The final minutes of their Araling Panlipunan class were a unique and exquisite form of torture. The topic was the nuances of the 1987 Philippine Constitution, but for Tristan Herrera, the only constitution he was concerned with was his own, which was currently being flooded with a level of pure, unadulterated panic he hadn't felt since the final seconds of the regional finals.
He wasn't looking at the teacher. His eyes were locked on the large, round clock on the wall, its second hand sweeping in an agonizingly slow, deliberate arc.
3:58:14… 3:58:15…
To his right, Marco was a study in coiled, kinetic energy. He wasn't sitting in his chair so much as levitating an inch above it, his leg bouncing with a frantic, hummingbird-wing tempo. He was whispering a countdown under his breath, a mantra of impending chaos. "T-minus ninety seconds, Captain. All systems are go. Repeat, all systems are go."
To his left, Gab was the complete opposite. He was a statue of stoic resignation, his massive frame perfectly still.
But his eyes, also fixed on the clock, held a grim, focused intensity, the look of a soldier synchronizing his watch before a zero-hour assault.
The teacher, oblivious to the high-stakes tactical mission about to launch from the back of her classroom, continued her lecture. "...and the separation of powers is therefore essential to preventing any single branch of government from becoming too…"
BRRRIIIIINNNGGGG!
The school bell shrieked, a piercing, beautiful sound of liberation. It was 4:00 PM. The window was open.
"GO! GO! GO!" Marco hissed, not waiting for the teacher's dismissal.
The trio moved with a practiced, explosive synergy that was terrifying to behold in a crowded hallway. Tristan, as the point guard, led the way, his backpack already slung over one shoulder. He weaved through the sluggish, end-of-day river of students with an instinctual grace, his eyes scanning for openings, his body anticipating movements. He was a blur of white and brown uniform.
"On your left!" he called out, deftly sidestepping a group of freshmen.
Marco, the shooting guard, followed in his wake, using Tristan's path as a screen. He was less graceful, more of a chaotic force of nature, bumping shoulders and offering hurried, insincere apologies without ever slowing down. "Sorry! Pardon me! Basketball emergency!"
Gab, the power forward, was the anchor. He didn't weave. He simply moved in a straight, inexorable line, his sheer size and momentum parting the sea of students like a human icebreaker.
They burst out of the school's main doors and into the hot, humid afternoon air, their school shoes pounding a frantic rhythm on the pavement.
"Fifteen-minute run to the mall!" Marco yelled, already gasping for air. "That gives us exactly thirty-two minutes for acquisition and ten for exfiltration! We can do this!"
The sprint through the park was a jarring display of athleticism that drew more than a few strange looks from people walking their dogs or relaxing on benches. They weren't jogging; they were running, their backpacks bouncing, their ties flying over their shoulders.
"I hate this!" Gab grunted from behind, his long legs eating up the ground in powerful, rhythmic strides. "This is the dumbest thing we have ever done!"
"It's a mission for love, my friend!" Marco wheezed, his face already turning a blotchy red. "And for fashion! The two noblest causes a man can run for!"
Tristan didn't speak. He just ran, his mind locked on the ticking clock. He felt the familiar burn in his lungs, the strain in his quads. This was a different kind of conditioning, fueled not by a coach's whistle, but by the terrifying prospect of disappointing Claire. It was, he decided, far more motivating.
They arrived at the mall entrance at 4:14 PM, a full minute ahead of schedule. They didn't slow down. They burst through the automatic glass doors, earning an angry shout from a security guard, and made a beeline for the department store.
"Men's Formal Wear, second floor, northeast corner!" Marco commanded, his voice now a breathless, authoritative rasp. He was no longer Marco, the class clown. He was Marco, the Fashion Dictator, the maestro of this chaotic symphony.
They clattered up the escalator, taking the steps two at a time, and arrived in the hushed, carpeted world of suits and ties.
The section was an oasis of calm, manned by a single, impeccably dressed salesman who looked at the three sweaty, panting teenagers in their disheveled school uniforms with an expression of profound, weary disdain.
