The flight from Manila to Davao was a ninety-minute suspension of reality. The Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team, a tight-knit unit of twelve, were encapsulated in a pressurized metal tube, soaring thirty thousand feet above the archipelago they were now trying to conquer. There was no trash-talking, no music blaring from handheld speakers. The time for that was over.
Some, like Ian and Cedrick, were already lost in their own worlds, noise-canceling headphones on, eyes closed, mentally conserving every ounce of energy. Others, like the younger players—Mark, Felix, and Joseph—were glued to the small windows, watching the islands of the Visayas drift by like green jewels on a vast, blue cloth, their nervous excitement palpable.
Tristan Herrera sat in an aisle seat, his long legs cramped, his mind a whirring engine of "what-ifs." He'd re-read Aiden's text about the Cebu team's defensive rotations, then Claire's message of love and support. He felt the dual weight of a promise to his fallen teammate and a new, powerful desire to return home a winner to the girl who had become his anchor.
When the plane finally banked hard over the Gulf of Davao, revealing the sprawling, modern city pressed against the jungle-covered slopes of Mount Apo, the reality of the mission hit him. This was a foreign land. They were no longer the champions of CALABARZON. They were just one of sixteen, an unknown quantity in a sea of sharks.
The moment they stepped off the plane, the air hit them like a physical thing. It was a thick, humid, tropical heat, heavier and more languid than the air back home. The Francisco Bangoy International Airport was a chaotic, festive hive. Banners hung from every rafter: "WELCOME, ATHLETES! PALARONG PAMBANSA 2015!"
The terminal was a sea of tracksuits in every conceivable color. Tall, lanky basketball players from Region 1 rubbed shoulders with slender, powerful swimmers from Region 6. They saw the deep red of the NCR team, the players moving with an unspoken, intimidating swagger. They saw the bright yellows of Western Visayas and the cool blues of Cebu.
"Tris, we are not in Dasmariñas anymore," Marco muttered, his eyes wide as he took in the sheer scale of the event. He saw a center for the NCR team who had to be at least 6'8", with shoulders like a filing cabinet. "My goodness. That man... he has his own zip code."
"He puts his shoes on one at a time, just like us," Gab rumbled from behind him, though even his voice held a new note of tension.
"Yeah, Gab, but his shoes are probably the size of my entire leg. Let's just... try not to make eye contact."
They collected their bags and were herded onto a dedicated Palaro bus. The ride to the hotel was a silent one, each player absorbing the new environment. Davao was a clean, orderly, and massive city, a stark contrast to the familiar, chaotic sprawl of Cavite. The bus pulled up to a towering, modern hotel in the city center that had been designated as one of the "Athlete Villages." The lobby was a zoo, a buzzing, nervous mass of teenagers from every corner of the Philippines.
Coach Gutierrez, all business, navigated the check-in process. "Room assignments. Listen up. Gumaba, you're with Veneracion. Estrella, with Lagman. Herrera, with Daewoo. The rest of you, find your partners. You have exactly thirty minutes to get your gear to your rooms, splash water on your faces, and meet me in the 'Matina' conference room on the third floor. Thirty minutes. Go."
Marco looked at Ian, then back at the coach, his face a mask of betrayal. "With Ian? Coach, the man communicates in grunts. I am a delicate artist! I need stimulating conversation to thrive!"
Ian just grabbed his bag, gave Marco a flat, dead-eyed look, and said, "Don't snore." He then walked towards the elevator.
Marco sighed, a long, theatrical wail of despair, and trudged after him.
Tristan and Daewoo's room was on the tenth floor, with a stunning, nerve-wracking view of the city.
"This is... this is insane," Daewoo said, his voice quiet as he looked out the window. "I've never been this far south."
"It's just a city, man," Tristan said, though he felt it too. The sense of being far from home.
He dropped his duffel bag on the bed and began to unzip it. His fingers brushed against a small, hard, laminated object. He pulled it out. It was the prom photo of him and Claire, the one Marco had taken, her head resting on his shoulder, both of them caught in a moment of pure, unguarded happiness. Tucked behind it was a note in her familiar, neat handwriting.
