The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of sound that washed over the five warriors of Dasmariñas National High as they stepped back onto the polished hardwood. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, popcorn, and nervous energy. Above them, the scoreboard glared with an unwelcome truth: Trece Martires High 38, Dasmariñas National High 31. The seven-point chasm felt like a mile.
This was the third quarter, the crucible where championships are either won or lost. It was a time when resolve and spirit mattered as much as any perfectly executed play.
Tristan Herrera, the team's floor general, tugged at the hem of his №20 jersey, the damp fabric sticking to his skin. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart, and Coach Gutierrez's voice from the halftime locker room echoed in his mind.
(Flashback - Halftime)
The small, cramped room was silent except for the ragged breaths of exhausted players. Coach Gutierrez stood before them, not yelling, but speaking with a low, intense fire that commanded more attention than any shout ever could.
"Look at me," he'd said, his eyes scanning each player. "They have the size. We all see it. Matumba is a monster, we knew that coming in. Playing his game, trying to out-muscle him, is a losing battle." He tapped a diagram on the whiteboard. "But they don't have our heart. And they don't have our speed. We stop trying to fight him head-on and start making him run. Fast breaks. Quick cuts. Wear. Him. Down. Trust your training. Trust each other. Play with heart, and leave every single ounce of what you have on that floor."
(Present)
Tristan's eyes narrowed, sweeping over his teammates as they took their positions. They were the five who had signed up for this battle:
Tristan Herrera, №20, the point guard, his usual steady demeanor hardened by a fiery determination.
Marco Gumaba, №23, the shooting guard, whose calm precision was being tested under immense pressure.
Aiden Robinson, №7, the small forward, fierce and grounded, his jaw set in a stubborn line.
Felix Tan, №34, the power forward, a bundle of raw energy and hunger, tasked with the near-impossible.
Ian Veneracion, №32, the center, the team's anchor, already bruised from his war in the paint.
Opposite them stood Trece Martires, an unchanged lineup of giants, their muscles and minds poised. The referee placed the ball between Ian and the towering Ibeke Matumba. The whistle shrieked.
Both centers exploded upwards. For a split second, Ian's fingertips were level with the ball, but Matumba's freakish length and timing gave him the edge. A sharp thwack echoed as he decisively tapped the ball back to his point guard, Tracy Romeo. The monster inside was as intimidating as ever, and the game resumed with a terrifying urgency.
Tracy Romeo, all fluid motion and deceptive calm, began his attack. He lulled Tristan with a slow dribble before exploding into a series of legendary crossovers. The ball was a blur, moving from left to right so quickly that Tristan's ankles screamed in protest. He managed to stay in front, but it was exactly what Romeo wanted. He used Tristan's momentum against him, slipping past his shoulder and into the paint. The defense collapsed on him. Without looking, Romeo slid a deft bounce pass through a thicket of legs to a wide-open Jace Yap on the wing.
Jace caught the ball in perfect rhythm, rising into his shot as if he were all alone in an empty gym. The form was flawless, the release pure. The chain net rattled with a satisfying ca-chunk.
Score: Trece Martires 41 — Dasmariñas 31
The ten-point lead felt like a punch to the gut. The Trece Martires crowd erupted.
Tristan gritted his teeth, clapping his hands sharply to cut through the noise. "Shake it off! Get it back now!" he yelled, dribbling the ball up the court. "Marco, on my screen, left side! Aiden, baseline cut!"
His teammates moved with practiced synergy. Tristan used Marco's screen to shed his defender for a precious second. He saw Marco peel off, catching the inbound pass on the elbow. Before the defense could recover their footing, Marco elevated, his jumper a picture of calm precision. The shot arced perfectly over the outstretched hand of a defender.
Swish.
Score: 41–33
A small victory, but it was something. On the next possession, Felix Tan, fueled by a mix of frustration and courage, took the ball from the wing. He faked a shot, then drove aggressively to the basket, lowering his shoulder and attacking the heart of the defense. Matumba stepped up to stop him, and Felix crashed into the bigger man's chest, throwing up a wild shot. The whistle blew. A blocking foul on Matumba.
The Dasmariñas bench jumped to their feet. Felix stood at the free-throw line, wiping sweat from his brow. He took a deep breath, dribbled twice, and spun the ball in his hands. The first shot was perfect. The second kissed the front of the rim, bounced high, and mercifully dropped through. The spark of hope flickered brighter.
