The walk from the locker room back to the court was a journey through a tunnel of escalating sound. The muted, echoing footsteps gave way to a low hum, which swelled into a roar as they emerged into the brilliant, blinding lights of the arena. The energy of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of anticipation that washed over the players of Dasmariñas National High. They had survived the first half with a paper-thin lead. Now, the second half—the twenty minutes that would define their entire season—awaited them.
As the team reached their bench, Coach Gutierrez held up a hand, stopping them before they could take their seats. His expression was unreadable, a mask of calm tactical focus that belied the storm raging within the stadium.
"Lineup for the third," he announced, his voice cutting through the noise. "Tristan, you're at the point."
Tristan nodded, his mind already on the court.
"John, you're at the two. Daewoo, at the three."
A ripple of surprise went through the starters. Marco's confident grin faltered, replaced by a look of sheer confusion. He glanced at John, then back at the coach. Aiden, who had been mentally preparing to run his defender ragged, blinked, his posture stiffening.
"Gab, you're at power forward. Felix, you're our center."
The announcement landed like a stone. Ian and Cedrick, the twin pillars of their interior presence, froze. They exchanged a wide-eyed look of disbelief. The five players who had fought tooth and nail for every single point in the first half were being benched. All except for their captain.
Marco was the first to speak, his voice a strained whisper. "Coach? What's the play here? We've got momentum."
"They're tired, Coach," Aiden added, his tone pleading. "We can run on them now."
Coach Gutierrez turned his gaze from the new lineup to the benched starters. His eyes weren't angry or dismissive; they were sharp, analytical, and held a glint of something daring.
"You're right. You do have momentum," he said, his voice low and firm so only they could hear. "But Nasugbu expects a track meet. They're coming out of that locker room expecting to trade baskets with our best scorers. They're prepared for a gunfight with Marco and Aiden, and a wrestling match with Ian and Cedrick. We're not going to give them the fight they've prepared for."
He looked at the five players heading to the court—John, the lockdown perimeter defender; Daewoo, the tireless wing stopper; Gab, the gritty, intelligent bruiser; and Felix, the raw but powerful defensive anchor.
"They want a street fight?" Coach Gutierrez continued, a flicker of a grim smile on his face. "Fine. We're sending in the brawlers. Your job," he said, his eyes locking onto his new unit, "is not to outscore them. Your job is to suffocate them. I want every pass contested. I want every dribble harassed. I want them to feel like they're trying to breathe in a vacuum. You will not give them an inch of space. You will make them hate every second they have the ball. You set the tone. You break their will. Tristan," he finished, turning to his captain, "you're the only creator out there. Be patient. Be smart. Run this ship."
Tristan looked at the stunned faces of his friends, then at the determined, nervous expressions of the new lineup. He understood. This was a high-stakes gamble.
The coach was sacrificing offense for pure, unadulterated defensive grit, betting that breaking Nasugbu's rhythm was more important than extending their own lead. He gave Marco a quick, reassuring nod, a silent promise to hold the line, before turning to his new floor mates.
"You heard him," Tristan said, his voice steady. "Let's go to work."
As the five of them stepped onto the court, a murmur of confusion rippled through the home crowd. Across the floor, the Nasugbu players, unchanged from the first half, smirked. Robert Concepcion caught Tristan's eye and gave a dismissive shake of his head.
"What's this, Herrera?" Robert sneered as they lined up for the inbound. "Your coach waving the white flag already? Putting in the scrubs to save your starters from getting tired?"
Tristan ignored him, his focus absolute. Felix took the ball out of bounds. The referee's whistle blew, and the third quarter began.
Score: Dasmariñas 33 — Nasugbu 31
Felix inbounded the ball to Tristan, and immediately, Coach Reyes's halftime adjustment was clear. Full-court pressure. A Nasugbu guard met Tristan the moment he caught the ball, harassing him, trying to force a turnover before he could even cross half-court. Tristan protected the ball, his dribble low and controlled, using his body to shield it as he navigated the press.
On the bench, Marco leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the seat. "They're trapping him. Someone's gotta come help."
On the court, Gab saw it too and sprinted up from the block to set a high screen. Tristan used it, finally crossing the timeline with only sixteen seconds on the shot clock. The Dasmariñas offense, stripped of its primary weapons, looked disjointed. John and Daewoo were positioned on the wings, but their defenders sagged off them, daring them to shoot and clogging the lane for Tristan.
