A Team's First Practice

The pre-dawn light was just a faint rumor on the horizon when Tristan's alarm clock, set for 4:00 AM, sang its gentle tune. He was already awake, a quiet energy humming in his veins. The mission's requirements, specifically the grueling 50-kilometer run, were still a distant goal, but he had already started running. The runs were no longer just a task for the system; they had become a routine, a ritual that grounded him in his new reality. He felt stronger, faster, and more alive with every step.

He went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and then, with a familiar quiet, he slipped on his running clothes and his worn-out sneakers. As he opened the front door, a chilly gust of January air greeted him. But the cold wasn't the only surprise. Standing just outside his gate, their silhouettes a dark, unmistakable presence in the gloom, were Marco and Gab.

Tristan stopped, a look of pure surprise on his face. "Guys? What are you doing here?" he whispered, his voice a low question.

Marco, his breath a white puff in the cold air, grinned. "What, you think you're the only one who can run before the sun comes up?" he said, his voice full of a playful challenge.

Gab, his face a little more serious, just nodded. "We saw how tired you were after your run yesterday, Tris. We wanted to see what all the fuss was about. We're joining you."

Tristan felt a warmth spread through his chest, a feeling that had nothing to do with the cold. His teammates, his best friends, were here. They weren't just joining him for a run; they were joining him on his journey.

"Alright," Tristan said, a genuine smile on his face. "Let's go."

They started their run, a synchronized trio of motion. The streets of Barangay Burol II were silent, a stark contrast to the usual daytime chaos. Tristan ran with a steady, practiced ease, his body a well-oiled machine. He was no longer running against his limits; he was running with them, pushing them a little farther with every stride.

Marco and Gab, however, were not as well-equipped. After just a few kilometers, their breathing became ragged, their legs a heavy, protesting presence. They slowed to a jog, then to a brisk walk, their faces a grimace of pain and exhaustion.

"Dude," Marco said, leaning against a lamppost, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. "What are you, a monster?"

Gab, his face a mask of disbelief, just shook his head. "We barely ran five kilometers. And you're not even breaking a sweat. Are you a robot, Tris?"

Tristan, who was just catching his breath, laughed. "I told you I've been training. It's not a secret, guys. This is what it takes."

He felt a mix of pride and sympathy for his friends. They had tried. They had shown up. That was all that mattered.

"You guys did good," Tristan said, a genuine sincerity in his voice. "For your first time, five kilometers is not bad at all. You just need to keep at it."

Marco and Gab, humbled by their physical limits, just nodded. "You have to tell us your secret, man," Gab said, a playful plea in his voice. "How do you do it?"

Tristan, for a fleeting second, considered telling them about the system. The floating screen, the stats, the missions. But he knew it was a secret he had to keep. It was his. His journey.

"Just hard work, guys," Tristan said, a small, knowing smile on his face. "A lot of hard work."

"Well, you've earned a breakfast from our monster," Marco said, his voice a tired but playful jab.

"Yeah," Tristan said, "Pansit canton is my mom's specialty."

The thought of his mother's cooking, a comforting, familiar presence, made his heart swell with love. He invited them to his house, and they gladly accepted. They walked back, a tired but happy trio.

They arrived at Tristan's small, one-story house, and the smell of sizzling hotdogs, fried eggs, and garlic fried rice greeted them. His mother, Linda, her face a picture of serene focus as she cooked, looked up and smiled when she saw them.

"Tristan, Marco and Gab! You're all here!" she said, her voice warm and welcoming. "Breakfast is ready."

She set out three plates, a generous serving of rice, eggs, and hotdogs on each. The three of them sat at the small table, their conversation a happy, animated hum. Linda just smiled, a look of quiet pride on her face. She loved seeing her son with his friends, a boy who was no longer just dreaming in his room, but living his life, and bringing others along with him.

After they finished their meal, their stomachs full and their hearts light, Marco and Gab said their goodbyes, a sincere thanks to Linda for the delicious breakfast.

"See you at school, Tris," Marco said, a look of tired determination on his face. "We're going to get to the bottom of your monster-like abilities."

Tristan just smiled, a secret burning in his chest. "See you, guys."

He showered and got ready for school, his body a symphony of tired satisfaction and a quiet, ready energy. He met Marco and Gab at their usual meeting spot, and they walked to Dasmariñas National High School, their conversations a familiar blend of schoolwork and basketball.

The school day, from Science to History, passed in a blur. Tristan was focused, his mind a sharp, efficient tool. He was a student, a son, and a basketball player. And he was getting better at all of them.

The final bell rang at 3:00 PM, and the school erupted in a flurry of activity. Tristan, Marco, and Gab met at their usual spot, their faces alight with a shared excitement. It was time for their first official team practice.

They walked to the court, a new energy buzzing between them. When they arrived, the rest of their team was already there. Kyle, the quiet, serious defender, was meticulously stretching. Felix, their gentle giant of a center, was shooting easy layups. And their new teammates, Ian, Mark, John, Joseph, and Joshua, were huddled together, talking strategy.

Tristan felt a wave of pride and a quiet sense of responsibility wash over him. He was the point guard. The floor general. The leader. He had to be the one to set the tone.

"Alright, guys!" he called out, his voice clear and confident. "Let's get started."

They all came to the center of the court, a group of ten boys united by a shared passion.

"First things first," Tristan said, "we have to stretch. We can't risk any injuries."

They all got down on the court, their bodies a symphony of stretches and bends. They stretched their hamstrings, their quads, their backs, and their shoulders. Kyle, with his serious, focused demeanor, led them through a series of meticulous stretches, a silent testament to his dedication.

After they were all loose and ready, Tristan took a basketball and bounced it on the court, the sound a steady, familiar rhythm.

"Alright," he said, "let's work on our dribbling. We'll do a series of drills. Right hand, left hand, crossovers, between the legs. Let's get our ball-handling skills sharp."

They began the drills, the court filled with the sound of a dozen basketballs bouncing in a chaotic, yet rhythmic dance. Tristan was a blur of motion, his hands a quick, precise instrument of control. He dribbled with a newfound confidence, a tangible result of his improved stats. He was no longer just a boy with a ball; he was a player.

Marco, their shooting guard, was surprisingly good at the drills, his hands a quick, efficient blur. Gab, the jokester, was a bit clumsy, but his infectious energy kept everyone's spirits high. The new teammates, Ian, Mark, John, Joseph, and Joshua, were all talented, but their individual styles were different. This was the first step to making them a cohesive unit.

"Nice, Mark!" Tristan yelled, as Mark, their fast-breaking guard, executed a perfect crossover. "Keep it up!"

He was a leader, a coach, a teammate. He was everything he had always wanted to be. He was a boy with a team, a dream, and a journey that had just begun.

After an hour of grueling dribbling drills, their bodies were tired, but their spirits were high. The practice was a success. They were a team.

"Alright, guys," Tristan said, his voice full of a tired but genuine pride. "That's it for today. You guys did great. We'll meet here tomorrow, same time. Let's work on our shooting."

They all clapped, a collective cheer of tired satisfaction. They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways, their paths diverging on the darkening streets of Dasmariñas. They were no longer just a bunch of boys who played basketball; they were a team, a family.

Tristan walked home alone, his body humming with a pleasant exhaustion. He felt a quiet sense of triumph, a feeling that was a world away from the frustrating, lonely dreams of his past. He had a team. He had a mission. He had a dream. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.