The Assist

Chapter 2

"Wait, gusto mo sabihin na ako pa ‘yung kailangang mag-adjust?”

My voice echoed in the cold, overly sanitized conference room, bouncing off the glass walls and getting swallowed by the heavy air of administrative politeness. Across from me sat Sir Emilio—the media relations officer for Ateneo—and beside him, Ms. Carreon from the Communications Department, blinking at me like I was the problem child they had no choice but to deal with.

“Maxine,” Ms. Carreon said gently, hands clasped like she was about to deliver a eulogy. “You made very valid points in your episode. But we also have to be mindful of fairness. Balance. Constructive dialogue.”

Constructive dialogue. Right.

Code for: you pissed off someone important.

And I knew exactly who.

Liam freaking Ramirez.

It was always fine to speak up, as long as it didn’t ruffle any varsity feathers. As long as the charming point guard with the hypnotic smirk and thousand-watt smile didn’t feel attacked. Because when Liam Ramirez was upset, the school felt it. Sponsors felt it. UAAP felt it.

And apparently, so did I.

I let out a tight breath and nodded slowly, schooling my face into something that resembled understanding.

“So... what, exactly, do you want me to do?”

Sir Emilio leaned forward. “A follow-up episode. Bring Liam on. Let him respond. Have a dialogue. Same format, but this time, with both perspectives.”

I blinked. “You want me to invite him to my podcast?”

“Yes.”

“And you think he’ll actually say yes?”

He smiled, too knowingly. “From what I heard, he’s...open.”

Bullshit. No varsity guy willingly walks into the lion’s den unless he thinks he’s the lion.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I smiled sweetly, stood up, and said, “Fine. I’ll ask.”

Back in the dorm, Kai was halfway through her ramen cup when I barged in and slammed my laptop on the desk.

“They want me to babysit Mr. Popular on my platform.”

Kai blinked. “Let me guess. They want you to do a Liam Redemption Arc.”

I groaned. “Basically. I’m supposed to invite him for a ‘balanced’ conversation.”

She grinned. “Oh. That’s going to go well.”

I rolled my eyes and opened my i********: DMs, typing out the message without overthinking:

Maxine: Hey. Admin wants a follow-up episode. You interested?

I hovered over the send button.

This was a mistake.

But I hit send anyway.

And then stared at the message like it would bite me.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Kai was scrolling through t****k. My heartbeat refused to calm down. And just as I was about to close the window and pretend it never happened—

He replied.

Instantly.

Liam: Sure. When?

I blinked.

“Holy s**t,” I muttered.

Kai sat up. “What?”

“He said yes.”

“Wait, what? Just like that?”

I turned the phone around so she could see.

Her jaw dropped. “That’s sus.”

Exactly.

That’s very sus.

This was Liam Ramirez we were talking about.

I expected him to ignore me. To throw shade. To screenshot the message and send it to his barkada with a laughing emoji.

But he said yes.

No hesitation. No questions. Just... yes.

And somehow, that scared me more than if he’d said no.

Because if he said no, then I’d still have control.

But now?

Now I had to sit across from him, mic to mic, voice to voice—and play nice.

I opened the chat again, my fingers hovering.

Maxine: Okay. This Friday, 4PM. Studio at Comm building. No edits. Unfiltered.

Liam: My favorite kind.

Thursday night, 11:52 p.m., I was staring at the ceiling of our dorm, wide awake, heart pounding for reasons I refused to admit.

Across the room, Kai was snoring softly, headphones in, probably dreaming about her latest K-drama obsession. Meanwhile, I was losing sleep over someone I despised. At least, I was supposed to.

But ever since that DM—

Liam: My favorite kind.

—I couldn’t stop replaying it in my head.

What kind of guy says that? Who walks into a hostile territory like Unfiltered and flirts? That wasn’t confidence. That was cocky, dangerous charm—and I hated that it worked.

I groaned, burying my face into my pillow.

No. I’m not one of those girls. I’m not going to melt just because Liam Ramirez knows how to type.

Pero bakit ba may kilig?

Maybe it wasn’t kilig.

Maybe it was nerves.

Maybe it was the pressure of knowing tomorrow wasn’t just about setting the record straight—it was about surviving whatever game Liam planned to play.

And if I wasn’t careful, I’d be the one played.

Friday, 3:52 p.m. I was pacing outside the Comm Building studio, clutching my clipboard like it could protect me from sin.

“Chill,” Kai whispered, sipping her milk tea like this was a damn movie. “You’re not meeting Satan.”

I glared. “Close enough.”

“You’re way more intimidating than him. Besides,” she smirked, “you’re prettier.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help the twitch of my lips.

I checked my phone again.

No message.

No update.

I told myself I didn’t care if he flaked.

But then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Confident.

Like the hallway belonged to him.

I looked up.

And there he was.

Liam freaking Ramirez.

Wearing a plain black tee that clung to his arms like sin, dark jeans, a silver chain on his wrist. His duffle bag slung over one shoulder, hair still wet from what I assumed was a post-practice shower.

Cocky. Effortless. Dangerous.

“Am I late?” he asked, voice low and casual.

“No,” I said tightly. “You’re early.”

He smiled. “That’s a first.”

Kai practically choked on her drink.

I turned to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. The studio was cool, dim, lit by soft white lights and the warm glow of the ON AIR sign. My sanctuary. My turf.

But the moment Liam walked in behind me, it felt... compromised.

He looked around, eyes scanning the mic setup, the foam panels, the soundboard like he wasn’t just visiting—he was studying. Strategizing.

He slid into the guest chair across from mine.

“I like the vibe,” he said. “Very you.”

“You don’t know me,” I shot back.

He leaned forward, chin resting on his hand, smile lazy.

“Not yet.”

I busied myself with my notes, adjusting the mic, ignoring the way my pulse betrayed me.

This was fine. I could do this. I was Maxine Dela Cruz. Queen of podcasts. Slayer of egos.

I wasn’t scared of some pretty boy with good biceps and a silver tongue.

Except... I was starting to think Liam didn’t come here to defend himself.

He came to watch me burn.