The gymnasium, which had become a sterile laboratory for their Palaro preparations, felt different today. The air, usually filled with the singular, focused energy of the Dasmariñas National High Basketball Team, was now charged with the presence of an outside force. For the first time since their championship win, they were not just competing against themselves or the ghosts of their future opponents. Today, they had a mirror.
The team from Trece Martires High School arrived not with the swagger of rivals, but with the quiet, confident bearing of a seasoned sparring partner. They were the team Dasmariñas had narrowly defeated in the city-level finals, a game that felt like a lifetime ago. Both teams had evolved since then, and this practice game was more than just a scrimmage; it was a litmus test, a measure of growth for two of the province's elite squads.
As the TMH players, clad in their sharp red and black practice jerseys, began their warm-up drills on the opposite side of the court, the Dasmariñas players took their measure.
The familiar faces were there, but they seemed sharper, more defined.
Marco let out a low whistle. "Look at them. They don't look like the team we played a few months ago."
"They're not," Gab said, his eyes narrowed, performing a deep lunge stretch. "They look hungry. We beat them. We won the championship they wanted. This isn't just a practice for them. This is about pride."
Tristan watched them, his analytical gaze breaking down the opponent. His eyes immediately locked on their five starters.
At point guard was the lightning-quick #7, Tracy Romeo, his movements smooth and economical. At the two-guard spot, the sharpshooter #18, Jace Yap, was already draining shots from well beyond the three-point line, his form a picture of mechanical perfection. The versatile wing, #8, JP Simon, moved with a veteran's poise. At power forward, #33, Rain Ocampo, was a bruiser, a physical player with a non-stop motor.
And then there was the anchor. #55, Ibeke Matumba.
He was a mountain. At least six-foot-five, with a frame so wide and powerful he made Ian and Cedrick look lean. He wasn't just tall; he was immense, a center of gravity around which his entire team orbited. His warm-up dunks weren't flashy; they were violent, percussive slams that made the entire backboard shudder.
Ian and Cedrick stood side-by-side, watching him.
"Okay," Ian said, breaking the silence. "He's bigger in person than he was last time."
"He's bigger than anyone we played in the Regionals," Cedrick added, a grim respect in his voice. "That's our Palaro test right there. Everything goes through him."
Felix, standing nearby, just nodded, his eyes locked on Matumba. He wasn't intimidated; he was studying, processing. This was the kind of challenge he craved.
Coach Gutierrez blew his whistle, calling his team into a brief huddle before they began their own warm-ups.
"Listen up," he said, his voice sharp. "This is not a game to be won or lost on the scoreboard. I don't care if we win by thirty or lose by thirty. This is a diagnostic test. I want to see our new press defense against a high-quality point guard. I want to see how we handle a dominant interior presence. I want to see our offensive sets run against a live, hostile defense. Communicate. Execute. Learn. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Coach!" answered him.
As they broke and began their lay-up lines, the invisible wall between the two teams started to dissolve. The first to bridge the gap was Tracy Romeo. He jogged over to the Dasmariñas side, a genuine smile on his face, and extended a hand to Tristan.
"Herrera," he said, his handshake firm. "Thanks for hosting us. We need this."
"Same here, Romeo," Tristan replied, appreciating the directness. "Thanks for coming. We need to see a different look."
"A different look is an understatement," Tracy said, glancing back at his team. "We've been working. But listen, man, before we get started, on behalf of our whole team… congratulations."
Tristan was taken aback. "Thanks, Tracy."
"No, for real," Tracy insisted, his expression sincere. "Watching you guys win the Regionals… that was big. That final shot was insane. You're not just representing your school at the Palaro anymore. You're representing all of us from Cavite. From CALABARZON. So, good luck in November. Go out there and make our region proud."
The gesture was one of pure class. It reframed the entire practice, elevating it from a simple scrimmage to a shared mission.
"That means a lot," Tristan said honestly. "We'll do our best."
"I know you will," Tracy said with a nod. "Now, that being said, we're still going to try and kick your ass for the next two hours."
Tristan laughed. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
As Tracy jogged back, other conversations began to spark across the court. Marco, never one to miss a social opportunity, found himself shooting next to Jace Yap.
"Yap," Marco said, casually draining a three. "Form's looking good. Been working on that high release point, I see."
Jace Yap, without breaking his rhythm, caught a pass and swished a three of his own. "Have to. Guys like you and Simon close out too fast. Heard your percentage from deep was ridiculous in the regionals."
"You hear correctly," Marco said with a grin. "I'm thinking of charging admission for the light show. But that little step-back you have is clean. Gave our guys fits last time."
"It's all about creating that half-inch of space," Jace said, sinking another. "That's all a shooter needs, right?"
