CHAPTER TWO
Michael
The van rattles over a pothole, jostling me out of the half-asleep state I’ve been clinging to for the past hour.
I was supposed to drive by myself, but it’s not good for my present image to drive around in a sports car when the country already thinks I’m an entitled asshole.
So, here I am, cramped in an old van with my knees unable to move.
I’m pretty sure this isn’t good for my physical health.
“Almost there,” the driver says, like that’s supposed to be comforting.
Outside, Magnolia Heights looms closer. This is probably the kind of place that’s always sunny, where neighbors know each other’s life stories, and where I—Michael Lee, public enemy number one—am about to spend the next three months doing forced community service.
Fantastic.
I scrub a hand down my face, already dreading whatever awaits me.
The only reason I agreed to this was to salvage my reputation after the incident.
One stupid video of me shoving a ref, and suddenly I’m the villain of Philippine basketball.
Some of my sponsorships are reconsidering renewals.
Coach and the team head said I can’t play while I’m in this public situation, so they suspended me for five months.
The season’s ending anyway, but the SEA games are next year, so I have to fix my rep immediately.
And the PR team’s suggestion is to do community service so I can lay low and keep my head down.
“Okay,” Heather, my agent, says from the front seat. “When we get there, you have to be nice, Mike.”
“I am nice,” I grumble.
“Yeah, but you’re nice after knowing you for a few years.
You have to be nice for first impressions too.
” She pulls her headphones off and tucks them into her bag before turning to face me.
Heather is only a few years older than me, but she’s one of the best in the business.
Sharp, efficient, and always ten steps ahead.
She’s also the reason I still have sponsorships and endorsements. So I just… sit here and listen.
“We’ll stop by your new house now,” she continues. “Pretty sure your sister and the adorable little Polly are already there.”
My sister Tricia lives in the next town, but Polly, my five-year-old niece, goes to Magnolia Preschool. She says the teachers are nice. That’s part of why I chose to do my service there. At least this way, I get to spend more time with Polly and Tricia—something good has to come out of this mess.
Heather gives me a pointed look over the rim of her sunglasses. “Look, Mike, you got yourself into this mess, but I’m getting you out of it. That means smiling at the neighbors, shaking hands, and—heaven forbid—maybe even looking like you enjoy hanging out with a bunch of preschoolers.”
I grunt in response, crossing my arms. It’s not that I don’t like kids. I just don’t like being forced into anything, especially when it’s meant to ‘fix’ a version of me the media decided was the truth.
The van rolls to a stop in front of a two-story house that’s way bigger than I expected.
It’s modern but not flashy. It has clean white walls, dark-framed windows, and a front porch with just enough space for a couple of chairs.
The lawn is freshly cut, the garage wide enough to fit two cars, and there’s even a tree in the front yard, its branches swaying lightly in the breeze.
Tricia is already on the porch, one hand on her hip and the other holding Polly’s little wrist to keep her from sprinting toward the van. My niece is practically overflowing with excitement, her pigtails bouncing as she waves both hands at me.
I push open the door and step out. Polly immediately breaks free from Tricia’s grip and barrels toward me.
“Tito Wowski!” she shrieks, launching herself at my legs. Ever since she learned how to talk, Polly was obsessed with Monsters Inc. And her favorite is, yes, you guessed it, Mike Wazowski. She tried calling me Wazowski but she couldn’t say it at first. And now her nickname kinda stuck.
I barely have time to brace myself before she crashes into me. I scoop her up, and she wraps her arms around my neck, squeezing tightly.
“Hey, Pol,” I say, my chest loosening for the first time all day.
She leans back with a frown. “Call me Polly. Pol is a boy’s name.” She scrunches her nose and makes an exaggerated gagging sound.
I shake my head, amused, as I adjust her higher on my hip. “Alright, alright—Polly. Happy now?”
She nods, satisfied, then fixes me with a serious look. “Are you really gonna be at my school every day?”
“Not every day,” I say. “But a lot, yeah.”
