CHAPTER FORTY
Michael
It’s interview day. I’ve done interviews before—media training, PR-approved answers, the usual safe-scripted stuff.
I’ve always been a nod-and-smile kind of guy.
Keep it brief. Stay charming. Move on. But today’s different.
Today, I sit in front of a half-circle of journalists with cameras and clipboards, and I’m expected to talk about my personal life—to strip off the calm, collected mask and actually let people in.
I guess it was only a matter of time. You can’t hide in Magnolia Heights forever.
But if I could, I would.
I would stay and ignore the world. I’d stay in that town, where everyone knows your name (not because you’re famous, but because they actually know you).
I’d stay where kids leave chalk drawings on sidewalks and hand me drawings of me in a jersey.
And most importantly, I’d stay where Katherine Cruz lives.
Because ever since that blackout two nights ago, something changed between us.
One kiss turned into two. Two turned into a black hole I got sucked into.
After that night, I’ve stuck to her like glue.
While she baked cookies for Lily’s, I was there eating raw cookie dough.
While she reorganized her bookshelf by color, I handed her each paperback in order.
One time I even sat in the armchair in her room and just.. . watched her nap. Like a creep.
But we haven’t kissed since that night. Not once. She’s still soft with me. Still looks at me like I might be worth trusting. But it’s like she’s holding her breath, waiting for the catch. Waiting for the moment the dream pops and reality rushes in.
“Excuse me, Michael, are you ready?” the facilitator asks me.
I nod and smile, and scan the crowd for the giant curly hair and the big brown eyes that would guide me.
There she is, tucked quietly in the corner, wearing a floral dress, but my hoodie over it.
She pushes her glasses up her nose, and gives me a small smile.
And somehow, I’m okay. Beside her are Chris and Vince, supporting me.
I settle into the chair at the center of the press line. Flashes go off. Someone coughs. The first journalist stands.
“Michael, thank you for being here. First off, where have you been spending time away from the city?”
I clear my throat. “A small town just outside Manila. Still close,” I say.
“And what have you been doing there?” he asks politely.
I shrug. “Volunteering at a preschool. Coaching Little League basketball. Meeting friends, getting close to neighbors, and… other people.”
“Is that where you met the curly haired woman you accidentally posted on your Instagram last month?”
I chuckle dryly. “Yeah.”
I contemplate introducing Kate to everyone.
That this is the curly haired girl. This is the one who made me want to stay somewhere.
The one who made me wonder what life outside basketball would be, and the possibility that it’s not so bad.
But when I look at her, she’s already fidgeting and nervously looking around.
She’s never been a fan of attention. And besides, we haven’t really talked about what we are yet, so I can’t really expect her to be appreciative of being ambushed today.
The press chuckles lightly. I don’t take it back.
“Are you two—?”
I shake my head gently. “That’s between us, please.”
The reporter nods, and the other reporter stands. “I’m gonna go straight to the point here, sir,” she says. “We’re all wondering. What’s your story of the referee incident?”
There it is. I take a breath. I know what they want to hear. I know what Heather told me to say—keep it light, spin it clean. Say the pressure got to me. Say it was the heat of the moment. Smile like I’ve learned from it but don’t linger on the why.
But I’m tired of being the polished version of myself. Tired of pretending that nothing ever shakes me. Because the truth is, I’ve been shaken for a long time. And no one ever noticed, because I never let them.
So I smile softly, and say, “When I shoved that ref, everyone scrambled to explain it.” I repeat the words I told Kate when we were in Tagaytay. “Some judged, some defended. They said there was a deeper reason.”
“But…” I start, looking at Kate. She urges me to continue, with her eyes pleading. “But there’s not. There’s only me and my insecurity.”
There’s a murmur from the press. Someone shifts in their seat. I keep going.
“I told him he made a bad call. And he said he could screw up and keep his job. But if I couldn’t play, I’d be nothing.
” My jaw tightens. “And that stung more than I care to admit. Because deep down… I believed him.” I look at the reporter as she scribbles in her notebook.
“As someone whose only talent is shooting a ball through a hoop, that stung. And I… I snapped.”
I glance down at my hands. I’ve always seen them as tools. Instruments. The things that made me valuable. But lately, they’ve done more than catch passes and sink jumpers.
They’ve held Kate when she was sick. Held her hand, her face. Touched things gently, carefully.
I take a breath. “There’s no excuse for what I did,” I say. “Nobody should be hurt because I’m afraid I’m only worth something when I’m winning.”
I look at Kate again. Her eyes are glassy. She's blinking fast like she doesn't want anyone to see.
“I’m trying to unlearn that. Because someone told me that even if I weren’t Michael Lee, I’d still be Michael. And I’d still matter.”
There’s a silence after I speak, one that usually doesn’t come when there are dozens of cameras and reporters in front of you. I don’t fill the silence. I just sit with it.