Tristan probed the defense, his dribble a steady metronome against the court's floor.
He tried to find an opening, a seam, but Nasugbu's defense was swarming, energized by the apparent mismatch. With the shot clock winding down, Tristan drove hard to his right, drawing two defenders. At the last second, he stopped on a dime and fired a pass to Gab at the free-throw line.
Gab caught it, but Vincent Murao was on him in an instant. There was no finesse in Gab's game, only raw determination. He faked a shot, took one powerful dribble towards the rim, and threw up a tough, contested hook shot over Murao's outstretched arm. The ball hit the backboard hard, bounced on the rim once, twice, and dropped through.
It was an ugly, gritty, hard-earned basket.
The perfect representation of this new lineup.
Score: Dasmariñas 35 — Nasugbu 31
"That's how we do it!" Gab yelled, clapping his hands as they ran back on defense.
"Make 'em work!"
Now, it was time to see if the gamble would pay off. Robert Concepcion brought the ball up for Nasugbu, a confident swagger in his step. He called for a screen, expecting to get a switch and attack. But as he came around the pick, John fought through it, staying glued to his hip. Daewoo, guarding Andrei Iquiña, didn't give the sharpshooter a single inch, shadowing his every move along the three-point line, his hand constantly in Iquiña's face.
Robert, frustrated, tried to drive, but as he entered the lane, he was met by a wall. Gab stepped up to cut off his path while Felix dropped back, protecting the rim. The driving lane vanished. Robert was trapped. He jumped, looking for a bailout pass, and tried to force the ball to Kris Estrada under the hoop.
But Felix was ready. He deflected the pass with his fingertips. The ball bounced loose. John dived on the floor, wrestling it away from a Nasugbu player.
The whistle blew.
Jump ball.
The possession arrow favored Dasmariñas.
The Dasmariñas bench erupted. Ian and Cedrick jumped to their feet, roaring their approval. The smirk was gone from Robert Concepcion's face.
The next few minutes descended into a brutal, defensive slugfest. Every possession for Nasugbu was a war. Daewoo's relentless pressure began to visibly frustrate Andrei Iquiña, who started pushing off to try and create space, nearly drawing an offensive foul. On the inside, the battle between Gab and Vincent Murao was escalating. Every box-out was a shoving match, every rebound a clash of bodies.
Vincent Murao: (After being boxed out hard by Gab) "You gonna hold all day, or you gonna play basketball?"
Gab: (Without looking at him, staring at the ball) "Just keep your elbows to yourself and we won't have a problem."
The Dasmariñas offense continued to struggle for rhythm. Their next possession ended with a forced shot from Tristan as the clock expired. But on the other end, their defense held firm again, forcing Andrei Iquiña into a contested, off-balance three-pointer that clanged off the side of the rim.
Felix outmuscled Kris Estrada for the rebound.
On the bench, Aiden watched Daewoo's defensive clinic. "Look at his footwork. He's not even letting Iquiña breathe. He's completely taken him out of the game."
"That's why he's on the court," Marco replied, his frustration from being benched slowly morphing into a grudging respect for the coach's strategy. "We score points. They prevent them. We're strangling them slowly."
Tristan, bringing the ball up again, recognized the need for a spark. Nasugbu's defense was still disrespecting his shooters. He drove hard towards the baseline, drawing Gab's defender over to help. In a split second, he fired a cross-court skip pass to the opposite corner, where John was standing all alone.
John caught the ball. For a heartbeat, he hesitated. He wasn't a scorer like Marco. He was a defender. But he was open. The entire Dasmariñas bench rose to its feet.
"Shoot it, John!" Marco yelled.
John set his feet, rose, and let it fly. The ball spun through the air, a perfect, silent arc.
Swish.
The net barely rippled.
Score: Dasmariñas 38 — Nasugbu 31
The crowd roared. John, stone-faced, simply pointed a finger at Tristan in thanks and sprinted back on defense. The basket felt like it was worth ten points. It forced Nasugbu's defense to expand, giving Tristan a little more room to operate.
The physical toll of the quarter began to show on Nasugbu. Their shots grew more frantic. Robert Concepcion, trying to take matters into his own hands, drove recklessly into the lane, lowering his shoulder to try and barrel through Tristan. Tristan, anticipating the move, planted his feet just outside the restricted area. The collision was jarring. A sharp whistle cut through the air. The referee signaled a player control foul.
Offensive foul. Dasmariñas's ball.
