Before I Chose You

The arena felt like it was about to come apart.

The bleachers were shaking under stomping feet. Phones were raised everywhere.

People were standing on chairs, screaming over each other until their voices blurred into one long, continuous wave of sound.

“ALEX! ALEX! ALEX!”

At the center of it all, Alexander John Villareal stood still.

Sweat traced slowly down the side of his face, disappearing into the collar of his jersey. His chest rose and fell evenly, the noise around him didn’t quite reach where he was standing.

Behind him, the scoreboard flashed.

CHAMPIONS

Again.

A staff member jogged over from the side, holding out the championship trophy, smiling almost as broadly as the crowd around them.

“MVP ulit,” the man said, beaming. “Third na, sir.”

Alex glanced at the trophy. Then took it with one hand, the same way you’d take a pen someone was handing you.

“Third,” he simply said.

“Yes, sir!” The man nodded eagerly.

There was no grin. No celebration. No raised arms for the crowd chanting his name. He turned and handed the trophy to a teammate without a word.

“Pre, picture!” someone shouted.

A few of them pulled him in before he could step away. An arm landed across his shoulder. Cameras started flashing from every direction, fast and relentless.

Alex stayed where he was, looked at whatever lens was in front of him, and stepped out the second the phones lowered.

***

Marco caught up to him at the bench, still riding the high of the win.

“Grabe, bro. Third na!” Marco said, shaking his head, half-laughing.

Then he looked at the crowd. “Naririnig mo pa ba ’yan o sanay ka na?”

Alex grabbed a towel from the bench and wiped his face. He just smiled.

Marco snorted. “Alam mo ba kalahati ng crowd kanina gusto kang pakasalan?”

Alex draped the towel over his neck and just chuckled.

Marco laughed. “Grabe. Ang yabang.”

Alex just looked at him briefly.

They walked toward the sidelines where the rest of the team was already celebrating, voices overlapping, someone shouting about drinks, someone already planning the night.

“After party tayo!” one of them yelled.

Marco nudged Alex. “Pre, sumama ka ha.”

Alex picked up his duffel from the floor, unbothered. “Pass.”

“Pre.” Marco groaned. “Minsan lang ’to.”

“Nanalo naman na tayo.”

“Exactly!” Alex zipped his bag and adjusted the strap over his shoulder. “Okay na ’yon.”

Marco watched him for a second, then smirked. “Hindi ka talaga marunong mag-enjoy, ’no?”

“Pagod lang siguro,” Alex said.

Marco shook his head, still smiling. “Basta sumama ka mamaya.”

***

As they started heading out, Alex’s phone vibrated inside his bag.

Once. Then again.

He pulled it out.

Three missed calls.

Dad.

His thumb hovered over the screen for a second. Then he locked it and slipped the phone back inside.

Marco noticed.

“Your dad?”

Alex nodded once.

“Call him back.”

“Mamaya.”

They kept walking, and the noise from the court slowly fell behind them. After a few steps, Marco added, quieter this time, “Baka gusto ka lang i-congratulate.”

“Asa,” Alex said.

Marco didn’t say anything after that.

He knew better.

***

The bar that night was loud in a completely different way: heavier, closer, messier. Music thumped through the walls hard enough to feel it in your chest.

Conversations layered over each other without going anywhere. Glasses clinked, people pushed past each other, and the whole place smelled like alcohol and too many bodies in one room.

Alex sat at the far end of the bar with a glass of whiskey in front of him.

Untouched.

Marco dropped onto the stool beside him. “Di ka nakatanggi kay Coach, no?”

“May nagsumbong eh,” Alex said.

Marco laughed and leaned forward, scanning the room. “A change of scenery.”

Alex followed his gaze. Girls watching from across the room. Whispers. Phones angled just enough to pretend they weren’t recording.

He looked back at his drink. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Congratulations.”

The voice came from his left. Familiar even before he turned.

Faye. Red dress, composed posture, full makeup, and for some reason, her sunglasses perched on top of her head.

Alex’s eyes flicked to them for a second, his expression shifting just enough to suggest a single, silent question: Why on earth are you wearing those in here?

“Thanks,” Alex said with a small nod.

She leaned against the bar beside him. “Three-time MVP. Ang galing mo pa rin.”

A short silence passed between them, the kind that has weight on both sides but neither person moves to fill.

Then she tilted her head. “You haven’t changed.”

Alex didn’t say anything. He glanced at her quickly and looked back at his drink.

She laughed softly. “Hindi mo talaga ako bibigyan ng kahit konting compliment?”

“Wala akong maisip.”

That made her laugh a little louder. “Grabe ka talaga.”

He didn’t smile. That was answer enough.

“Faye!”

A man appeared behind her, jaw tight, eyes already sharp with obvious displeasure at what he was seeing.

“What are you doing?”

Faye didn’t flinch. “Relax.”

“Relax?” His voice dropped low, but not low enough. “You’re talking to him like —”

Alex leaned back slightly on his stool, posture easy, arms loose. He wasn’t interested.

The man clocked it immediately and turned to him. “Anong problema mo?”

“Wala,” Alex said.

The man stepped closer, near enough that the distance between them became its own kind of statement. “Don’t act smart.”

Alex stood up. “Wala akong ginagawa sa girlfriend mo.”

That did it.

The punch came fast, sharp and from the side. It caught Alex in the face before anyone nearby had even registered what was happening.

Marco shot up from his stool. “Pre —”

But Alex had already moved.

It only took one hit.

The man stumbled backward, lost his footing, and went down hard, the back of his head striking the marble edge of the bar with a sound that made the entire room go still.

The music cut.

Voices dropped.

Everything just stopped.

“Shit —”

“Uy, uy —!”

“Hindi gumagalaw!”

Faye dropped to her knees beside him. “Jude? Jude.”

Nothing.

Her voice climbed higher. “Jude!”

And then, one by one, the phones came out.

Of course they did.

Alex stood where he was, breathing steady, blood forming at the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t move toward the guy on the floor. Didn’t look around at the people staring.

He watched, the way someone watches something unfold when they already know how it ends.

Then Faye looked up at him.

Her expression had moved past shock, past fear, and landed somewhere simpler and more convenient.

Blame.

“Look what you did!”

Alex held her gaze, because there was nothing to say that would actually matter. By tomorrow, whatever really happened in this room would be the second version of the story.

The footage would be the first. The captions would decide the rest.

He already knew how this ended.

Marco’s hand wrapped around his arm. “Pre, let’s go.”

Alex wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. They walked out. The whispers followed behind them the whole way to the door, and the phones stayed raised.

Recording. Always recording.

***

The car door shut behind him, and the noise of the bar dulled to something distant and muffled, like a storm heard from the other side of a wall.

Alex leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed ahead, one arm resting against the window. Outside, the city moved past in long streaks of light. His jaw was still tight. The blood on his lip had already dried.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it. He already knew who it was.

His manager. Media. His father. The same cycle, the same order, consequences arriving exactly as predicted. He pressed his head back against the headrest and let out a slow breath.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

Because for once, it wasn’t the loud things that were about to turn his life over. It was something he had no way of preparing for, no matter how composed, how guarded, or how certain he thought he was.

He just didn’t know that yet.