The walk home from the gymnasium was a heavy, silent trudge. The furious, angry energy of the practice had evaporated, leaving behind a bone-deep, communal exhaustion. The void left by Aiden was no longer just a sad, empty space; it was an active, gaping wound in their team's identity.
They had spent two hours trying to staple it shut with sheer grit, and the effort had left them all feeling raw and exposed.
Marco, for once, was silent, his usual bravado sandblasted away by the practice's raw intensity. He just walked with his head down, his shoulders slumped. Gab, his face a mask of stone, limped almost imperceptibly, his body already protesting the new, heavier defensive load he was expected to carry.
When they reached the corner where they usually split, Marco finally spoke, his voice hoarse.
"So… that was our new reality," he said, his words flat. "We're not the Green Archers anymore. We're… the Green Grinders. The Ugly Archers. It's…"
"It's what we have to be," Tristan cut him off, his own voice heavy with fatigue. He shifted his gym bag on his aching shoulder. "Coach is right. We can't win pretty anymore. We can't out-shoot teams like Cebu or NCR, not without Aiden. We can only win ugly. We have to be the team nobody wants to play."
"A team of five Daewoos," Gab rumbled, the assessment both a compliment and a harsh criticism. "All defense, all hustle, and pray that you or Marco hit a lucky shot."
"It's not luck. It's a plan," Tristan insisted, more to convince himself than them. "Our defense will create our offense. Daewoo... he's got the heart for it. He just needs to believe it. We all do."
Marco just shook his head, looking utterly spent. "Whatever. I'm going home to take an ice bath that will last until tomorrow morning. My legs are dead."
They parted ways without another word, the trio splintering off into the growing twilight, each carrying the new, heavy identity of their team home with them.
Tristan's house was quiet when he entered. His parents were in the living room, but they saw the look on his face—the dark, bruised exhaustion—and knew to keep their questions light. He gave his mother a one-word answer about practice ("Tough") and escaped to the sanctuary of his room.
He didn't bother to turn on the light. He just dropped his bag by the door and collapsed backward onto his bed, the springs groaning in protest. He lay there in the darkness, the events of the last 48 hours washing over him: the brutal win against Imus, the sickening sight of Aiden's injury, the sterile, heartbreaking finality of the hospital room, and the chaotic, dysfunctional practice they had just survived.
He was the captain. He was the one who had promised Aiden they would win it all.
And after the display he'd just witnessed, that promise felt like a lie, a cruel joke. Their offense was a car with a missing engine.
The weight of it all—the Palaro, Aiden's sacrifice, Daewoo's fear, Marco's frustration—felt like it was physically crushing his chest.
His room was dark, but his eyes were drawn to the faint glint of white on his desk. The basketball. The one with Claire's handwriting on it. It was a beacon, a small, bright object from a different, happier universe. A universe where his problems were as simple as finding the courage to ask a girl out.
He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, his fingers finding the familiar, smooth glass. He needed to talk to someone who wasn't in that gym, someone who wasn't suffocating under the same blanket of pressure. He needed her.
His thumbs, sore from gripping a basketball, felt clumsy as he typed.
Tristan: Hey. Just got home.
Her reply was almost instantaneous, a small vibration that felt like a lifeline.
Claire: Hey you. I was waiting for your text. How was it?
Tristan stared at the screen. How was it? It was a disaster. It was a dumpster fire. It was a wake-up call that felt more like a punch to the gut.
Tristan: Honestly? It was one of the worst practices we've ever had.
Claire: Oh no… what happened?
Tristan: It's just… without Aiden… everything is broken. The spacing is wrong. The timing is off. Daewoo is trying, but he's in his own head, scared to make a mistake. And everyone is just… angry. Marco almost punched a locker. Coach tore us all apart. It was just ugly. We look like a team that's already lost.
He hit send, the confession feeling heavy. He was the captain; he wasn't supposed to show weakness. But with her, it felt different. It felt safe.
Claire: Oh, Tris… I'm so sorry. That sounds awful. But it's the first practice without him. Of course it was going to be hard. You guys aren't just missing a player. You're grieving. You're allowed to be a mess.