"Your anchor. I'm right here with you. Win it all. - C."
A wave of profound calm washed over Tristan. He took the photo and carefully, deliberately, placed it on the small hotel nightstand between the two beds. It was a small piece of home, a small patch of solid ground in this strange, new place.
"Your girlfriend?" Daewoo asked, nodding at the photo.
"Yeah," Tristan said, the simple word feeling heavier, more meaningful, than it ever had before. "Yeah, she is."
He looked at his watch. "We've got twenty minutes. Let's go."
The "Matina" conference room was cold, the air conditioning cranked to an arctic level.
The twelve players sat around a large, polished mahogany table, their postures rigid. Coach Gutierrez stood at the front, a large, pristine whiteboard beside him. This was not a welcome speech. This was a briefing.
"Alright," Coach G began, his voice flat and booming in the quiet room. "You're settled. This hotel is your sanctuary and your prison. As I said, curfew is nine. No one leaves this hotel without me or Coach Anton. Your focus is singular. Eat, sleep, and basketball."
He uncapped a black marker. "The pleasantries are over. It's time to see the battlefield."
He walked to the whiteboard. "The tournament is, as you know, single elimination. Sixteen teams. Win, you stay. Lose, and you're on the first flight back to Manila with your heads hanging in shame. They've divided the draw into two 8-team groups, A and B. The winner of Group A will play the winner of Group B in the National Finals. For us, this is our universe."
He turned and, in quick, sharp strokes, wrote out the entire draw for Group B.
GROUP B
Quezon City High (NCR) vs. Vigan High (R1)
Bacolod High (R6) vs. Tacloban City High (R8)
Baguio City High (CAR) vs. General Santos City High (R12)
Davao City High (R11) vs. Pagadian High (R9)
A low murmur went through the room.
"Look at that," Marco whispered to Ian. "NCR... Davao... Bacolod... they're all on the other side. That's a complete bloodbath."
"That means we don't see any of them until the finals," Ian rumbled back, his eyes fixed on the board.
"If we make it," Gab's voice cut in from across the table, his usual pessimistic anchor.
"Silence," Coach Gutierrez commanded, not even turning around.
The room went dead quiet.
"You're right, Marco," the coach said, a cold, thin smile on his face. "It's a bloodbath. The host team. The two-time defending champions from NCR. A stacked team from Bacolod. One of them, and only one, will make it out alive. They are going to tear each other to pieces over there."
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "Which brings us to us. To Group A. Our path."
He turned to a clean side of the whiteboard.
The tension in the room was so thick, Tristan could barely breathe. This was it. The entire future of their season, the fate of their promise to Aiden, was about to be laid out in black ink.
Coach Gutierrez wrote out the first two matchups, on the bottom half of the bracket.
GROUP A (Bottom Half)
San Fernando High (R3) vs. Butuan City High (R14)
Naga City High (R5) vs. Cebu City High (R7)
The room audibly gasped.
"Holy hell," Marco breathed, his eyes wide. "Cebu... and Naga... they play first round?"
Cedrick, sitting next to Ian, just shook his head in disbelief. "That's insane. That's a finals-level game. One of the monsters is going home on Day 1. Just like that."
"Which means," Ian added, his tactical mind working, "whoever wins that is going to be... well, they'll be the favorite to come out of that side."
"Focus," Tristan said, his voice low, seeing his teammates already getting lost in the hypotheticals.
"Herrera is right," Coach G said. "That is their war. A war we, for now, get to watch from a distance."
He then moved to the top half of the bracket. Their half.
He wrote the first matchup.
GROUP A (Top Half)
Cagayan de Oro High (R10) vs. Jolo High (BARMM)
"The team we ran the gauntlet drill for," Tristan murmured to Daewoo. "They're on our side. If we win, we likely play them."
Daewoo just nodded, his knuckles white.
And then, Coach Gutierrez wrote the final game, their game, at the very top of the bracket.
Dasmariñas National High (R4A) vs. Calapan High (R4B)
A beat of stunned silence.
