(Cubao — The Morning After Cebu South Tech)
The dawn after victory felt nothing like the night before.
The gym was quiet, half-lit by the pale spill of early light through the glass panels.
Riki was already there, headphones on, just tossing slow passes against the wall — thump, catch, breathe.
Teo wasn't there.
He hadn't come to the team breakfast.
He hadn't even gone home.
When Renz called, no answer.
When Bornok joked that maybe the kid was celebrating alone, no one laughed.
Coach Alvarez walked in last, holding a folded envelope.
He didn't say anything at first — just stared at the floor, then handed it to Thea.
"She's been trying to reach him since last night. His dad collapsed again."
Silence hit like a whistle in an empty gym.
Teo was at the hospital in Quezon Avenue — still wearing his Flowstate jacket, collar stained with sweat.
The machines beeped soft, uneven.
His father's breathing was shallow, almost rhythm-less.
The man who once built him a makeshift hoop out of old steel pipes was now so thin that the bedsheet looked heavier.
He stirred slightly when Teo took his hand.
"Mat..." His father's voice cracked like paper. "You played last night?"
Teo nodded, eyes lowered.
"We won."
His father smiled faintly.
"I heard. Someone streamed it here. The nurses watched. Said you didn't jump twice."
Teo blinked hard. "That's... that's how I learned it from you."
"Good." His father coughed, the sound dry, like a tired drum. "Means you listen."
The monitor beeped louder for a moment, then steadied.
"You know," his father whispered, "I used to think basketball was only for kids."
Teo looked up, confused.
His father smiled, weak but sure. "But maybe it's the other way around. Maybe it's what keeps you one."
Teo said nothing — couldn't.
He just pressed his forehead against his father's hand.
The hand that used to lift him high enough to touch the rim.
The same hand that fixed broken nets with fishing wire.
"Dad..."
"Hmm?"
"I'm scared."
His father laughed softly — small, but it carried weight. "Then play scared. Just don't stop."
The monitor clicked softly.
The silence that followed didn't break.
That night, Teo returned to the gym.
Empty. Lights dim.
Only the echo of his own steps following him in.
He dropped his bag mid-court and sat down cross-legged, staring at his hands.
Big hands. Calloused.
They didn't look like his father's — but somehow, they felt the same.
He whispered to the air, "You told me once... the rim never moves. It's me that does."
He stood up.
Picked up the ball.
Dribbled once — hard enough to echo through the rafters.
Then again.
And again.
Each bounce a heartbeat.
Each shot a memory.
Each miss a promise.
The door creaked open.
Riki stepped in, quiet, followed by Lars, then Renz.
No words — just presence.
Riki rolled a second ball to him.
"Two sides," Riki said. "Like a metronome."
They started passing in silence — Riki to Teo, Teo back to Riki — a rhythm of grief and grounding.
Renz joined, then Bornok, then Drei.
One by one, until the whole team was there, moving without a word, each pass soft but sharp.
Thea watched from the scorer's table, eyes wet but steady.
She whispered to herself,
"This is what he built.
This is how a father stays."
By midnight, only Teo remained.
He stood at center court, palms open, staring at the rim like it had asked him a question.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
"I used to think I was just tall," he said softly.
"But he was right. Balance isn't about size.
It's about not falling when it hurts."
He took a deep breath and jumped — once, clean, no hesitation.
The ball left his hand and kissed the backboard.
Nothing but net.
For the first time, he didn't look at the rim.
He looked at his hands.
And smiled.
(Next Morning)
Riki woke to his phone buzzing.
It was a message from Teo.
"I'll play the finals."
"Not for him. With him."
Riki exhaled, eyes closed, and let the phone drop beside his bed.
Outside, the sky over Cubao was gray but clearing.
A quiet morning before something loud.
Final scene (Araneta — Pre-Finals Warm-Up)
Cameras flashed, the crowd thundered, but in the center of it all — Teo stood still, hands folded behind his back.
The announcer called his name.
"Mateo Alvarado — Flowstate!"
The crowd roared.
He didn't smile.
Didn't wave.
He just looked up at the rim — the same way his father once taught him —
measuring its silence, its height, its promise.
He flexed his hands once, feeling their weight.
Then whispered under the noise:
"Let's play, Dad."
And when the whistle blew, he moved like gravity had finally remembered who it belonged to.
End of Chapter 8 — "The Weight of Hands"