Across the room, Kate swipes at her cheek again, quickly this time, as if hiding her tears might make her invisible. It doesn’t.
I want to go to her. I want to tell her that it’s true. That she’s the reason I started to see things differently. That I wanted to show her that she, too, can choose things differently.
A reporter clears her throat. “Michael,” she says, her voice gentler now, “do you think this time away has changed you?”
I let out a breath. “I think it’s making me realize I never gave myself a chance to figure out who I was without the jersey.”
I think of the preschool kids who didn’t care that I was on a billboard once. Of Kate, who looked unimpressed the first time we met. Her friends who are slowly becoming mine. Manang Linda who always hovers but lets me live quietly.
“I used to think being open was dangerous,” I say slowly. “That if people saw the real me, they’d realize I wasn’t as put together as I looked. But pretending is exhausting.”
Another reporter, one I vaguely recognize from sports coverage, leans forward. “So what now? Where does Michael Lee go from here?”
Well, where does he go?
“Um,” I start. “I’ll still play, of course. I’ll get ready for the SEA Games.” It’s all I’m able to say, because I still don’t know who I’d be without all this. “Then I’ll figure it out from there.”
The reporter nods, scribbling down my answer, but she doesn’t press me further. No one does.
Another reporter clears his throat. “Thanks for your honesty, Michael,” he says, his voice a little softer than before. “Takes guts to say that in front of all of us.” I blink, surprised. Not by the comment. But by the thank you.
Heather looks stunned, but she covers it well, clapping once to signal the wrap-up. “That’s all the time we have for today,” she says smoothly. “Thank you, everyone.”
Chairs scrape the floor. Reporters stand. There’s no scramble this time, no rush for a gotcha quote or ambush question. And for a moment I think that maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe I didn’t lose the public’s trust after all.
I stand too, brushing my palms against my slacks.
They’re clammy. I hadn’t noticed until now.
I’d just told the truth to a room full of people trained to tear it apart, and somehow…
I’m still standing. Someone near the front lifts a hand, not to ask a question, but in a small, casual wave.
“Good luck at the Games, man,” he says. “We’ll be rooting for you. ”
I nod, something in my chest tightening and loosening all at once. “Thanks.”
I glance toward Kate. She’s already on her feet, still quiet, still watching. But she’s smiling now—full, proud, unblinking.
The positive comments surprised me. Because I’ve always been performing a version of myself that people liked. Now, for the first time, they’re starting to like me.
When everyone is out of the room, all that’s left is me, Heather, Chris, Vince, and Kate.
Heather raises an eyebrow. “So,” she says, arms crossed like she’s gearing up for a lecture. “You went off-script.”
I shrug. “Yeah. Sorry, Heather. I won’t do that polished lying anymore.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, her expression softens. “Don’t apologize. That was better than anything we could’ve planned.”
Chris lets out a low whistle. “Dude. Who are you?”
Vince grins. “No offense, but I’ve seen you talk more in the last ten minutes than in the entire season.”
I give a dry laugh, still trying to shake the weight of what I said. Still trying to breathe through the fact that I said it at all.
Heather eyes me again, then shifts her gaze toward Kate. “So… is this the part where I ask about you two and you both pretend she’s just visiting?”
Kate freezes for half a second, her eyes widening just slightly. Then she gives a soft, polite laugh and tucks a loose curl behind her ear like she’s hoping that gesture alone will make her invisible. “We’re friends,” she offers gently, eyes flicking to me for backup.
I glance at Heather. “You’re scaring her.”
Heather’s smile turns reassuring. “Sorry. I don’t mean to. It’s just… I’ve known Michael for years, and he’s never been like this.”
Kate’s gaze snaps back to the floor. This time, her blush is unmistakable. Heather pushes off the table and steps forward. “So, Kate, thank you. For bringing out the heart in our resident master of indifference.”
Kate looks up, surprised at the unexpected kindness in her voice. “Least I could do,” she says, her shoulders lifting in a quiet shrug, like she’s not sure what to do with the attention.
Heather smiles and waves it off. “Okay, I’m not going to dig. Whatever this is—you don’t owe me an explanation. I’ve been in this industry long enough to know not to get in the way of the good stuff.”
She starts walking toward the door, but halfway there, she glances back over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Just… maybe don’t panic when you see yourself written into a love triangle in someone’s fanfiction. Or when a stranger asks for a selfie while you’re in line at the grocery store.”
Kate lets out a breath of laughter, and Heather winks. “Don’t worry. I can give you a crash course on surviving the spotlight.”
“Heather,” I say. “She’s not gonna be a public figure.”
“She will be if she sticks with you.”
Kate doesn’t say anything. I know what she’s thinking.
She’s regretting being tangled up in all this.
Regretting coming here with me. Because Kate doesn’t like the bright lights and the attention, and Heather’s right.
If she sticks with me, I can’t shield her from the inevitable truth that she will be more famous as she originally is.
And she doesn’t like that.
Does she?