Her eyes go wide with excitement. “Can I tell my friends you’re my bodyguard?”
I let out a laugh. “You need a bodyguard now?”
She nods eagerly. “Yup. In case of emergencies. There’s this kid at school, Adam. He says I can’t play basketball because I’m too small.”
Tricia sighs, clearly having heard this before. “Polly, we talked about this. Adam is just a kid, like you.”
“He’s a mean kid,” Polly insists. “And he told me that when we grow up, boys play basketball and girls become cheerleaders. So I told him, Nuh-uh, my Tito Wowski plays basketball, and I’M gonna play too.” She crosses her arms.
I bite back a grin. “So let me get this straight. You want me to show up at preschool and intimidate a five-year-old?”
“Six,” she says, completely serious.
Tricia groans. “Michael, don’t encourage her.”
I smirk. “I don’t know, Trish. Sounds important.”
Polly gasps. “So you will be my bodyguard?”
I press a finger to my chin, pretending to think about it. “I’ll have to check my schedule.” Polly squeals as I set her down, and Tricia just glares at me.
My older sister has always been more of a mother to me ever since our parents died when I was three. And since she’s ten years older, she assumed responsibility early on.
Heather steps out of the van, giving Tricia a polite nod. “House looks good. It should be far enough from all the drama but close enough to keep up appearances.”
I roll my eyes. “Great. Just what I wanted—an appearance-friendly house.”
Heather ignores me, already checking her phone again. “Unpack later. You’re due at the preschool in two hours. Nothing heavy yet, just a quick orientation.”
I groan, but Polly claps excitedly in my arms. “Yay! You’re gonna meet my teacher! She’s really pretty.”
Tricia snorts. “And here I thought you only cared about the swings.”
“I do,” Polly says. “But Miss Kate is so nice. She lets us have an extra five minutes for snacks. And her stories always have puppets!” She turns back to me, whispering conspiratorially, “I think you’ll like her.”
“Love her already, Polly Pocket,” I tell her, even though Miss Kate sounds overstimulating.
I knew moving here would make me a bit of a town spectacle, but wow—these people are relentless.
They’re not even pretending to be subtle.
I catch glimpses of curtains twitching, heads popping in and out of view, and at least three different neighbors blatantly peeking through my windows like I’m some kind of rare zoo exhibit.
Heather already left, while Tricia and Polly are finishing something for Pol’s art thing. So I’m alone. I’m leaving in two hours, so I thought I’d just take a nap.
But just as I put my feet on the sofa, the doorbell rings. I freeze. Maybe if I stay really still, whoever it is will just go away.
The doorbell rings again. And again. Followed by rapid knocking.
Jesus. Okay. I get it.
Resigning myself to whatever hell this is, I make my way to the door and swing it open. An old woman stands there, wearing a polka dot top and oversized sunglasses. And she’s holding a big container.
“Well, look who finally answered!” she says. “Welcome to Magnolia Heights, Mr. Basketball Star.”
I stare at her. “Uh… thanks?” I glance over her shoulder and—yep. More neighbors. A small crowd of them, watching from their porches, pretending to water plants or check their mail.
“I’m Linda, by the way. You can call me Manang Linda, like everyone else does.” She shoves the container to my hands and continues, “That’s homemade biko. You’ll love it.”
Well, I am hungry. I barely have time to thank her before she shifts her position.
Manang Linda leans in slightly, lowering her voice like she’s letting me in on a secret. “They’re all dying to meet you, you know.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
She grins. “Good. Because I told them you’d be at the neighborhood barbecue this weekend. It’s at the Cruz residence. Right next door.” And just like that, she’s gone.
I look down at the homemade biko. Then back to Manang Linda and her army of neighborhood gossipers behind her.
As she retreats and I close the door, I also notice how unbelievably good this biko smells. I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes, and it’s already too much for me to handle. Looks like I have absolutely no idea what kind of weird, small-town ecosystem I just walked into.