Her word, grieving, hit him. That's what it felt like. A death. The death of their old team, their old identity.
Tristan: I know. It just feels like we're running out of time. The Palaro is right there. And I made him that promise. It feels impossible right now.
Claire: It's not impossible. It's just harder. You guys are fighters. You, Marco, Gab, Ian, Cedrick… you'll figure it out. You'll find a new way to win. You always do. And Coach G won't let you fail. He's tough, but he's smart. This is just the first step. It'll get better.
He read her words, a small, weary smile touching his lips. Her faith in him was so absolute, so unwavering, it felt like a tangible thing he could hold onto.
Tristan: You're right. It's just... a lot. My brain feels like it's about to short-circuit from basketball.
Claire: I know. Which is why you need to stop thinking about it. At least for one night. Let's talk about something else. Something normal.
Claire: Something... like Friday.
Friday. The prom. His mind, which had been a tangled mess of defensive rotations and broken offensive sets, suddenly shifted gears. The pressure didn't vanish, but it made room for a different, lighter kind of anticipation.
Tristan: Friday. Yeah. I'm... really looking forward to Friday. A night where I don't have to be 'the captain.'
Claire: Exactly. Just you. And me. And a lot of bad dancing. I'm warning you, my friends are going to want to take at least a thousand pictures.
Tristan: I can handle that. As long as I don't have to run suicides if the picture is blurry.
Claire: Hahaha, no promises. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. My dress is hanging in my closet, and it's staring at me. It's ridiculous how excited I am.
Tristan: I'm excited too. You'll look amazing.
Claire: You'll have to wait and see. And I expect you to be just as handsome. No basketball shorts allowed.
Tristan laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt rusty in his chest.
Tristan: Deal. I'll do my best.
Claire: Good. Now, get some rest. You sound exhausted. Stop thinking about practice. Think about Friday. Think about... well, just think about something good. Goodnight, Tris.
Tristan: Goodnight, Claire. Thank you. For everything.
Claire: Always.
He put his phone down on his chest, a profound sense of warmth spreading through him. She was his anchor. She was the one who could pull him out of the storm in his head and plant his feet back on solid ground.
He lay there for a minute, the heavy blanket of basketball fatigue lifting, replaced by the warm, nervous hum of anticipation for Friday.
A normal night.
He thought of her text. I expect you to be just as handsome. My dress is hanging in my closet.
Dress.
Suit.
Tristan's eyes shot open in the darkness.
The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, sharp, adrenaline-fueled panic that was a thousand times more potent than any pre-game jitters.
A suit.
The prom was Friday. This Friday. In four days.
He had nothing.
He hadn't worn a suit since he was twelve, at a cousin's wedding. He had grown a good eight inches and gained thirty pounds of muscle since then.
He didn't have a suit. He didn't have a shirt. He didn't even have dress shoes.
He was the captain of the basketball team, the regional champion, the guy who had just scored the perfect girlfriend, and he was going to show up to the prom in his school uniform and a pair of Jordans.
"Oh, no," he whispered to the empty room. This was not a minor oversight. This was a five-alarm, catastrophic failure. He was juggling the end-of-the-world pressure of the Palaro and the soul-crushing loss of his teammate, and he had completely, totally fumbled the one normal, important thing he was supposed to do.
He grabbed his phone, his heart hammering. He didn't even think. He opened the "Basketball is Life" group chat.
Tristan H.: EMERGENCY.
He hit send, the all-caps word glowing in the dark. The response, as always, was instantaneous.
Marco the pogi: WHAT?! WHAT'S WRONG? IS IT AIDEN?! IS HE OKAY? DID SOMETHING HAPPEN?!
GAB: What's the situation?
Tristan winced, realizing how his text must have sounded.
Tristan H.: No, no, Aiden is fine. I assume. It's not that. It's... it's about the prom.
A long, agonizing pause followed. Tristan could almost feel the silent rage radiating from Marco's phone.
Marco the pogi: Tristan. Herrera. My captain. My brother. I am 15 years old. I am in peak physical condition. And I am reasonably certain you just gave me a stroke. MY HEART LITERALLY STOPPED. I saw my entire high school basketball career flash before my eyes! All because of THE PROM?!
