The walk to school on Monday morning was a fundamentally different experience. Before, Tristan could move through the bustling streets with a comfortable anonymity, just another student in a sea of uniforms. Today, he was a local celebrity.
Eyes followed him from storefronts, whispers trailed in his wake like a shadow, and small groups of younger kids would point before dissolving into giggles. A tricycle driver, slowing as he passed, honked his horn and yelled, "Galing mo, Herrera! Idol!" (You're great, Herrera Idol!) Tristan could only offer a shy, awkward wave in return.
He felt a profound sense of relief when he saw the familiar figures of Marco and Gab waiting for him by the school's main gate.
"Well, well, well," Marco declared, throwing an arm around Tristan's shoulders with the flair of a seasoned showman. "If it isn't the King of CALABARZON, the Sultan of Swish, the man who single-handedly caused a city-wide spike in blood pressure medication sales!"
"Shut up, Marco," Tristan mumbled, but he was smiling.
"He's not wrong," Gab said, his expression as stoic as ever, though his eyes held a rare glint of amusement. "My grandmother almost dropped her dentures when you took that shot. She's already lit a candle for you at the church."
The relative quiet of the street was shattered the moment they stepped through the school gates. The effect was instantaneous. The low hum of morning chatter in the quadrangle swelled as heads turned, conversations faltered, and a wave of recognition rippled through the student body. It was like walking into a movie scene where the main character had just arrived.
Students parted ways to let them pass. A chorus of "Congrats, Tristan!" and "Nice game, Marco!" followed them. Marco, naturally, was in his element. He was a fish returned to water, if the water was made of pure, unadulterated attention. He high-fived underclassmen, pointed finger-guns at friends, and occasionally struck a dramatic shooting pose, much to Gab's chagrin.
Tristan, however, felt a strange sense of detachment. He was grateful, of course, but the sheer volume of it was overwhelming.
He felt like he was watching himself from a distance, a character playing a role. The hero's welcome was a stark contrast to the quiet, analytical world of his System and the simple, exhausting reality of the game itself.
Their walk to their classroom was a slow, interrupted journey. Even teachers stepped out of their rooms to offer a proud nod or a firm handshake. When they finally slid into their seats just before the bell, the principal's voice crackled over the PA system.
"Good morning, DNHS. Before we begin our day, I want to extend a huge, heartfelt congratulations to our very own Dasmariñas High Basketball Team, your 2025 CALABARZON Regional Basketball Champions!" A roar of applause and cheers echoed through the entire school. "Their hard work and dedication have brought immense pride to our community. Well done, boys!"
Tristan sank a little lower in his seat, while Marco puffed out his chest. The day had barely begun, and it was already exhausting.
Their first class was M.A.P.E.H., and their teacher, Mr. Gutierrez, a portly man with an infectious passion for all things sports, was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Alright, class, settle down, settle down!" he boomed. "As you all know, we have champions in our midst!" He beamed at Tristan, Marco, and Gab. "But," he said with a dramatic pause, "as much as I'd love to spend the whole day breaking down Herrera's magnificent fadeaway—and believe me, we will do a full film session on that in PE—today's Health topic is… the importance of a balanced diet for non-athletes!"
A collective groan went through the class. Marco leaned over to Tristan. "Seriously? We just played the game of our lives and he wants to talk about the food pyramid? I am a finely-tuned athletic machine! My diet consists of victory and my mom's adobo!"
Mr. Gutierrez, overhearing, pointed a ruler at him. "And that is exactly why you, Mr. Gumaba, should pay the most attention! A balanced diet could have given you the extra stamina to not look like you were about to pass out in the fourth quarter!"
The class snickered as Marco's face turned red. For the next hour, Tristan listened to a lecture on caloric intake and macronutrients, the surreal experience of being a celebrated athlete while learning the basics of the very field he excelled in not lost on him.