The team looked at the board. They looked at each other. They looked at the bottom of the bracket, a "Murderer's Row" of Cebu, Naga, and San Fernando. Then they looked at their own draw. Calapan, a team from their neighboring region. And then a potential matchup against CDO or Jolo.
The feeling in the room was undeniable. It was relief. It was luck. They had just been given a golden, manageable path to the Group A Final. They had avoided all the major sharks.
Marco couldn't contain it. A huge, beaming smile broke across his face.
"Region 4B," he whispered, almost giddily. "We're 4A. It's a... it's a brotherly rivalry! This is… this is the best-case scenario! We hit the jackpot!"
Several other players visibly relaxed. A tense shoulder slumped here. A nervous foot stopped tapping there. They had a clear, runnable path.
Coach Gutierrez stood there, watching them. He let the relief wash over them, let it settle. And then, he uncapped his red marker.
With a violent, squealing stroke, he drew a massive 'X' through the entire bottom half of the bracket.
"FORGET. IT. EXISTS," he roared, his voice so sudden and loud it made players jolt in their seats. "It does not matter! Cebu does not matter! Naga does not matter! The only thing that matters is this!"
He slammed his red marker onto the whiteboard, circling Calapan High (R4B) over and over until it was a thick, angry, red scar.
"You!" he yelled, pointing at Marco. "You think we hit the jackpot? You think this is a 'good draw'? You think we're just going to waltz into the Group Finals because we're from 4A? That is the most arrogant, ignorant, and suicidal mindset you could possibly have!"
Marco's smile vanished, his face going pale.
"Let me tell you about Calapan High," the coach said, his voice dropping to a low, venomous growl. "They are the champion of their region. Just like us. They are not 'little brother.' They have the best-shooting backcourt in this entire tournament, bar none. Their two starting guards, the Ledesma twins, both shoot over 45% from three-point range. On twelve attempts a game. They don't have a center. They play five-out. They are the definition of a piranha. They will take a hundred small bites, and you will bleed out before you even realize you're in a fight."
He looked at Ian and Cedrick. "You two. Your job, which was to protect the paint? It's gone. You are no longer centers. You are now perimeter forwards. You will be guarding shooters at the three-point line for 40 minutes. You think you can do that?"
Ian and Cedrick exchanged a worried look. This was the Imus game all over again, but on steroids.
"Yes, Coach," they said in unison, their voices tight.
"And you," he said, glaring at Tristan, Marco, and Daewoo. "You will be fighting through so many screens you will have nightmares about them. They don't run. They cut. Constantly. They are designed to make you tired, make you frustrated, and then make you pay."
He put his hands on the table and leaned in, his eyes locking with Tristan's.
"You think this is a lucky draw, Herrera?"
"No, Coach," Tristan said, his voice firm, the relief gone, replaced by a cold focus.
"This is a trap," the coach declared. "It's the worst possible draw we could have gotten. Because it looks easy. It's a trap for the arrogant. It's a trap for the overconfident. It's a trap for any team that thinks about the game after this one. Single. Elimination. You lose this, and you fly home in disgrace. You lose this, and that promise you made to Aiden," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was louder than his roar, "is worthless. It's just... hot air."
The room was so quiet, Tristan could hear his own heart beating. The coach had taken their relief and shattered it, replacing it with a cold, motivating fear.
"Calapan is the only team that exists," Coach G said, straightening up. "They are the only game on our schedule. They are the national champions, as far as we're concerned. And we have 48 hours to figure out how to clip their wings."
He pulled out a folder and dropped it on the table with a heavy thud. "This is the film. Every game they played in the MIMAROPA regionals. We're not leaving this room until we know every single one of their plays, their tendencies, and their favorite brand of chewing gum. Get comfortable. This is where the Palarong Pambansa truly begins."
The team, their faces now grim and focused, pulled their chairs closer. Tristan opened his notebook. The path was clear, but the coach was right. It wasn't a path. It was a tightrope. And the first step was against a team of piranhas, ready to tear them apart if they showed a single ounce of weakness.