Location: South Cebu — Thea's hometown, and Taguig — Alvarado Gym
Timeline: The day after Flowstate's draw vs Bacolod Polytechnic
CEBU — THEA'S HOMETOWN
The van wound down a narrow road lined with mango trees and broken basketball rings.
Thea sat in front, eyes half-tired, half-happy.
Riki, Drei, Jax, Kio, and Lars were all crammed behind her, looking like they'd just survived a group project.
Riki: "You sure this isn't a field trip?"
Thea: "You needed air. Cebu air is cheaper than therapy."
Lars leaned out the window, hair flapping.
Lars: "Smells like fried fish and freedom!"
Kio: "You sound like you've never bathed."
They pulled into Talisay, Thea's coastal hometown — part hill, part sea, all quiet.
Kids played beside the road.
Boats leaned against the sand like resting giants.
In the middle of it all: a concrete court beside the shore, lines faded, one backboard patched with plywood.
Thea's Lola stood by the gate, wide smile, arms out.
Lola: "Ay, Thea! You brought visitors!"
Thea: "Lola, this is the team. Try not to feed them too much."
Lola (eyeing Lars): "That one looks like he eats problems."
Lars: "I do, ma'am."
Lola: "Good. Wash your hands first."
THE GAME BY THE SEA
By 4 p.m., half the barangay had gathered around the seaside court.
Men in slippers. Kids in uniforms. Grandmas with fans.
Someone set up speakers blasting an old Bisaya ballad that didn't fit but somehow worked.
A fisherman holding a cigarette stepped forward.
Fisherman: "Losers buy halo-halo!"
Jax: "We just wanted cardio, kuya."
Fisherman: "Then run to the store."
The game started without a ref — just the rhythm of waves behind them and laughter cutting through the air.
The locals played by instinct.
Flowstate tried to adjust, but the chaos felt familiar — too familiar.
Lars, naturally, went full streetball.
Spin. Crossover. Stepback. Miss.
Then immediately called his own foul.
Riki: "You fouled physics."
Lars: "That's between me and science."
Thea cheered from the sideline, laughing until her voice cracked.
It wasn't about winning.
It was the noise. The movement. The rhythm that didn't ask for perfection.
The sun sank low.
Salt air mixed with sweat.
And for the first time since Bridgefire, Riki smiled — not the tired one.
The real one.
DINNER IN TALISAY
That night, they sat cross-legged around Thea's Lola's long table — wood polished by time, bowls steaming.
Tinola, grilled bangus, and rice piled high.
Lars ate like the world was ending.
Lars (mouth full): "Coach, if we lose again, can we lose here next time?"
Riki: "Depends. You paying?"
Lars: "I'm broke in spirit, not in appetite."
Thea watched her grandmother talk to the boys, slipping between Cebuano and Tagalog, teasing all of them like family.
Riki just watched quietly — how natural it looked.
Later, when everyone had gone quiet from too much food, Thea leaned back.
Thea: "You know, when I left for Manila, I thought I was running toward something bigger."
Riki: "And?"
Thea: "Turns out, sometimes you run so far, you forget what home feels like."
He nodded, slow.
Riki: "Guess that's what we all did."
Outside, the sound of waves pressed against the windows — calm, steady, unbothered.
TAGUIG — SAME NIGHT
The old gym creaked with memory.
Faded lines. Half-working lights.
Teo's heavy breathing was the only rhythm left.
Coach Alvarado sat by the baseline, cane resting against the chair.
His frame was thinner now, hands shaking just enough to betray the strength he used to have.
Coach Alvarado: "Again. Don't fight the air — feel it."
Teo dribbled once, twice, backed down an invisible defender.
Pivot. Shoulder fake.
Up and under. Miss.
Coach Alvarado: "You're forcing power again. Power's what you use when rhythm runs out."
Teo caught the ball, nodded.
Teo: "Show me again, Dad."
Coach Alvarado (smiling faintly): "Can't. These legs don't listen anymore. You'll have to see it here."
He tapped his temple.
Coach: "The Claw wasn't just muscle. It was control. Mid-air, I used to change the pass before the defender's eyes could catch up."
He motioned with his hands — slow, deliberate, the ghost of movement still sharp in form.
Coach Alvarado: "It's not strength. It's the space between strength and grace. The beat before contact."
Teo tried again.
One bounce. Pivot. Spin.
He jumped, hesitated mid-air — then switched hands and laid it softly.
Coach Alvarado: "There. The beat. That's yours now."
Bong, who'd been filming from the sideline, whistled low.
Bong: "Bro, that looked illegal in some countries."
Coach: "Then we're in the right one."
They all laughed.
For a moment, even the cough that followed didn't sound as heavy.
CEBU — THE NEXT MORNING
Flowstate packed up their bags.
Thea handed Riki a folded paper — the next day's schedule.
Thea: "Don't lose this."
Riki: "It's a paper, not my wallet."
Lars: "He lost both last week."
Thea: "Exactly."
They all climbed into the van.
The sun rose slow over the ocean, painting the water gold.
Kids from the barangay chased the van down the hill shouting, "Flowstate! Flowstate!"
Thea looked out the window, hand pressed to the glass.
Thea: "They'll talk about this for a week."
Riki: "Then let's make the next one worth a month."
She smiled — that same small, certain smile that could silence a storm.
END OF CHAPTER 9 — "The Borrowed Beat"