by Frejas,Tara
Settle the Score
Hustle Play
Tara Frejas
SETTLE THE SCORE
ONE Personal Foul
TWO Tale of the Tape
THREE Time Out
FOUR Head-to-Head
FIVE A Slump
SIX Pep Talk
SEVEN Winning Streak
HUSTLE PLAY
ONE Alley-Oop
TWO Reset
THREE Window of Opportunity
FOUR Ready, Aim, Shoot
FIVE One-on-One
SIX An Assist and a Fumble
SEVEN Hail Mary Shot
About the Author
Special Thanks To…
SETTLE THE SCORE
ONE
Personal Foul
Kissing Charles Crisostomo was never part of the plan.
So what was, you ask? See, that’s the thing: I never had one in the first place.
Typical Garnet Figueroa.
Now, contrary to what you might think, I don’t hate plans. To a degree, I like making them for the sake of my sanity, but my plans were run-of-the-mill types and usually only covered weekends, special occasions, or bigger things like life after graduation.
None of them involved setting up a play to rescue Charles from his cheating girlfriend.
* * *
“Wait, Nica—are you seriously hooking up with Kelvin Vicente?”
The things you learn in the women’s locker room, ladies and gentlemen.
“OMG, Cassie. Would you be quiet?”
In my defense, I never intended to eavesdrop on this conversation. I was there first, icing my ankles behind a row of steel lockers. The women’s locker room on the third floor of the De La Sierra University sports complex was infamous for ghost sightings, which explained why it wasn’t as utilized as the ones on the other floors.
I liked it there because it was mostly quiet. I could hear myself think.
Save for days like this.
“But what about Charlie?”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
I clenched my teeth upon hearing this, closed my eyes, and counted backwards from ten the same way I did on the rare occasions my temper flared up on the basketball court. Ten, nine, eight…
“Charlie’s just too goody-goody for me,” Nica went on to say. “He’s cute and all, but he’s… boring.”
Seven, six, five… How dare you.
It took a tremendous amount of willpower not to reveal myself then, because I really, really wanted to stare at Nica Samson’s face while she justified—and so nonchalantly too!—cheating on my friend. But I remained still and let a quiet storm simmer inside my chest.
Four, three, two… one.
Charles must know, and telling him was easy.
Making him believe wasn’t.
* * *
“Garnet, did you put eyeliner on?” asked Justine Estacio, the Emerald Tracksters’ current queen and three-year consistent silver medalist for individual sprint events.
“Why would I do that?” I snapped, annoyed.
“Kidding. I’m just amused to see the fierce glint in your eyes usually reserved for the Scorpions.”
“There’s an idea. Next time you’re up against the Scorpions, picture Nica’s face on the ball.”
I snorted at Colby’s quip. Colby Manalo—co-captain of the Emerald Lady Spikers—was known for the Manalo Serve, a killer spike that guaranteed points 99% of the time. Also a move I would love to practice on Nica’s face.
“Coach Castro will wonder why she’s hitting the backboard too much.”
The two giggled and exchanged high-fives. We belonged to different sports teams, but all three of us were on the same team now: Team Charlie.
“There she is…,” I heard Justine say. She nodded toward the sidelines where I caught glimpses of Nica. She smiled up at Charles, who fixed the feather on her cap. The sight made me want to gag, but I couldn’t avert my gaze. My ears began to burn.
“We are back here at the Manila Grand Coliseum for the Twenty-First Annual Collegiate Cheerdance Competition, and boy, is this place on fire right now!” the event host enthusiastically said to the crowd. The coliseum erupted in cheers as the next performers, the De La Sierra University Emerald Cheer Squad, were announced.
Our cheer squad’s theme had a Peter Pan feel to it. Everyone wore black tights under their bright green tunics, silver belts adding sparkle to the otherwise plain ensemble. On their heads were hats with a single silver feather on them. The lively color spilled out of the sidelines and onto the performance area while the collective noise of drums proceeded to pump up the crowd.
“Go, Charlie!” Justine and Colby yelled. I’d have yelled too, if I’d been alert enough. I did see Charles turn his head and flash us a smile-and-wink combo, though. That, and a salute I felt was directed at me.
We waved our little green flags to the rhythm as the music began, cheering passionately as the dance routine picked up. I’d been privy to the squad’s routine, owing to the fact that De La Sierra’s basketball courts were often shared with the cheer squad. Frankly speaking, I didn’t think we were going to win any of the top three spots, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud of how much they’d improved. Charles, most especially.
It was a shame how there wasn’t enough time to focus on Charles and how he managed to make the choreography look effortless, though, all because Nica caught my attention with her extra-cutesy movements that seemed to have a single target somewhere in the front row.
It was Kelvin Vicente of the soccer team.
“I hope you fall, bitch,” I muttered under my breath, holding my flag in a death grip as the squad began to build their final and most complicated pyramid. Nica Samson, most popular Emerald Cheer Squad member, backflipped twice and was tossed in the air, landing perfectly on the forearms of two other cheerleaders.