But despite these spirited plays, Matumba remained a looming, immovable force. On Trece's next offense, he established a deep position against Ian. He backed him down, a relentless physical assault of bumps and shoves. Ian held his ground as best he could, but when the shot went up from the outside and clanged off the rim, Matumba simply spun around him, snatched the rebound with one hand, and laid it back in before Ian could even jump.
"Damn it," Ian breathed, hands on his knees. "It's like trying to move a mountain."
Tristan saw the fatigue setting in. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled to the bench, desperation lacing his voice. "Coach! We've got to double him before he catches the ball! He's killing us!"
Gab and Cedrick rose from their seats, ready to rotate in, the entire bench alive with a nervous, crackling tension.
Matumba's dominance inside was a gravitational force, pulling the Dasmariñas defense into the paint. And that's when Tracy Romeo, like a master surgeon, began to peel them apart with rocket-like passes. He found Jace Yap spotting up on the arc.
Swish.
He drove and kicked to him in the corner.
Swish.
Two more threes, back-to-back, that felt like daggers.
Score: Trece Martires 47 — Dasmariñas 35
The immense pressure was visible on Marco's face. His shoulders slumped, and a flicker of frustration crossed his eyes after he missed a contested shot. He jogged back on defense, muttering to himself.
"It's like every move we make, they have an answer," he said quietly to Tristan as they set their defense.
Tristan clapped him on the shoulder, his voice firm but reassuring. "Hey. Look at me. Shooters shoot. The next one goes in. Focus on what we control. We do this together."
Coach Gutierrez called for a substitution. John Manalo checked in to give Marco a breather. On his very first possession, John caught a kick-out pass from Tristan and, without hesitation, launched a clutch three-pointer that found the bottom of the net.
Score: 47–38
The fight was still in them. Aiden Robinson embodied it, delivering sharp passes and contesting every shot. He drove hard to the hoop and was met with a brutal foul, sending him sprawling to the floor with a hard thud. The gym gasped. He took a moment, then got back to his feet, grimacing as he sank both free throws.
During a timeout, Felix collapsed onto the bench next to Ian, his chest heaving. Sweat mingled with self-doubt in his eyes.
"I'm trying, man… I'm giving it everything," he panted, looking at his hands. "But he's just so big, so fast. I can't stop him."
Ian, just as exhausted, shook his head and put a heavy arm around Felix's shoulders. "Hey. Look at me. We knew he was a beast. That doesn't mean we break. We fight him as a team. You're making him work for everything. You're stronger than you know. Stay with me."
Tristan, overhearing them, adjusted his strategy. He began calling for faster sets, focusing on pick-and-rolls designed to exploit Trece Martires' defensive shifts and get their big men moving. His communication was sharp, his leadership undeniable.
"Aiden, hard cut! Ian, set the high screen! Move, move, move! Find the open man!"
The pace quickened. Marco, now back in the game, came off a screen, caught a lightning-fast pass from Tristan, and fired a contested jumper that fell, clawing the lead back under ten.
Score: Trece Martires 50 — Dasmariñas 42
But Trece Martires always had a reply. JP Simon bulldozed his way through two defenders for a tough putback. Jace Yap, with a hand in his face, hit an impossible fadeaway jumper.
Gab, subbed in for Felix, and Ian boxed out relentlessly, their eyes fierce with refusal.
"No easy points!" Gab grunted, shoving his man away from the basket. "No second chances!"
The clock for the third quarter bled down. Ten seconds left. Tristan pushed the ball, his eyes scanning the floor. Trece's defense swarmed him. He saw Daewoo, who had just checked in, open on the wing for a split second. Tristan fired a laser pass. Daewoo caught it, feet set, and without a moment's thought, unleashed a clean, confident three-pointer just as the buzzer sounded.
The ball hung in the air, seeming to stop time. The gym held its collective breath.
Swish.
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar. The Dasmariñas bench cleared, screaming and pumping their fists.
Final Score, 3rd Quarter: Trece Martires 52 — Dasmariñas 45
The players retreated to their benches, breaths ragged, hearts pounding. They were still down, but the lead was manageable. The momentum had shifted, however slightly.
Coach Gutierrez pulled Tristan aside, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"You're holding them together out there, son. That was a leader's quarter," the coach said, his voice low and serious. "But the fight isn't over. They're going to come out angry in the fourth. This last quarter—you own it. I need you to be aggressive. You're looking to pass too much. Take the shot when it's there. Lead by attacking."
Tristan nodded, his chest heaving. He sat on the bench, towel draped over his head, and stared up at the gym ceiling. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull hum. He could feel his pulse in his ears. He whispered the words to himself, a vow made in the heart of the storm.
"We're down, but not out. This city meet is ours to fight for."