The first day of school at Gubat Coastal High was a mix of scorching heat, seagull screams, and the distant sound of someone playing "Eye of the Tiger" on a rusty speaker.
Jomar adjusted his oversized uniform collar and stared at the massive bulletin board in the gym lobby. His hair stuck to his forehead from the walk, his socks were already falling down, and the school map might as well have been drawn by a confused crab.
Bold red letters at the top of the board read:
"SPORTS VARSITY TRYOUTS – THIS WEEK ONLY! CHOOSE YOUR FATE!"
– Coach Dan
"Basketball," Jomar muttered to himself, nodding like he was convincing both God and gravity. "I'll join basketball."
It made sense. He was taller than average, his reflexes weren't bad, and he once did a decent layup during his cousin's birthday party—granted, it was on a plastic hoop, but still. His uncle even said he had "game."
The gym doors creaked open and released a gust of sweaty heat. Jomar stepped in.
Inside, it was already chaos. A pack of boys were doing drills like they were in a military camp. Coach Dan was pacing like a shark in a whistle. You could smell the seriousness in the air—it smelled like liniment and fear.
He tiptoed toward the back of the line where a boy with sweat-slicked hair and calm eyes looked sideways at him.
"You new?" the boy asked.
"Yeah. Jomar," he said, panting already.
"Dane," the boy replied, offering a short nod. "Good luck surviving."
Before Jomar could ask what he meant, Coach Dan turned with all the gentleness of a thunderclap.
"LINE UP! No slacking! If you want to cry, join the tennis team!"
Someone in the back snorted. Jomar gulped.
The whistle blew, and hell began.
Ten minutes in, Jomar's lungs were auditioning to escape his chest. He fumbled a pass, got hit in the face by a rebound, and managed to step on his own shoelace while attempting a layup. Dane caught him mid-fall.
"You lasted longer than the last one," Dane said, smirking. "He passed out during stretching."
"Tell Coach I'm… transferring," Jomar wheezed.
Dane just patted him on the back and whispered, "There's still badminton and volleyball."
But Jomar never made it to either.
Because as he wandered outside the gym, trying to recover his soul and find water, he heard music coming from the edge of the school grounds—somewhere between the abandoned garden and the coconut trees.
It was Queen.
"Don't Stop Me Now."
And then: POP!—the loud, satisfying smack of a tennis ball.
He followed the sound like a moth to madness.
The tennis court looked like a party someone forgot to tell the principal about.
One girl was dancing while holding a racket like a microphone. A boy was eating turon while returning volleys with one hand. Another was attempting to serve backwards—blindfolded.
In the middle of it all stood Coach Tonton, wearing neon sunglasses, a bucket hat, and a shirt that said "Serving Sass & Aces Since 1999." His whistle dangled from a lanyard made of bottle caps.
"Loosen your wrists, Alfonzo!" Coach Tonton bellowed. "You're not trying to kill the ball! You're trying to flirt with it!"
Someone cackled.
Jomar stood at the edge of the fence, unsure whether he'd walked into a tennis tryout or a beachside sitcom. He was about to tiptoe away when a voice called out:
"Hey, wallflower. You lost or just admiring the mess?"
He turned—and froze.
A girl stood near the net, tossing a ball casually in her palm. She wore a simple ponytail, a sweatband around her wrist, and her eyes had the calm intensity of someone used to winning arguments without raising her voice.
"I—uh…" he started. "Just checking if… you're recruiting?"
"We are," she said. "Coach just doesn't remember until someone hands him the form."
She walked over and handed him a racket. "Here. You hold it like this unless you want wrist cramps and public humiliation."
Jomar fumbled it a little. "Thanks. I'm Jomar, by the way."
She nodded once. "Mira."
Then she pointed to a square on the court. "Stand there. Coach'll throw you into a match whether you know the rules or not."
"Is that… legal?"
"Doesn't matter," she said, grinning. "Nobody here plays by the book. Except for me."
Jomar smiled despite himself.
Maybe basketball wasn't the right court for him.
But something told him he'd just found the right one.
At the far end of the court, Coach Tonton raised his whistle dramatically and pointed at Jomar like a Roman emperor addressing a gladiator.
"New blood! You! What's your favorite fruit?"
Jomar blinked. "Uhm… mango?"
Coach Tonton pointed at Mira. "Then you're paired with Dragonfruit! Mixed doubles! Serve us some fruity fire!"
Mira facepalmed. "Why do I get all the weird ones?"
"I can go—"
"Too late," she sighed, handing him a ball. "Just try not to fall. Or hit me in the face."
As they stepped onto the court, Jomar exhaled slowly, racket in hand.
Maybe it wasn't a normal start.
Maybe he wasn't ready.
But something about this team—this girl, this coach, this chaos—felt exactly like the beginning of something worth chasing.
And so, with the sun blazing above them and "Don't Stop Me Now" blasting in the background, Jomar took his first shaky serve into the unknown.