(Riki Dela Peña — Cebu City, 2029)
The port smelled like diesel and frying oil.
Riki and the boys followed Thea through the crowd, bags knocking against their backs, heat turning every step into a test of faith.
At the registration booth, the official didn't even look up.
Thea: "We're adding one player."
Official: "Name?"
Thea: "Lars Vergara."
Official: "Age?"
Lars: "Fifteen. Turning sixteen next quarter."
Official: "School?"
Thea: "Flowstate University, incoming."
Official: "Fee's 2,500."
Riki handed over the envelope. Stamp. Receipt. Done.
Lars: "That's it? I'm in?"
Riki: "You're official. Welcome to the world's poorest basketball team."
Lars: "My favorite kind."
Their travel money dropped to 2,500 pesos.
THE WARNING
Thea divided the bills—half for lodging, half for survival.
Thea: "This covers food for two days. Two. Not a casino. Not a miracle."
Riki: "Define miracle."
Thea: "Anything that starts with Jax saying 'I have an idea.'"
Jax: "Rude but accurate."
She slung her bag over her shoulder.
Thea: "I'm visiting family in Talisay. Back in two days. Do not spend a single peso on stupidity."
Riki: "We'll be saints."
Thea: "You'll be headlines."
She left. Thirty seconds of peace later—
Jax: "Is that a peryahan?"
Neon flickered at the corner of the street—music, laughter, crowd noise.
Even Kio groaned because he already knew what was coming.
Lars: "That's the color game, bai! Easy money if you read the dealer's hand."
Drei: "No one's ever said that and been right."
Riki: "We look. Only look."
They did not only look.
THE PERYAHAN
The air buzzed like a power line.
Kids screamed near the rides. Men yelled at the card tables.
At the Color Game, the dealer slammed his palm on the switch.
Dealer: "Last call! Blue pays double!"
Lars watched the cube tilt.
Lars: "Green. Trust me."
They bet 500.
Green. Win.
Cheers. Laughter. Confidence.
Then again—win. Then again.
Before they knew it, their 2,500 became 4,000, then 6,000, then 7,000.
Drei: "That's enough."
Jax: "One more."
Lars: "We're hot."
Riki: "You're about to be homeless."
The cube spun again. Red. They'd bet blue. Silence.
Then yellow. Green. Gone.
The dealer smiled like he'd seen it a thousand times.
Dealer: "Balik bukas, mga idol!"
Jax: "We can still eat air, right?"
Kio: "Hope it's grilled."
Riki: "How much left?"
Drei: "Five hundred. Congratulations. We're broke with style."
They laughed because starving quietly was worse.
THE BRIDGE COURT
On their way back, they heard a crowd under the bridge by the water.
A makeshift half-court, bare lights, and a chalkboard:
3v3 – ENTRY 500 – WINNER TAKES 2,000.
Lars: "Sign from above."
Drei: "Debt from below."
Riki: "We either lose money or dignity. One's already gone."
They paid the entry fee.
THE GAME
The locals were built like bouncers.
No whistles, no rules, just grit.
First possession—Lars cut through traffic, lay-up. 2-0.
Next possession—Riki fake, bounce to Drei, finish. 4-2.
Then chaos. Bodies colliding, dust rising, sneakers sliding on cement.
By 8-8, they were gasping.
Riki looked at Lars. Nod.
Riki: "Last shot's yours."
Lars: "Say less."
He drove left, spun right, jumped early—too early.
Twist, flick, behind-the-back pass.
Riki caught it, banked it in. Game.
Cheers exploded.
Someone yelled, "Manila boys ain't bad after all!"
They collected their 2,000 pesos like it was a championship check.
Split four ways. 500 each.
Dinner, paid. Pride, restored.
They ate fishballs by the seawall, grease on their hands, salt in the air.
Drei: "We're still broke."
Riki: "Yeah, but now we're broke with highlights."
Lars: "And dinner."
Jax: "Best investment ever."
Kio: "We're idiots."
Riki: "Exactly."
The waves hit the rocks below—off-beat.
For the first time in months, Riki felt the old rhythm coming back, scrappy and loud.
END OF CHAPTER 6 — "Fierce Butt's and Fast Hands"