The night smelled of fried garlic and rain-soaked asphalt.
Under the bridge, the half-court glowed like a spotlighted theater of chaos.
Riki Dela Peña crouched low, dribbling two basketballs in a controlled rhythm. Teo watched, hoodie zipped up, hands deep in pockets, notebook-like in his stillness.
"Alright, skyscraper," Riki said, spinning a ball on his finger. "Dribble before you step. Always before you step."
Teo mimicked slowly, long legs awkwardly folding over the ball. Step, step, dribble. Step, dribble, step. The ball didn't flow yet, but his eyes were sharp.
Riki shook his head. "No, no — relax the shoulders. Let it roll off your fingers, not crush it. Again."
Step. Step. Dribble. His shoulders loosened. For a brief moment, the ball and Teo moved together, almost.
"Better," Riki nodded, bouncing past him. "Now finish. Layups. Just get it up there. No flash, no worries."
Teo took the ball. One dribble, long stride, step, step, awkward lean — the ball tipped the backboard. Clang. He grimaced. Another attempt. The ball clattered again, but this time his landing was cleaner.
From the sidelines, a figure leaned against a pillar, hood up, hands stuffed in pockets. Tall. Muscular without showing it. Observing.
Riki noticed him out of the corner of his eye.
"Huh," Riki muttered, dribble stalling. "Who's this?"
The figure stepped forward, hoodie still up, and began practicing quietly: dribble, step, layup, repeat. No fanfare. No crowd. Just motion. Precision. Riki tilted his head, intrigued.
"Oi," Riki called, bouncing over. "You play?"
The figure shrugged, tossing the ball up and catching it. "Just warming up."
Riki squinted. Muscular frame, long reach, smooth rhythm. Not flashy, but efficient.
"Alright," Riki said. "Let's see what you got. One-on-one. Shoes on first."
The figure smirked. "Fine."
Drei — that was the name on the old hoodie tag — laced his sneakers and pulled the hoodie down just enough. Ready.
Riki bounced the ball, grinning. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
Game started. Shoes on.
Score jumped fast: Drei streaked past Riki, spin moves tight, stepbacks sudden, finger rolls sneaky. Riki stumbled at first. 0-6.
"Okay, okay…" Riki muttered. Then, with a grin, he kicked off his shoes. Barefoot, socks only. Filipino serious mode: all or nothing.
Now, the game was a blur. Fadeaways, floaters, finger rolls, push-offs that weren't called — just two players reading each other, moving instinctively.
Riki jabbed, faked, spun, palm the ball off the glass midair. Drei answered with a stepback jumper, long fingers caressing the ball, net kissing softly.
The crowd — kids, vendors, anyone curious — circled, some recording, some just ooh-ing at the display.
Meanwhile, Teo practiced dribbles and layups in his corner, long limbs awkward, precise. Riki would glance back, nod approvingly. Teaching, showing, correcting. And all the while, Drei's quiet intensity forced Riki to push, to move faster, sharper.
By the end of the night, Riki and Drei were locked in, sweat dripping, sneakers forgotten, both grinning like idiots. Score? Even. No one cared.
Teo wiped his brow, dribbled one last time. He wasn't ready for finger rolls, fadeaways, or stepbacks yet — just fundamentals. But he had felt it. The pull. The flow.
And Drei? He vanished almost as quietly as he appeared. Hoodie back up, one last nod at Riki. No words. Just promise.
Riki laughed, bouncing the ball slowly. "Man… you don't see that every day. That kid… that kid's something else."
Teo followed the rhythm, dribbling slowly, thinking about next time. About flow, about bounce, about all the ways basketball could surprise him still.
Under the bridge, lights flickered, music pulsed, and the court hummed.
Somewhere between sweat and asphalt, between mistakes and finger rolls, something new was starting.
End of Chapter 3