Next was T.L.E., a subject that served as the ultimate equalizer. Today's lesson was in Basic Culinary Arts: making puto, a Filipino steamed rice cake. The basketball court was Tristan's kingdom, but the school's home economics kitchen was a foreign land. He found himself clumsy and uncertain, carefully measuring rice flour and sugar, a fine white powder dusting his uniform.
Marco, predictably, was a natural disaster. He had mistaken salt for sugar, creating a concoction that their teacher, Mrs. Reyes, declared an "abomination against Filipino cuisine." Gab, on the other hand, was surprisingly meticulous, his large, powerful hands moving with a practiced efficiency as he prepared his batter.
"See?" Gab said, perfectly arranging his molds in the steamer. "This is like basketball. It's all about fundamentals. Follow the instructions, execute properly, and you get a good result."
"My result looks less like puto and more like a science experiment gone wrong," Tristan lamented, looking at his lumpy, uneven batter. He, the hero of the regionals, was being defeated by a simple rice cake. It was a humbling, and strangely amusing, experience.
After a thankfully less disastrous session, they moved on to Science. Their physics teacher, Mr. Vidad, was a sharp, bespectacled man who saw the world in equations. Today, the topic was projectile motion.
"As luck would have it," Mr. Dizon began, a rare, sly smile on his face as he turned to Tristan, "we have a perfect, real-world example of this principle from last Wednesday's game." He picked up a marker and drew a surprisingly accurate diagram of a basketball court on the whiteboard. "Let's analyze Mr. Herrera's final shot."
Tristan felt the familiar heat of a blush. The entire class turned to look at him.
"Assuming Tristan released the ball at a height of eight feet, with an initial angle of approximately 48 degrees, and the basket is ten feet high and roughly fifteen feet away… what initial velocity was required for the ball to travel in a perfect parabolic arc and enter the net cleanly?"
He began scribbling equations on the board, filled with variables for gravity, velocity, and angles. Tristan watched, fascinated. He thought of his System stats—Vertical: 60, Strength: 60, Mid-Range Shot: 70. To him, the shot was a product of those numbers, of practice, of instinct. To Mr. Vidal, it was a beautiful, elegant physics problem. It was a bizarre and enlightening collision of his two worlds.
Their final morning class was Filipino. The lesson was on the epic poem Florante and Laura, focusing on the concept of the bayani, the hero. Their teacher, Ms. Garcia, a passionate and eloquent woman, spoke of heroes who fought for their people, who faced insurmountable odds with courage and skill.
"A bayani is not just someone with great strength," she explained, her gaze sweeping the room before landing softly on Tristan. "It is someone who inspires hope, who carries the dreams of others on their shoulders, and who, through their actions, brings honor to their community."
The compliment was subtle, academic, and yet it hit Tristan harder than any of the overt praise. To be compared, even indirectly, to the heroes of his nation's great literary works was a heavy, humbling honor. He wasn't just a basketball player; he was a representative of his school, his city. The thought was both terrifying and inspiring.
The cafeteria was a new level of chaos. As Tristan, Marco, and Gab got their food and tried to find a table, they were trailed by a small entourage of students. Finding an empty table was impossible; finding one where they wouldn't be immediately surrounded was the real challenge.
"Okay, new rule," Gab said, setting his tray down with a thud as a group of girls from another class hovered nearby, giggling. "No talking about the game while I'm eating my adobo. My digestion can't handle Gumaba's ego at the same time as this much soy sauce."
Marco, who had been in the middle of a grand, pantomimed reenactment of the final shot for a captivated audience of freshmen, scoffed. "Ego? I call it 'sharing the glory.' The people deserve to know the story of our triumph!"
"They know the story," Tristan said, finally getting a bite of his food. "They were there. Or they saw it on the news. Or they heard it from you ten times already this morning."