Clearly, I didn’t have special evil powers.
The routine ended, and we raised our green flags in the air, chanting “De La Sierra! Fight! Win! Fight!” together with every Sierran present at the coliseum. The cheer squad ran around and across the floor, a “final lap” to mark the end of their performance.
And then Charles entered my line of sight as he ran toward us, wearing that megawatt smile he was known for. I saw the thin sheen of sweat on his face that made him glow even more under the coliseum lights, the heaving of his shoulders as he breathed through his parted lips, and my brain just… threw all caution and logic out the window.
Because one moment he was leaning across the barrier to give each of us a hug, and then my wrists were locked behind his neck the next, my lips tasting our favorite blue Gatorade from his.
Foul. Number 21, Figueroa. First personal.
Very personal.
TWO
Tale of the Tape
Freshman year.
I spent a stupid amount of time on the wrong side of campus and was already running late for orientation. As I brisk-walked to the Liberal Arts Building, someone in a green shirt sped past, bringing a quick gust of wind that effectively snatched my enrollment form from my fingers. I cursed when it flew up in the air, but the Flash suddenly turned around and helped me retrieve the piece of paper.
“Sorry ’bout that. Running late.” He handed me my enrollment form, and I took it. Only he didn’t let go just yet. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at the sheet. I gave it a tug, and he let go.
“Sorry. I just realized we’re in the same block.”
“LA29?”
“Yeah.” He jerked his head forward. “Want to go together? I’m still unfamiliar with the campus.”
I tucked the form between the pages of a book I carried. “A
s am I.”
“So let’s go?”
I began walking again, checking my watch as I did. We were already five minutes late.
“I’m Charles, by the way,” he said when he caught up with me by the entrance of the Liberal Arts Building.
“Garnet.”
I noticed how our footsteps were in stride as we went up the stairs and how he was wearing classic and completely worn Chuck Taylors that were the same color as his shirt. “You must really like being a Sierran,” I commented.
“It’s a family thing.”
“Ah.”
“You?”
“Scholarship,” I answered curtly as we got up to the third floor. Only a few strides away, Charles went ahead and opened the door to 315, then stepped back to let me in.
Having studied in an all-girls school from elementary to high school, this was entirely new to me. I stared at him for a second, and he did the same, unsure what to do next.
He cleared his throat and then tilted his head toward the open door. “Ladies first?”
“Oh. Thanks—you. I mean, thank you.”
My little speech blunder left him grinning, making me drop my head in embarrassment as I entered the room. He sat beside me the entire day and even took the opportunity to remind me of my mistake when I lent him a pen.
“Thanks you.”
I frowned and tried to snatch the pen away, but he was too quick.
“What kind of college student doesn’t bring a pen to school?”
“The Crisostomo kind,” came his casual reply. He scribbled something in his notebook, and the smirk he had revealed a dimple on his left cheek. That annoyed me for some reason.
How I was utterly convinced Charles and I would never be friends is still beyond me.
* * *
As days turned to weeks and weeks unfolded into new semesters, I learned more about “the Crisostomo kind.” His was a family of achievers, generations of Sierrans who went into medicine, architecture, even politics. I was surprised he was part of that Crisostomo clan, because even as his outward appearance spelled “rich kid,” his demeanor did not.
Okay, so maybe I stereotyped him, and I apologized for that. To which he responded, “If you’re really sorry, buy me sisig.”
Charles and I easily became lunch buddies, study buddies, insert-menial-thing-here buddies. We didn’t have everything under the sun in common, but we found common ground in sports. I used to be part of my high school basketball varsity team, while he was into track.
It was in mid-freshman year when we both agreed to try out for sports teams. He was there when I tried out for the Lady Hunters, De La Sierra’s female basketball varsity team, and I, in turn, went to his track-and-field tryouts.
That was where we met Justine, who was also trying to get into the team. Colby joined us during an athlete assembly before the collegiate athletic season began.
Ours became an odd kind of clique, in that Charles always seemed to want to hang out with us instead of the boys. Naturally, he had a circle of guy friends—some from our block, others fellow athletes—but sometimes we couldn’t help but jokingly point out how he was ruining our girl time.
Colby bluntly voiced out her concern once: “Charlie, are you gay?”
His response was a loud, jovial laugh that irked me, only because it gave me warm, fluttery feelings in my stomach. And because it made me want to make him laugh all the damn time.
And I did, in various ways and increments. I found a weird sense of accomplishment in making him laugh even if it was so easy. At least, up until the time he injured himself so badly during a track meet and was told he’d never be able to run like he used to.
* * *
“Careful with that landing, Garns…,” Charles told me during basketball practice one time. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
This was sophomore year, four months after Charles had a bad tendon injury. Back then, my go-to move was the reverse lay-up. Being the smallest Lady Hunter had its disadvantages, but I was fast, and I trained hard to perfect moves that assured quick points in the paint when outside shooting wasn’t an option. Charles must have seen my tendency to land and pivot each time I did the move at high speed. Done wrong, it could be disastrous.