"You know it," Marco agreed. A silent, mutual respect passed between the two gunners, an understanding of the lonely, repetitive craft of the pure shooter.
On the wing, Aiden was stretching alongside JP Simon. Their conversation was more subdued, more technical.
"Ocampo and Matumba are looking stronger," Aiden noted. "You guys have been hitting the weights."
"It's the only way," JP Simon replied, his voice raspy. "We knew after we lost to you guys that we weren't physical enough. Especially with your bigs. Rain has been living in the weight room. And Ibeke… well, Ibeke is just Ibeke. He's a force of nature."
"Tell me about it," Aiden said. "Running our offense is going to be a challenge today. The paint is going to be a war zone."
"It always is when we play you guys," JP said with a small smile. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
The most intense, if least verbal, interactions were happening under the basket. The four primary big men—Ian and Cedrick from Dasmariñas, Rain Ocampo and Ibeke Matumba from Trece Martires—were running post-move drills. The air around them was thick with unspoken challenges.
Gab, who was a hybrid forward, found himself near Rain Ocampo.
"Ocampo," Gab grunted, acknowledging him.
"Lagman," Rain grunted back. "Heard you guys had a hell of a run."
"It was alright," Gab said, his face a stone mask.
"That defensive stand in the third quarter of the finals… that was impressive. That's championship basketball right there. Not the flashy stuff. The dirty work."
Gab looked at him, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. Rain understood. He was a fellow grinder. "You gotta do what you gotta do," was all Gab said, but it was enough.
Ian and Cedrick, however, were focused solely on the towering figure of Ibeke Matumba. The Nigerian-Filipino center moved with a surprising grace for a man his size.
"We can't let him get deep post position," Cedrick murmured to Ian, low enough that only he could hear. "Not even once. We have to front him, body him up before he even catches the ball."
"And box out," Ian added. "If a shot goes up, our only job is to find him and put a body on him. If he gets offensive rebounds, we're done. This is the perfect test for the Cebu center."
"This is the perfect test, period," Cedrick agreed.
Even the bench players, the unsung heroes of every team, found their counterparts. John and Daewoo, the defensive stoppers for Dasmariñas, were watching Tracy Romeo's warm-up routine with hawk-like focus.
"Look at his hesitation dribble," John said to Daewoo. "It's subtle, but he sells it every time. He gets the defender to shift their weight for just a split second. That's all he needs."
"His court vision is the real problem," Daewoo countered. "He's not just looking to score. He's looking to pass two moves ahead. If I overplay him on the drive, he'll find Yap or Simon for an open look. We have to stay disciplined. No gambling."
The warm-ups concluded. The two teams gathered around their respective coaches for final instructions. Coach Gutierrez's voice was calm and clear.
"Starting five: Tristan, Marco, Aiden, Cedrick, Ian. Standard offense to start. I want to see you execute against their size. Be smart with your entry passes. Don't force anything into the paint against Matumba. Make him move his feet on defense. Move the ball. Defensively, we're starting with our man-to-man. Tristan, you've got Romeo. Marco, stay attached to Yap's hip. Aiden, you're on Simon. Cedrick, Ocampo. Ian… you have the mountain. Use your speed. Be smart. Let's go."
They broke the huddle, their faces set. The friendly pre-game chatter was gone, replaced by a sharp, competitive focus. They met their counterparts at center court.
Tristan stood opposite Tracy Romeo. Marco squared up with Jace Yap. Aiden and JP Simon gave each other a final, respectful nod. Cedrick and Rain Ocampo bumped fists. And Ian stood at the center circle, staring up at the imposing figure of Ibeke Matumba.
It was just a practice game. The scoreboard would be reset to zero at the end. No trophy was on the line. But in the charged silence of the gym, with sixteen players locked in on their assignments, it felt like so much more.
It was a measure of progress, a test of will, and a crucial dress rehearsal for the unforgiving, win-or-go-home reality of the national stage.
The referee, a student coach from the school's faculty, stepped into the circle, the ball held high in his right hand.
"Alright, gentlemen," he said. "Let's have a good, clean game. Play hard."
Ian and Ibeke crouched, their bodies coiled springs of potential energy. Tristan's eyes darted around the court, processing the matchups, his mind already three steps ahead. He caught Tracy Romeo's eye one last time. Tracy gave him a sharp, competitive grin that said, The pleasantries are over.
Tristan grinned back. Let's get to work.
The referee blew his whistle and tossed the ball high into the air. It hung at its apex for a timeless, perfect moment, a sphere of infinite possibility suspended between the two giants reaching for it, and then the war for the paint, for pride, and for preparation officially began.