"Details, details," Marco waved dismissively. "They haven't heard my dramatic, behind-the-scenes commentary." He leaned in conspiratorially to the freshmen. "So there he was, Tristan, looking like he was about to pass out, and I said to him, 'Tris, my friend, my brother, just give me the ball!' but he, being the hero he is…"
"I'm going to put my rice in your hair if you don't stop talking," Gab threatened, his voice dangerously low.
The trio ate amidst the friendly interruptions, their conversation a familiar back-and-forth.
They talked about the absurdity of the day, about which teachers were the coolest about the win, and about the sheer relief of not having to go to practice later.
"I swear," Tristan said, "my legs are so sore, I don't think I could even jog right now."
"But it's a good sore, right?" Marco grinned. "It's the soreness of a champion."
"It's the soreness of an old man," Gab corrected. "And it's a reminder that this trophy isn't going to answer our math homework for us. We've got quadratics with Mrs. Tan after this. The party's over."
Gab's words, as usual, were the anchor that pulled them back to reality.
English was a quiet affair, a discussion of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken," which felt surprisingly relevant. Math, however, was exactly the brutal equalizer Gab had predicted. Mrs. Tan, a teacher who commanded a legendary level of fear and respect, was not impressed by their athletic achievements.
"Congratulations on your victory, gentlemen," she said, her voice crisp and devoid of emotion as she handed back their last quiz.
"Now, let's see if you can find the value of x with the same level of success."
Tristan, who had a respectable 68% on the quiz, focused intently. The abstract world of numbers and variables was a welcome escape from the attention. Here, he wasn't a hero. He was just a student trying to understand the quadratic formula. Marco, who had received a grade that was more red ink than blue, was a different story. He spent most of the class trying to subtly get Tristan to slide his paper over, earning a sharp rap on the knuckles from Mrs. Tan's ruler for his efforts.
Their last class of the day was Araling Panlipunan. The topic was nationalism and national identity. The discussion turned to how events, even sporting events, can unite a community and foster a sense of shared pride. The connection to their recent victory was unavoidable, and several classmates directed questions at them about what it felt like to represent their city. Tristan, feeling more comfortable after a full day of it, answered thoughtfully, speaking about the team, the coaches, and the incredible support of the community.
Finally, the last bell of the day rang, signaling the end of his first day back in the real world. As the hallways filled with the usual rush of students, Tristan felt a hand slip into his. He looked over and saw Claire, her smile a calming beacon in the chaotic sea of people. She had been waiting for him by his locker, just as she always did.
"So," she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "How was the hero's return to civilian life?"
Tristan let out a long, weary sigh, but he was smiling. "Overwhelming. I think I answered more questions today than in my last oral exam."
"I saw Marco holding court in the cafeteria. It looked like he was accepting an award," she laughed.
"That was the fifth time he'd told that story. I think it gets longer every time," Tristan replied, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to release. In her presence, he wasn't the 'King of CALABARZON.' He was just Tristan.
"Well, you handled it all pretty well," she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. She held out a small paper bag. "I saved you a cheese roll from the canteen. I figured you might need it."
It was a simple, thoughtful gesture, but it meant the world to him. It was normal. It was real.
"Thank you," he said, his voice soft.
They walked together, away from the noise of the school and into the relative quiet of the afternoon streets. The stares and whispers continued, but with Claire by his side, they seemed to matter less. They talked about her day, about his ridiculous T.L.E. class, about the physics of his final shot.
"You know," Claire said, a thoughtful look on her face, "it's a big deal, what you all accomplished. It's okay to be proud. It's okay to enjoy it."
"I am proud," Tristan said, looking at her. "I just… I guess I'm still figuring out how to be the person everyone sees me as now."
"Just be you," she said simply. "That's the person who won the game in the first place."
He squeezed her hand, a sense of clarity cutting through his exhaustion. She was right. The trophies, the fame, the system—they were all parts of his life, but they weren't the whole of it. He was a student, a son, a friend. And as they walked on, the setting sun casting long shadows behind them, he felt perfectly, wonderfully normal. For the first time all day, he felt like he was truly home.