"No time for browsing!" Marco announced, clapping his hands together. He surveyed the racks with a sharp, critical eye. "Okay, mission parameters. Tristan: you are the classic, heroic leading man. We need something timeless, elegant, but modern. Charcoal gray or a deep navy blue. No black. Black is for funerals and waiters.
Gab: you are a mountain. A handsome, stoic mountain. We need to avoid anything that makes you look like a refrigerator box. We need structure, but not bulk. A dark, textured suit. Maybe a subtle pinstripe to give the illusion of even more height, which is frankly terrifying."
"I just want something that I can breathe in," Gab grumbled, pulling at his tight school collar.
"Breathing is a secondary concern! Aesthetics are primary!" Marco shot back.
He turned to Tristan. "Alright, Captain. You're up first." He tore a charcoal gray suit from the rack. "This one. The lapels are slim, modern. It's a two-button, which is the only acceptable number of buttons. Try it on. NOW." He shoved the suit into Tristan's arms and pointed towards the fitting rooms. "Gab, you're with me."
Tristan scrambled into a fitting room, the sound of Marco barking orders at Gab echoing from the main floor. He peeled off his sweaty uniform and pulled on the crisp dress shirt and trousers. They were a surprisingly good fit. He slipped on the suit jacket. He looked in the mirror.
He didn't recognize the person staring back at him.
The suit transformed him. The usual lanky, athletic frame of a teenage basketball player was replaced by the sharp, defined silhouette of a young man. The charcoal gray complimented his skin tone, and the modern cut made him look taller, broader.
For the first time, he could actually picture himself at the prom, standing next to Claire. He could see it.
"STATUS REPORT, HERRERA!" Marco's voice yelled from outside the door.
Tristan opened the door and stepped out.
Marco circled him like a shark, his eyes narrowed. He adjusted the shoulders. He checked the length of the sleeves.
"Hmm," he said, a hand on his chin. "It's… not bad. Actually, it's… perfect. Wow. I'm good."
He turned to the salesman, who was watching them with a mixture of horror and fascination. "We'll take this one! What's your size, Tris?"
"Uh, I think…"
"No time to think! Check the tag!"
Tristan checked the tag. "40 Regular."
"Excellent! One down, two to go! Gab, you're up!" Marco bellowed.
Gab emerged from his own fitting room looking profoundly uncomfortable. He was wearing a dark, navy blue suit that was clearly too tight in the shoulders. He looked, as he had feared, like a refrigerator that was about to burst.
"I can't move my arms," he said, his voice a strained whisper. "If I breathe too deeply, a button is going to shoot off and take out that poor salesman."
"Horrendous! An absolute disaster!" Marco declared. "Take it off! It's an insult to your magnificent physique!"
As Gab retreated, Marco frantically searched the racks. "We need something with more give… a different cut… Aha!" He pulled out a deep, slate-gray suit with a faint, almost invisible texture in the fabric. "This one! It will drape, not cling! Go! We are losing precious seconds!"
While Gab was changing, Marco turned his attention to his own needs, grabbing a classic, slim-fit black suit. "A man can't go wrong with black," he said to the salesman, who just nodded numbly. "It's the color of mystery, of elegance, of a man who knows he's the best-looking person in the room."
Gab emerged in the new suit. The difference was incredible. The textured gray fabric complimented his size instead of fighting against it. The cut was more generous in the shoulders, giving him room to move, but still tapered at the waist, giving him a sharp, powerful silhouette. He looked less like a bouncer and more like a CEO's very intimidating bodyguard.
"Perfection!" Marco cried, clapping his hands together. "We have achieved sartorial excellence! Now, shoes! The foundation of the entire enterprise!"
He dragged them over to the shoe department. "Tristan, charcoal suit, you need classic, dark brown leather oxfords. It's sophisticated. Gab, slate gray, you can go with black. Keep it simple, keep it strong. Me, classic black suit, classic black patent leather. No arguments! Find your sizes! We have five minutes before we have to be at the checkout!"
The final minutes in the store were a blur of frantic activity. They found their shoes, grabbed their suits from the fitting rooms, and sprinted to the cashier.
"We'll take these three suits, these three shirts, and these three pairs of shoes!" Marco announced, dumping a mountain of formal wear onto the counter.