Tristan hit the floor hard, but he was up in an instant, helped by Felix and Gab. He had taken their best player's best shot and won the battle. Robert screamed in frustration, kicking the air.
With three minutes left in the quarter, Nasugbu's offense had been held to just two points—a pair of free throws. Their fluid, fast-paced attack was now a stagnant, frustrating mess.
On another possession, Kris Estrada managed to get the ball in the low post against Felix. He made a powerful drop-step and went up for what looked like an easy dunk.
Out of nowhere, Felix exploded upwards, meeting him at the apex. The sound of hand slapping ball echoed through the arena—a clean, thunderous block. The ball shot out of bounds. Felix landed and let out a guttural roar, pounding his chest. He had been waiting for this moment, a chance to prove he belonged on this stage, and he had seized it.
Nasugbu was forced to call a timeout. As their players walked to the bench, their shoulders were slumped. Their energy was gone, replaced by visible anger and confusion. They had been dragged into a rock fight, and they were losing badly.
Score: Dasmariñas 41 — Nasugbu 33
In the Dasmariñas huddle, Coach Gutierrez looked at the five players on the court, their chests heaving, sweat pouring from them.
"Incredible," he said, his voice thick with pride. "Absolutely incredible. You did exactly what I asked. You broke them. Now… let's go finish the job."
He turned to the bench. "Marco, Aiden, Ian, Cedrick. You're in for John, Daewoo, Gab, and Felix."
The four benched starters leaped up, their eyes blazing. As the defensive unit came off the court, they were met with a standing ovation from their teammates. Marco grabbed John by the jersey.
"That three-pointer was clutch, man! You changed the whole floor for us!"
Ian clapped Felix on the back, a huge grin on his face. "That block! That was a statement, brother! You shut him down!"
Gab and Daewoo collapsed onto the bench, utterly spent but smiling. They had done their job. They had set the table.Now, it was time for the finishers to eat.
Tristan watched his four friends retake the court with him. They weren't just rested; they were hungry, focused, and armed with seven minutes of sideline observation. They had seen Nasugbu's frustration, their defensive lapses born of fatigue.
There was just over a minute left in the quarter. Dasmariñas had the ball. The Nasugbu players looked at the fresh legs coming at them with a sense of dread.
Tristan took the inbound. He saw the weariness in Robert Concepcion's eyes. He saw Andrei Iquiña sagging, his hands on his hips, exhausted from being chased by Daewoo. He saw the fire returning to his own teammates' eyes.
He called for a high screen from Ian. As Ian rolled to the basket, he drew the attention of Kris Estrada and the help-side defender. For the entire quarter, Tristan had been forced to create for himself or find a gritty shot for his defensive-minded teammates. Now, his real weapons were back.
The defense collapsed on Ian's roll. Tristan, poised at the top of the key, saw Marco drifting to the wing, into the space Iquiña was slow to cover. With a lightning-fast whip of his wrist, Tristan fired a pass to his best friend.
Marco caught it in perfect rhythm. He didn't have to think. His body, fresh and explosive, knew exactly what to do. He rose up, his form flawless. The shot was pure.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 44 — Nasugbu 33
Nasugbu rushed a final possession, a desperate, contested shot that missed badly. Cedrick, back on the court, ripped down the rebound. There were six seconds left. He outlets the ball to Tristan.
Tristan flew up the court. Two defenders converged on him, terrified of another last-second shot. But Tristan wasn't looking at the basket. He saw Aiden streaking down the left lane. With two seconds left, Tristan lofted a perfect bounce pass ahead of the defense. Aiden caught it in full stride, took one step, and laid it in just as the final buzzer of the quarter sounded.
Score: Dasmariñas 46 — Nasugbu 33
The arena exploded. The third quarter, which began as a precarious two-point affair, had ended in a thirteen-point Dasmariñas lead.
Nasugbu stared at the scoreboard in stunned silence. Coach Gutierrez's insane gamble had not only worked—it had completely shattered their will.
As they walked to the bench for the quarter break, Marco slung an arm around Tristan's shoulder.
"That, my friend," Marco said, a look of awe on his face, "was a coaching masterclass. And you, John, Daewoo, Gab, and Felix… you guys are the real MVPs of that quarter."
Tristan looked at his team—the exhausted defenders on the bench and the energized scorers beside him—and felt a profound sense of unity. They were one team, a perfect synthesis of grit and skill, and they were now just ten minutes away from a championship.