The Assist

Chapter 8

I didn’t see him for three days.

Not that I was counting.

Okay, maybe I was—subconsciously. Every time I passed the quad. Every time I walked near Matteo Hall. Every time I opened i********:, only to scroll past some blurry repost of him in a varsity jacket and pretend I wasn’t affected.

But I wasn’t waiting.

Not really.

I had work to do. Edits to submit. A script to revise for our next podcast episode.

So why did it feel like my brain had a virus named Liam Ramirez?

“Uy,” Kai said, poking her spoon into her halo-halo. “You okay?”

We were sitting under the trees behind the Rizal Library, her favorite tambayan spot. The afternoon was warm, the air thick with both humidity and student gossip.

“Yeah,” I replied, stirring my drink a little too aggressively.

She squinted at me. “Is this about your almost-date with Mr. Green Archer?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You dressed cute.”

“That’s my default.”

“Max.”

I sighed. “Okay. It was… something. But I don’t know what.”

Kai leaned forward. “Do you like him?”

I paused. Too long.

“Maxine.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “He’s confusing. Charming one second, annoyingly arrogant the next. And now he’s being all—soft. Vulnerable.”

Kai was quiet for a beat. “You know he’s got a rep, right?”

I stilled. “What kind of rep?”

She winced. “The flirty kind. Kissing-in-dark-corners, casual-DMs, playboy-athlete kind.”

My stomach twisted.

“Right,” I said coolly. “Of course he does.”

“Sorry. I thought you knew.”

I gave her a tight smile. “It’s fine. I’m not… invested.”

But the truth settled in my chest like cold water. I was affected. And I hated it.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept replaying everything—his eyes on me during the game, the way his hand lingered near mine, the way he said, “Then I’ll wait.”

But then I’d hear Kai’s voice again.

Playboy rep.

Flirty kind.

I hated that I even cared.

So I opened my Notes app and started typing for next week’s podcast.

Episode 12: Reputations. How much of who we are is what people say about us—and how much of it do we believe?

My fingers hovered over the screen.

And just before I locked my phone, I whispered into the dark:

“Who are you really, Liam Ramirez?”

Because maybe, just maybe—I wanted the answer.

Even if I wasn’t ready for what it meant.

The next day, I walked into Matteo Hall with my usual stride—head up, headphones on, eyes unbothered.

Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

But the second I turned the corner near the vending machines, there he was.

Liam. Laughing with some of his teammates.

God, he was stupidly tall. Still in his green jersey, bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like he weighed nothing. Like he hadn’t been taking up space in my head all week.

He looked up. Saw me.

And smiled.

Not his teasing one. Not the cocky, post-game grin he usually wore. It was… softer.

I should’ve looked away. Should’ve kept walking. But something in me stalled.

His smile widened.

He took a step forward.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Max.”

I blinked. “You remember my name?”

He tilted his head, amused. “Hard to forget someone who roasted me in front of half of Metro Manila.”

I fought the smirk tugging at my lips. “You’re welcome.”

He stepped closer. Just a little. Close enough that I could smell the sweat and whatever expensive cologne he wore that clung even after practice.

“I heard your next episode’s about reputations,” he said, watching me too closely. “That gonna be about me again?”

I crossed my arms. “Guilty conscience?”

He chuckled, leaning slightly against the wall. “You tell me.”

I hated how the tension between us felt both electric and infuriating.

“I don’t build episodes around varsity players who think they’re the center of the universe,” I replied.

His eyes glinted. “But I am in your universe.”

He said it so low, so bold, it stole the air right from my lungs.

I blinked. “What do you want, Ramirez?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Just saying hi. And maybe…” he leaned in just slightly, voice a near-whisper, “making sure you haven’t forgotten the real me yet.”

I hated how my pulse reacted to that.

I hated that I was even curious what the real him meant.

“I don’t forget easily,” I said coolly.

He smiled like he knew exactly what kind of damage he was doing.

“Well then,” he said, pushing off the wall. “I guess I’ll have to be on my best behavior.”

“Do you even have a best behavior?”

He turned over his shoulder, grinning. “Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”

And just like that, he walked away—leaving a trail of heat and questions in his wake.

That night, I opened his i********:.

Just for research. Obviously.

I tapped through his highlights, lingering on the ones from old games, some training clips, a few blurry group photos with his barkada.

Then I paused on one story reposted by a friend. Liam at a beach bonfire, arms wrapped around a girl, their faces close. Laughing.

My stomach sank.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” I muttered, locking my phone.

I shouldn’t care. I didn’t care.

But I also couldn’t shake the way he looked at me today. Like there was something he wanted me to see. Something just beneath the surface of his swagger and flirtation.

And maybe the worst part?

I wanted to see it too.

Even if it scared me.