The cashier, a young woman who looked utterly unfazed, began to ring them up. The total was a number that made all three of them wince. They pooled their saved allowances, their hands fumbling with bills.
"Thank you for your purchase," the cashier said in a monotone as she handed them three large garment bags.
They burst out of the department store at 4:46 PM.
"We have four minutes to get to the gym!" Tristan said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "We're not going to make it!"
"We will make it!" Marco yelled, his voice filled with a desperate, unwavering conviction. "Pain is temporary! Prom is forever! RUN!"
The sprint back was even more difficult.
They were now carrying their heavy, awkward garment bags, which acted like parachutes, catching the wind and slowing them down. They ran with a desperate, lung-searing intensity, their school shoes slapping against the hot concrete. They could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of bouncing basketballs as they got closer, a sound that was both a comfort and a terrifying reminder of their tardiness.
They burst through the back doors of the gymnasium at 5:05 PM.
Practice was in full swing. The team was in the middle of a brutal defensive slide drill. The moment the doors flew open, the drill stopped. Every single player, and Coach Gutierrez, turned to look at the three latecomers. They stood there, gasping for air, their school uniforms soaked with sweat, their hair a mess, clutching their formal wear like it was life-saving equipment.
The silence in the gym was absolute. It was thick, heavy, and filled with a terrifying, unspoken judgment.
Coach Gutierrez walked towards them slowly, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. He didn't yell. He didn't scream. That would have been a mercy. He just looked at them, his face a mask of cold, profound disappointment.
He looked at their disheveled state. He looked at the garment bags. His eyes narrowed.
"Five minutes late," he said, his voice quiet, which made it a thousand times more intimidating.
"Coach, it's my fault," Tristan said immediately, stepping forward. He was the captain. The responsibility was his. "There was an emergency. A personal one. It won't happen again."
The coach looked at the garment bag in Tristan's hand. He looked at Marco and Gab. A flicker of understanding, and perhaps a microscopic hint of amusement that he quickly suppressed, crossed his face.
"An emergency," he repeated, his voice flat. He let the word hang in the air. "Let me tell you something about emergencies. You're five minutes late to a Palaro game, you forfeit. Your opponent doesn't care if you had a suit to buy. The clock doesn't care about your social life. This team, this program… it is built on a standard. It is built on discipline. On respect. Respect for the game, respect for your teammates who were here on time, and respect for the process. And today, the three of you fell below that standard."
He paused, letting the weight of his words crush them.
"I understand that you have lives outside this gym. I do. But when you are here, you are here one hundred percent. No exceptions. No excuses."
He pointed a thumb towards the doors leading to the athletic field.
"Five minutes late means five laps. Around the field. Full speed. Go."
There was no argument. No complaint. They dropped their bags by the wall and turned, jogging out of the gym, the eyes of their teammates following them.
The run was pure penance. The late afternoon sun was still hot, and the air was thick and humid. Their legs, already screaming from two full-sprint trips to the mall, felt like they were made of lead.
The first lap was a silent, grim affair. On the second lap, Marco started to speak, his words coming in ragged gasps.
"This… is the… most… expensive… suit… I have ever… bought," he wheezed.
On the third lap, Gab, who was running with a steady, punishing rhythm, actually spoke a full sentence. "It was worth it. Now shut up and run."
On the fourth lap, as they rounded the far turn, their lungs on fire, Tristan looked back at the gym. Through the open doors, he could see his teammates running drills, their movements sharp, their focus absolute. He then thought of the garment bag lying against the wall, the charcoal gray suit inside that he would wear when he took Claire to the prom.
He was being punished. He was paying the price for his mistake, for his brief, chaotic foray into the world of a normal teenager. And as he started his fifth and final lap, a wave of profound, weary satisfaction washed over him.
It was worth it.
He had accepted the consequences. He had paid the price. He had done what he needed to do for his life on the court, and for his life off of it.
They finished their final lap and staggered back into the gym, drenched in a new layer of sweat. Coach Gutierrez just pointed to the nearest drill station.
"Get in," was all he said.
Without a word, they joined the practice. They were dead tired, their bodies screaming in protest, but they moved with a renewed, grim determination. They had taken care of their normal emergency. And now, there was only one thing left to do: get back to work.