then a hard crossover that got Tristan a half-step off balance. Alapag drove the lane, drew the help from Cedrick, and at the last second, wrapped a slick bounce pass around Cedrick's body to Robin Villanueva for an easy dunk. It was a play of pure, veteran genius.
Score: Dasmariñas 46 — Imus 43
The physical toll of the game was becoming apparent. Daewoo, who had been playing with the energy of ten men, was now visibly winded, his defensive slides a fraction slower. Marco was leaning on his shorts during dead balls.
"Don't get tired!" Tristan yelled, trying to rally his troops. "This is where it's won! Right now!"
With three minutes left, the game was on a knife's edge. Dasmariñas's offense, deprived of Aiden's consistent cutting and scoring, began to stagnate. A possession ended with Marco forcing a bad, contested three-pointer that missed badly. On the next, Tristan tried to find Ian on a roll, but the pass was deflected by the long arms of Quinahan.
Imus, smelling blood, capitalized. On their next trip, they found their own mismatch. Joey Joson, guarded by the exhausted Daewoo, managed to get post position. He backed Daewoo down and hit a tough, turnaround jumper.
Score: Dasmariñas 46 — Imus 45
The Imus bench was on its feet, sensing the comeback. The Dasmariñas team looked gassed, their emotional surge seemingly at an end.
Coach Gutierrez called his final timeout.
"You're tired!" he yelled as his players collapsed into the chairs. "But so are they! Look at them! They're dead on their feet! This is not about strategy anymore. This is not about plays. This is about who wants it more! This is about who has more heart! You have a one-point lead and two minutes to play. Everything you have. Every last drop. For yourselves, for your team, and for Aiden. Now get out there and take it."
Tristan looked at his teammates. Their faces were streaked with sweat, their chests heaving. But their eyes were still burning. Daewoo, despite his exhaustion, met his gaze and nodded. They were ready.
This was the possession that would define the game. Jamie Alapag held the ball, directing traffic. He ran the clock down. 10… 9… He initiated a high pick-and-pop with Quinahan. Ian switched onto Alapag, and Tristan switched onto the big man. It was a mismatch either way. Alapag, seeing the smaller Tristan guarding his center, immediately fed the ball to Quinahan on the perimeter.
Quinahan faced up on Tristan. He was a foot taller. He tried to shoot over him, but Tristan, with his 60-point Vertical, leaped and contested the shot, his fingertips grazing the ball. The shot missed!
But the play wasn't over. Robin Villanueva, fighting against Cedrick, managed to get a hand on the ball, tapping the offensive rebound back out to Alapag. The shot clock reset.
Alapag tried again. This time, he drove hard at Ian. Ian, playing perfect drop coverage, stayed between him and the basket. Alapag was forced into a tough, running floater. It missed. Ian and Cedrick boxed out both Imus bigs, and Tristan flew in, snatching the rebound from the air.
"One stop!" he roared. They had done it.
Now it was their turn. Tristan dribbled, the weight of the game on his shoulders. He let the clock bleed. 12… 11… He called for an isolation. This was his moment. He waved his teammates away. It was him and Jamie Alapag.
Tristan drove right. Alapag, a smart defender, cut him off. Tristan spun back left. Alapag was still there. He was trapped. But he felt a presence. It was Cedrick, who had astutely come up from the block to set a desperation screen. Tristan used it, finding a sliver of space. He drove into the lane. Andrew Quinahan stepped up to meet him, his arms raised high.
Tristan leaped. The entire gym expected the fadeaway. But Tristan had seen this before. He had trained for this. He went right into the bigger man's body, using his 60-point Strength to absorb the contact.
[Giant Slayer]
[Acrobat]
In mid-air, he contorted his body, shielding the ball, and threw up a wild, spinning, high-arcing layup that seemed to have no chance.
The ball kissed the very top of the backboard square and dropped cleanly through the net. A deafening silence, then the roar from the Dasmariñas bench. And the whistle.
Foul.
And-one.
Score: Dasmariñas 48 — Imus 45.
Tristan landed, pounding his chest, a primal scream tearing from his throat. He had taken on their best defender and their biggest player, and he had won. He stepped to the line, the gym dead quiet, and sank the free throw.
Score: Dasmariñas 49 — Imus 45
Imus was broken. They came down, desperate, and immediately forced a three-pointer. Jeffrey Chan, who had been a machine all game, finally missed a clean look. Ian Veneracion ripped the rebound down, his face a mask of triumph. He was fouled.
Ian, not a great free-throw shooter, stepped to the line. He missed the first. The ball was still live. Imus tried to get the rebound, but Daewoo, with his last ounce of energy, flew in and tipped the ball out to Marco. Imus was forced to foul again.
Marco stepped to the line, a confident, weary grin on his face. "Game time," he whispered. He sank the first. He sank the second.
Score: Dasmariñas 51 — Imus 45
The game was over. The final seconds ticked away with Imus missing another desperate shot. The buzzer sounded. The Dasmariñas High had won.