GAB: I'm leaving this group.
Tristan H.: NO! WAIT! Gab, don't. I'm serious. It IS an emergency! The prom is this Friday.
Tristan H.: I don't have a suit.
Another heavy silence.
GAB: You're kidding.
Tristan H.: I wish I was. I don't have anything. Nothing. I completely forgot. I've been a little... preoccupied.
Marco the pogi: Preoccupied. Preoccupied. You lead us to a regional title. You hit a game-winner that will be legend for decades. You get the girl of your dreams with a basketball proposal that I personally inspired. AND YOU FORGOT THE SUIT.
Marco the pogi: I am so disappointed in you right now. And so, so proud. That is the most "guy" thing you have ever done.
GAB: He's right, Tris. That's a spectacular level of failure.
Tristan H.: Can you guys stop?! I'm panicking! What do I do?!
Marco the pogi: First, you BREATHE. Then you thank God that you have me, your personal guide through the dark, terrifying, and fashion-forward jungle of high-stakes formal wear. This is a crisis, but it is a manageable one. Operation: Cinderfella, which you so cruelly mocked, is now in full effect!
Tristan H.: Thank you, Marco. Seriously. When can we go? We have practice every day. We can't skip. Coach will kill us.
Marco the pogi: I know, I know. I've thought about this. My own suit is already tailored and hanging in my closet, obviously. I'm not an animal. But I will clear my schedule to save you from this.
GAB: I need one too. My mom just asked me about it.
Marco the pogi: GAB?! You too?! Anarchy! Complete and total anarchy! Fine! I will save both of you! This just became a humanitarian mission.
Tristan H.: So what's the plan? Tomorrow after practice?
Marco the pogi: After PRACTICE?! Are you insane? Practice ends at 6. We'll be exhausted and sweaty. No, no, no. A proper suit selection requires a clear head, good lighting, and at least two hours for fittings and accessory selection. We can't rush art.
GAB: We don't have two hours, Marco. And we are not skipping practice.
Tristan H.: He's right. Skipping is not an option. Not now. So what do we do?
The three dots indicating Marco was typing appeared and disappeared several times. He was clearly in deep, strategic thought.
Marco the pogi: Okay. I have it. It's a suicide mission, but it's the only way. Tomorrow, our last class is A.P. It ends at 4:00 PM. Practice starts at 5:00 PM. That gives us a one-hour window.
GAB: A one-hour window. To get from school, to the mall, find three suits, pay, and get to the gym?
Tristan H.: The mall is a fifteen-minute run from the school if we cut through the park.
Marco the pogi: Exactly! We'll be like a fashion-based tactical unit. We sprint to the mall. We have 30 minutes. 10 minutes per suit. We're not browsing. I am the fashion dictator. You will try on what I tell you to try on. You will buy what I tell you to buy. We don't have time for your "opinions." Then we sprint to the gym. We'll be five minutes late, tops. Coach will make us run, but he won't kill us.
Tristan H.: It's the dumbest plan I've ever heard. It's perfect.
GAB: Agreed. It's insane. But it's our only shot. I'm in.
Marco the pogi: Excellent! Operation: Cinderfella is a GO! Meet at the main gate tomorrow at 4:00 PM. Sharp. Wear your running shoes. This is not a drill, gentlemen. This is war.
Tristan put his phone down, a new kind of exhaustion settling over him. He was a 15-year-old kid, carrying the weight of a regional championship promise and the traumatic injury of his best friend. And now, he was also facing a high-stakes, time-crunched mission to buy a suit with his two most dysfunctional friends.
He looked at the championship trophy. He looked at the "prom" basketball.
One represented a war he had to fight with his body and mind. The other represented a life he was trying to build, a life outside the gym.
He realized, with a sudden, weary clarity, that both were equally important. And both required a ridiculous amount of planning and a team he could trust.
He closed his eyes, a small, tired smile on his face. He felt overwhelmed, terrified, and... normal. For the first time in a long time, he felt like a normal 15-year-old kid with a normal, stupid, 15-year-old problem. It was the best feeling in the world.