“Thanks for the tip, Coach,” I said, lifting my jersey from the neckline so I could wipe the sweat off my face with it. As I sat with him on the bleachers, he pressed a bottle of blue Gatorade against my cheek. Surprised at the feel of the cold bottle against my skin, I pulled my head back and registered the cheeky smile on his face. He seemed to be in a good mood.
“What time are you heading home?”
“Eight, maybe?”
“I’ll drive you,” he offered. He’d gotten a car from his parents last Christmas and would often offer us rides home after practice. But Justine and Colby lived in the other side of the metro, so they would often say no. Lucky for me, I resided in a district near Charles’ house, so I’d been able to bum free rides.
Something about his tone that night was different, however. It was as though he wanted time alone so we could talk about something important.
“Is something up?
His eyes widened. “You’re scary.”
“It’s your tone. Spill.”
He lifted a hand to the back of his head, the way he usually would when he attempted to come up with a lame excuse for something, like forgetting to study for an exam or being late to our weekly non-dates. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Charlie, just say it.”
“I met this girl.”
The Gatorade bottle almost slipped through my fingers.
THREE
Time Out
Charles looked at me as if he’d never met me before after I pulled away from that kiss.
And I... well.
I left the coliseum feeling like the weight I carried on my shoulders since learning of Nica’s secret became a huge mass that settled inside my chest. Justine and Colby did a fantastic job keeping Nica away from me after that kiss, but she’d still been able to inflict a little pain. My scalp felt sore and my cheek stung, but the dull ache in my chest remained.
“I still cannot believe you kissed him!”
“Was that the plan? Get Nica to play dumper instead of dumpee? Because that would make a lot of sense.”
We sat inside a fast-food restaurant near the coliseum. Justine had asked for a glass of ice from the counter and was now putting several cubes onto her handkerchief. She bunched the fabric up and held it to my cheek.
I held the makeshift ice pack absentmindedly, wondering if Charles and Nica were fighting that very moment. At the same time, I wondered about the kind of conversation Charles and I would and should be having after this.
I heard snapping in my ear.
“Are you with us?” Colby asked. She’d been saying something, but it took me a few more seconds to tune in.
The look on Justine’s face was one of concern. “I think you should repeat what you said, Colbs. The side effect of kissing Charlie seems to be hearing loss.”
I smacked my forehead a few times. “I screwed up. He’s going to hate me for the rest of his life.”
“Not if he learns about what Nica’s been doing to him!”
“Still!” I insisted. “Why couldn’t I have told him straight like a normal person?”
Colby shook her head. “Because you know him like we do. We know he’s not going to give up on Nica just like that. Stubborn idiot.”
“Charlie trusts us with a lot of things, but that girl has bewitched him,” Justine added and turned to Colby. “Remember when I told him I saw Nica making out with some guy at the oval?”
Colby rolled her eyes so hard, I worried they wouldn’t come back down the right way.
“And when I told him to rethink his relationship with her when she completely forgot about his birthday?”
Listening to Justine and Colby made me feel like what I did was justifiable, even if I had a nagging feeling in my chest that what I did put a dea
th sentence on my friendship with Charles.
“I just wish that bitch breaks up with him already,” Colby finished, then got up and announced she needed to drink something because “My throat dried up, seeing you kiss Charlie like that.”
That made me laugh, at least.
* * *
Charles was first to text that night.
Was so happy to see you at the compe earlier, he said, punctuated with a smiling emoticon.
That was it.
I stared at my phone screen for a long while and waited for another message. I didn’t know what exactly I wanted to see, but no mention of The Kiss? That was unsettling. Was he trying to pretend it didn’t happen? Why the heck would he thank me for coming when I did something terrible?
Figured we shouldn’t stray from tradition, I replied. If he wanted to be nonchalant, two could play that game.
It took thirty-six minutes for him to send a reply. (Or maybe he was busy. Whatever. Thirty-six minutes.)
Meant a lot was what he said.
I felt like flinging my phone out the window. Why were we skirting this issue? Surely we couldn’t avoid this forever, especially not when we usually shared courts for practices.
I dialed his number, but when Charles picked up after the first ring, I got stumped.
“Hey, you.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Good job, brain.
“Garnet?”
“Y-eah. Sorry, got distracted.”
“Monitoring a Scorpions game again?”
“You know it.” That was a lie. I was only lounging on the couch, agonizing over my life choices. His response was a hearty laugh that sent good shivers down my spine.
“If you’re still obsessing about their defense because of that rookie from your alma mater, don’t. You’ll wing it, Garns.”
“Charlie.”
“Seriously!”
“Coffee tomorrow, three-ish?”
He paused. I figured he realized what I was doing. “Could we push it back an hour? I’m driving Natalie to ballet class and back.”
