When We Were Us

The rhythmic sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished wooden floor echoed through the gymnasium. The scent of sweat and resin filled the air as players moved across the court, calling out plays and positioning themselves. The ball bounced against the floor with a satisfying thud before being scooped up by eager hands. Miguel "Miggy" Santos exhaled, pushing his damp bangs away from his forehead as he settled into position. His eyes darted to the libero, who crouched low, waiting for the serve. The tension in the air was palpable—everybody was tired, but nobody wanted to be the first to call it a day. Miggy grinned. “One more set?” Paulo, his outside hitter, groaned. “Dude, we’ve been at this for hours.” “Exactly. One more won’t hurt.” The coach chuckled from the sidelines. “Enough, Miggy. You’ll burn yourselves out before the season even starts.” Miggy sighed but nodded, finally conceding. The rest of his teammates cheered in relief, some immediately plopping onto the floor, while others made their way to the benches. "Nice sets today," Paulo said, bumping his shoulder against Miggy's as they walked toward their bags. Miggy smirked. "Nice spikes today. Too bad they weren't as good as my sets." Paulo rolled his eyes. "Cocky as ever." Miggy only grinned, used to teasing his teammates like this. But as he reached for his water bottle, movement near the entrance caught his attention. A group of players entered the gym—tall, athletic, and exuding confidence. Their jerseys bore the logo of the engineering department’s volleyball team. Miggy barely paid them any mind at first—until he saw him. A tall, broad-shouldered player with short, neatly styled black hair stepped onto the court. His expression was unreadable, but there was something about the way he carried himself—calm, collected, and focused—that made Miggy pause. "Who’s that?" Miggy asked, nudging Paulo without taking his eyes off the guy. Paulo followed his gaze. "Oh, that’s Rafael Dela Cruz. They call him Rafa. He’s an outside hitter for the engineering team." "Rafa, huh?" Miggy murmured, watching as the guy adjusted his kneepads before effortlessly jumping to test his reach against the net. The power in his movements was undeniable. "He's good," Paulo added. "Played in the nationals back in high school. People say he’s one of the best outside hitters in the league right now." That got Miggy’s full attention. His grip on his water bottle tightened slightly as he continued watching Rafa warm up. He had seen plenty of skilled players before, but something about the way Rafa moved was different. Controlled. Precise. Powerful. Rafa didn’t just play volleyball—he owned the court. "Careful, Miggy," Paulo teased. "You’re staring too hard." Miggy blinked and quickly looked away. "I wasn’t staring. I was analyzing his playstyle." Paulo smirked. "Sure, whatever you say." Miggy ignored him and slung his bag over his shoulder. "We have a match against them next week, right?" "Yeah. Why?" Miggy shrugged. "No reason." But as they walked toward the exit, Miggy couldn’t resist one last glance toward the court. At that exact moment, Rafa turned his head in his direction. Their eyes met. For a split second, the rest of the gym faded into the background. Miggy felt a strange jolt in his chest—like a rush of adrenaline, or maybe just the embarrassment of being caught staring. Rafa held his gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, as if dismissing whatever thought crossed his mind, he simply turned away and went back to warming up. Miggy exhaled, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. What was that? Shaking his head, he forced himself to look away. Just another player. Just another opponent. At least, that’s what he told himself.