There was no celebration. There was no joy. Just a profound, collective sigh of relief. The players, from both teams, converged at center court, shaking hands, their bodies draped over each other in a mutual show of exhausted respect.
"You're a monster, Herrera," Jamie Alapag said to Tristan, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "Your team has heart. Go win the whole damn thing."
"You guys are the smartest team we've ever played," Tristan replied, his chest heaving. "Thank you for this. We needed it."
Coach Gutierrez was already motioning for them. "Good win. Great fight. Shower. Now. We're leaving."
There were no high-fives in the locker room. Just the sound of running water and the grim packing of bags. The victory felt hollow. They had won the battle, but the reality of losing Aiden hung over them like a shroud.
Twenty minutes later, the team van pulled up to the emergency entrance of the Dasmariñas Medical Center. The smell of antiseptic and the sterile, quiet hum of the hospital were a jarring contrast to the sweaty, chaotic energy of the gym.
Coach Gutierrez led the starting five—Tristan, Marco, Ian, and Cedrick—plus Daewoo, who had filled Aiden's spot. They walked in, their gym bags slung over their shoulders, their large frames looking out of place in the narrow, quiet hallways.
They found the room: 304. Coach G knocked softly and pushed the door open.
Aiden was lying on the bed, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed. His parents were there, their expressions drawn with worry. But the focus of the room was Aiden's right leg. It was elevated on a pillow, wrapped in a thick, imposing plaster cast that ran from his toes to just below his knee.
The room was silent as they filed in, their size seeming to shrink in the face of the stark, white reality of the cast.
Aiden looked up, his eyes finding theirs. He tried to smile, but it was a watery, broken expression.
"Hey… guys," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Did… did you…?"
Marco, his usual bravado completely gone, stepped forward, his own eyes glistening. "Did we win? What kind of question is that? Of course we won. We weren't going to let you sacrifice your ankle for an L. We won it for you, man."
"That's good," Aiden said, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He looked at his leg. "That's… that's good."
Tristan moved to the side of the bed. "What did the doctor say, Aiden?"
Aiden looked at his parents, who looked away, unable to speak. He took a shaky breath.
"It's… it's a severe high-ankle sprain," he said, his voice trembling. "And a hairline fracture in the fibula. The doctor… he said…" He choked on the words, unable to finish.
Coach Gutierrez stepped forward, placing a firm, gentle hand on Aiden's shoulder. "He's out for six to eight weeks, son," the coach said, his voice soft but clear, leaving no room for false hope.
The words hung in the air, final and devastating. Six to eight weeks. The Palarong Pambansa was in two weeks. It was over. His season was over.
Aiden couldn't hold it back anymore. He covered his face with his hands and let out a sob, his shoulders shaking. It was the sound of a dream dying. The sound of a year's worth of relentless, back-breaking work turning to dust.
The team watched, heartbroken. These were warriors, tough kids who had just been through a physical war. But this was a pain they couldn't fight.
Marco, Ian, and Cedrick looked away, their own faces twisted with emotion. Daewoo stared at the floor, his hands clenched into fists.
Tristan stood there for a long moment, the weight of his captaincy, of their shared dream, settling on him. He stepped closer and put his hand on Aiden's other shoulder, gripping it firmly.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet but unshakable. "Look at me."
Aiden slowly, painfully, lowered his hands, his eyes red and broken.
"We're not doing this without you," Tristan said.
"Tris, don't…" Aiden whispered. "I can't even walk."
"I don't care," Tristan said, his voice fierce, his eyes locked on his friend's. "You're still on this team. You're our brother. Your hustle, your heart… that's what got us here. That's what won us the game today. Daewoo is going to hold your spot on the floor, but he is not replacing you. Nobody can."
Daewoo stepped forward, nodding. "I'm just keeping it warm for you, man. I'm playing my role. But you… you're the starter."
"Every single second we are on that court in the Palaro," Ian said, his voice a low rumble, "we're carrying you with us."
"Every rebound, every box-out," Cedrick added. "That's your stat as much as it is ours."
"And every stupid, flashy three-pointer," Marco said, trying to smile though his own voice was thick, "will be dedicated to you. We're going to be the most obnoxious team there, just for you."
Aiden looked at their faces, at the ring of brothers surrounding his bed. He was still crying, but the sobs were quieter now, the despair being replaced by a fragile, emerging resolve.
"You guys…" he whispered. "You guys better win. You better win the whole damn thing."
He looked at Tristan, a new fire burning in his tear-filled eyes. "Don't let this be for nothing, Tris. Win it all. Promise me."
Tristan gripped his shoulder tighter. He thought of the impossible task ahead—the single-elimination tournament, the monsters from NCR, Cebu, and Davao. It had seemed like a mountain. Now, it was a holy quest.
"We promise," Tristan said.
And in that sterile hospital room, a new covenant was forged, not in strategy or skill, but in sacrifice and brotherhood. They had lost one of their best, but they had gained an unbreakable purpose. They weren't just going to the Nationals to compete anymore. They were going to win.