"You're listening to that basketball player again," Estelle said as she entered the house carrying grocery bags.
Without another word, she grabbed the remote and turned off the television. "If James catches you watching that again, he'll be furious. You know how he hates anything that has to do with Dranred."
She set the groceries on the dining table, a few steps from the living room where her younger sister, Rosette, sat quietly, holding the baseball Dranred had once given her.
"I still don't understand why James hates Dranred so much," Rosette said softly, following her sister's movements. "What's wrong with wanting to play basketball too?"
Estelle looked at her. It had been ten years since that incident — ten long years since their family's life had fallen apart. When they first came to the province to live with their aunt and uncle, they thought things would get better. They were wrong.
Their aunt and uncle treated them like servants. If not for James's determination, they never would have finished school. He worked himself to the bone — two jobs a day — just to pay off their debts to their relatives, cover hospital bills, and lay their parents to rest.
Because of poverty, Rosette never had the chance to undergo another surgery. James enlisted in the military, hoping to earn more, but because of his leg injury, he couldn't keep up with the training and was discharged. After that, he worked at a fast-food restaurant while studying at night. Estelle took on odd jobs too.
When James finally graduated, they left their aunt and uncle's house. Yet even now, they still sent them money — the supposed "remaining debt" that never seemed to end.
Estelle eventually finished nursing school and now worked at a hospital. Rosette, because of her blindness, stayed home.
She took online classes so she wouldn't fall behind. She had graduated high school through homeschooling, and if not for her condition, she would already be in college.
Eye surgery was too expensive, and there was no donor available, so the operation remained only a dream.
"Estelle?" Rosette asked when her sister didn't respond. "Why do you always say that? Why can't James forgive Dranred?"
Estelle hesitated, arranging the groceries inside the refrigerator. "You know how James is — sensitive, quick to take things to heart. He can't play the sport he loves anymore, so maybe… maybe he's just jealous of Dranred."
She didn't tell Rosette the truth — that Dranred's grandfather had a hand in their parents' death. She and James had agreed to keep it from her. Rosette adored Dranred; knowing the truth would break her.
"They were friends," Rosette said wistfully. "Shouldn't he be happy that Dranred became such a great basketball player? He's famous now. Do you think he still remembers us?"
Estelle gave a sad smile. "You said it yourself — he's famous. Why would someone like him remember people like us? Stars don't look down on the ground where the poor stand."
"Why do I feel like you and James are angry at Dranred? He hasn't done anything wrong," Rosette said, turning away.
"Where are you going?" Estelle asked.
"To sleep," Rosette replied. "Oh, by the way, James might come home late. He's helping his friend apply for a job — something with a basketball team, I think."
"A basketball team?" Estelle repeated, frowning.
"Yes. They said there's an opening for an assistant coach. Apparently, they were impressed by how much James knows about the game," Rosette said before retreating into her room.
Estelle stood there, deep in thought. She knew, even without him saying a word, that James could never truly let go of basketball. Once, she had caught him watching a game on TV, his eyes fixed on the screen, the old ball resting by his side. Other nights, she'd hear the faint sound of dribbling outside — slow, careful, uneven — the rhythm broken by the limits of his injured leg.
Every time she saw him like that, something inside her ached. But there was nothing she could do. All she could offer was quiet understanding, watching him from afar as he wrestled with the dream he'd been forced to bury.
His world had collapsed after everything that happened. Yet even with his own dreams shattered, James still stood firm — not as the athlete he once wanted to be, but as the parent Rosette and Estelle needed him to become.
The morning after the championship felt unreal.
Red woke to the sound of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. Light from the half-drawn curtains cut across the hotel room like blades of gold. His body ached from the game, but it was a good ache—the kind that reminded him he was still alive.
He reached for the phone, already knowing what he would see: notifications stacked like dominoes. Headlines, interviews, endorsements. Every sports page in the country was screaming the same thing—THE METEOR STRIKES AGAIN.
He thumbed through them in silence. Reporters called him unstoppable, a phenomenon, the golden boy of Philippine basketball. They didn't know how hollow those words sounded to him now.
There was a soft knock on the door. "Red? You awake?"
Cal's voice, cheerful as always. His roommate, teammate, and the closest thing Red had to a brother these days.
"Yeah," Red said, sitting up. "Come in."
Cal pushed the door open with his elbow, holding two paper cups. "Double espresso, just how you like it. We're heroes again. The team's heading to a press conference in an hour. Coach says wear something that doesn't look like you slept in it."
Red managed a small smile. "Thanks." He took the cup and sipped. The bitter warmth steadied him.
"You okay, man?" Cal asked, studying him. "You should be buzzing. Another title, MVP, fans camping outside the hotel—what's with the funeral face?"
Red leaned back against the headboard. "Just tired."
Cal grinned. "You're always tired. You play like the world's ending every game."
"Maybe it is."
Cal chuckled, assuming it was a joke, and tossed him a folded newspaper. On the front page, Red's photo dominated the layout—arms raised, face alight beneath falling confetti.
In the corner, a quote from Coach Ibarra read: "He was born for this."
Red stared at the picture for a long time. Born for this? No. He'd chosen it—chosen it over someone else's dream.
By the time Red reached the function hall, the press were already swarming. Camera flashes burst like static lightning, questions overlapping in a storm of voices.
"Red! Over here! One photo!"
"Red, how does it feel to make history?"
"Are the rumors true about a new international offer?"
He smiled for the lenses, the expression rehearsed until it felt like a mask that fit too well. The microphone lights blinked red in front of him, waiting for another sound bite.
"It feels good," he said evenly. "The team worked hard. This one's for the fans."
Polite applause. Perfect answer. Coach Ibarra clapped him on the shoulder, and the cameras loved it.
Inside, the words tasted like dust.
When the crowd finally released him, Red slipped out a side door into the corridor that led to the arena balcony. Morning light slanted through the glass panels, and below, the court workers were sweeping away confetti from last night.
He leaned on the railing, breathing in the quiet. Down there, where the paint lines were still visible on the wood, he had made the shot that should have erased everything. Yet the guilt clung to him like sweat.
A voice broke through his thoughts. "I figured I'd find you hiding somewhere."
It was Cal again, carrying two bottles of water. He offered one. "You keep disappearing after every win. If I didn't know better, I'd say you hate being famous."
Red gave a half-smile. "You know me too well."
"Coach wants you for another interview," Cal said. "Some charity event—kids, hospitals, the usual PR stuff."
Red took the bottle but didn't move. "Tell him I'll be there."
Cal studied him for a moment. "You ever going to tell me what's eating you?"
"Nothing," Red said. "Just tired."
Cal sighed. "You're a bad liar, Red. Always have been." He clapped him on the shoulder and walked off.