Location: Cebu South Tech Gym, Day 2 of the Invitational
Teams: Flowstate (Manila) vs. Bacolod Polytechnic Stallions
The gym buzzed with that small-town electricity — fans packed shoulder to shoulder, slippers tapping against concrete.
Every corner smelled like liniment and fried lumpia.
Riki stood near the scorer's table, towel around his neck.
Drei, Jax, Kio, and Lars stretched behind him.
No Thea — she'd gone home to visit family for two days.
The announcer's voice cracked over the mic:
"Next game: Flowstate, Manila — versus Bacolod Polytechnic!"
The Bacolod boys came out in perfect sync.
Matching shoes, matching stares, matching warm-ups.
Flowstate looked like they barely made curfew.
Tip-off
The whistle blew.
Bacolod's center won the jump, flicked it clean to their guard.
Three passes later, it was already 2–0.
Riki pointed. "Talk on defense!"
Lars: "We're trying, bai!"
Jax: "He said 'talk,' not 'panic!'"
They tried running a play — or something like it.
Riki called for motion, Lars ignored him, drove straight into traffic.
Turnover.
4–0.
The Bacolod coach smirked across the sideline. "You Manila boys all freestyle, no frame."
Riki didn't answer.
He just wiped his hands on his shorts and called another play.
It didn't matter.
Bacolod ran pick-and-rolls like clockwork — bounce pass, layup, repeat.
At halftime, it was 38–25.
Flowstate sat on the bench like they'd just been hit by a bus.
Locker Room
The fan in the ceiling spun loud enough to drown thought.
Drei threw his towel at the floor. "We can't run against them."
Kio: "We can't even spell rotation."
Lars: "We got me."
Riki: "Yeah. That's half the problem."
Lars glared. "So what, you want me to slow down?"
Riki: "No. I want you to stop running without looking."
The room went quiet.
Even Jax stopped chewing his ice cube.
Riki leaned forward.
"You're fast, Lars. But you're running blind. The ball's not a race — it's timing. Let me set the beat, you move when I move. Got it?"
Lars muttered, "Copy, paperwork."
Jax grinned. "That's progress."
Second Half
Riki took control.
No more chaos.
He slowed the pace, forced Bacolod to guard longer than they wanted to.
Every pass had weight now.
Lars waited for the cue — then cut sharp off Riki's hesitation.
Layup.
Finally, clean.
Riki pointed at him. "That's it."
Lars: "Felt weird."
Riki: "Good. That means it worked."
Flowstate clawed back slowly.
Jax hit two floaters in traffic.
Drei banged in a corner three off a broken play.
The crowd started watching for real now.
With two minutes left: Bacolod 63 – Flowstate 61.
Riki called a final set. "Lars, baseline. Drei, screen. Kio, crash hard."
Inbound.
Dribble.
Fake left.
Riki hit Lars on a cut — blocked at the rim.
Ball bounced loose. Drei picked it up, turned, and sank a fading midrange at the buzzer.
The gym froze.
Then erupted.
Final: 63–63.
Draw.
Aftermath
Officials huddled near the table.
"No overtime for group stage," one said. "Tie-break based on total point margin."
Riki nodded. "So we win the next one big."
Lars kicked a bottle across the floor. "Could've won if the ref had eyes."
Jax: "You also could've passed."
Lars: "You could've scored."
Kio: "You could both shut up."
They packed up in silence, sweat still dripping.
Outside, the night air hit them hard — sticky, salty, real.
They stopped by a karinderya near the port.
Two tables, plastic chairs, fishballs on skewers.
They split what was left of Thea's money:
2,000 pesos.
Four ways.
500 each.
Dinner, paid.
Dignity, borrowed.
Jax held up his drink. "To being tied with smart people."
Lars clinked his glass. "To being faster than them."
Riki just shook his head.
He didn't feel proud.
Didn't feel defeated either.
He just stared at the reflection of the court lights across the bay, thinking about what came next.
End of Chapter 8 — "The Wrong Rhythm"