The first official Imperial Collegiate League practice was supposed to mark the start of a disciplined, focused, and unified Castillian team.
It didn't.
The meeting took place at the Casa de Imperium gym, a slightly cracked court that smelled faintly of sweat, wax, and broken dreams.
Mico arrived first, clipboard in hand, ready for structure and order. Felix followed, carrying a bag of snacks because "fuel is essential." Jairo came with a boom box, announcing his arrival with old-school hip-hop. Uno entered next, leaving a trail of cologne so thick it could be used as a smokescreen. And finally — Lynx appeared, late as usual, with nothing but energy and poor intentions.
Mico clapped his hands once to get everyone's attention. He stood tall, confident, his notes ready.
"Gentlemen," he began, "our goal is discipline."
Lynx immediately raised a hand. "Discipline? Is that a new brand of Gatorade?"
Jairo laughed so hard he almost dropped his boom box. Uno nodded like it was a valid question. Felix was already eating chips.
And Prof. Damaso, seated on the bleachers, muttered under his breath, "I'm just here to make sure you don't burn the gym."
They started with warm-ups — or something vaguely resembling it.
Felix counted reps. Uno adjusted his reflection in the gym window. Jairo added dance moves between stretches. Lynx decided to stretch by trying to touch the basketball rim (and missed).
It lasted exactly seven minutes before Lynx got bored and shouted, "First one to hit a half-court shot wins bragging rights for the week!"
Before Mico could protest, Jairo had already cranked up the music, and the rest of practice devolved into a half-court shootout featuring terrible form, wild celebration dances, and zero actual drills.
Uno commentated the mess like it was a championship game.
"Lynx for the shot — AIRBALL! But look at that confidence!"
"Mico's turn — oh wait, he's checking his clipboard instead."
"Felix shoots — rebounds his own miss, respect the hustle!"
Even Prof. Damaso started keeping score, though no one understood his system.
"Technically," he said, "they're learning resilience through failure."
Mico just groaned. "They're learning stupidity through repetition."
When the ball finally rolled out of bounds and landed near the water cooler, Mico blew an imaginary whistle and declared practice over.
"We accomplished nothing," he said flatly.
"Correction," Lynx replied, spinning the ball on one finger, "we built morale."
Prof. Damaso smiled faintly from his seat. "You also built delusion. But sometimes, that's step one."
And as the team packed up — sweaty, laughing, and loud — Mico stared at his untouched clipboard and realized something terrifying:
This wasn't going to be a team that followed the plan. This was going to be a plan that chased the team.
---
Mico's Margin:
[ Day one: lost control.
Day two: probably won't find it again. ]
---
WEEK 2
By the second week, Mico decided that enough was enough. The Castillian boys needed structure, not chaos, and definitely not another half-court contest that ended with Lynx trying to invent a new dunk celebration called "The Lynxplosion."
So, he made a plan — a real one. Printed, laminated, and color-coded. It was a strict workout schedule that covered everything from core training to conditioning drills, complete with rest intervals and motivational quotes he copied from an online article about "building elite athletes."
When he unveiled it to the team at practice, the reactions were immediate.
Lynx squinted at the list. "This looks like a military brochure."
Uno tilted his head. "Can we add a mirror section?"
Jairo cracked his knuckles. "Let's see who survives."
Felix just nodded silently and began stretching.
Mico sighed. "Consistency builds champions."
Lynx smirked. "So does charisma."
Prof. Damaso, who was seated cross-legged on the bleachers with his usual cup of coffee, muttered, "And here I thought philosophy students were dramatic."
Morning started with core training.
Mico timed everyone with a stopwatch, determined to keep the energy serious.
Uno only did push-ups when someone had their phone out to record him. The moment the camera stopped, he flopped to the floor.
Lynx turned the plank exercise into a TikTok challenge called #HoldForTheCrown, complete with dramatic background music and a victory wink. Within minutes, half the gym had stopped to watch.
Jairo, on the other hand, took the cardio drills personally — sprinting so hard it looked like he was trying to outrun destiny itself.
Felix followed every instruction, finishing each set in silence, his face unreadable. When they were done, he ate three sandwiches from his bag and asked when round two would start.
Mico tried to bring them back to order, clipboard in hand. "We're supposed to be training, not trending!"
Lynx laughed, sweat dripping down his chin. "Relax, Captain Zero. Publicity builds legacy."
Uno adjusted his hair in the gym mirror. "Exactly. We're not just athletes — we're content."
Jairo was too busy running laps to respond, and Felix just handed Mico a sandwich.
Prof. Damaso took a long sip of his coffee. "They're consistent, Mico. Just not in the direction you expected."
By the end of the week, Mico's schedule was still pinned to the wall — untouched, wrinkled, and marked with Lynx's doodles. But something strange had started to form.
They were still chaotic. Still loud. Still unmanageable.
Yet, between the laughter, the teasing, and the unplanned challenges, they were moving together.
Not like a team that followed a plan — but like one that made their own rhythm.
And somehow, that rhythm was starting to sound like progress.
---
WEEK 3
By the third week, Mico noticed a pattern — every time he tried to enforce discipline, chaos responded louder. Felix, ever the quiet observer, decided it was time for something different.
"We need to bond outside the court," he said one afternoon, wiping sweat from his forehead after another practice that had dissolved into Lynx doing trick shots off the wall.
Mico raised an eyebrow. "Like a strategy meeting?"
Lynx grinned. "Like a field trip."
Uno clapped his hands. "Perfect. I have an outfit for that."
Jairo shouted, "We'll call it Operation Brotherhood!"
Prof. Damaso didn't look up from his coffee. "As long as it doesn't involve fire or karaoke, I approve."
So they went bowling.
---
It started normally enough — shoes, lanes, snacks. Then, predictably, it all fell apart.
Lynx picked up a bowling ball, weighed it in his hands, and said, "This feels like a basketball with potential."
Mico immediately warned, "Don't you dare."
Too late.
Lynx sprinted to the line and jumped, attempting to dunk the ball into the lane like it was a rim. The crash echoed through the entire alley. The manager froze. The team cheered.
Uno, unfazed, took his turn next — with bumpers up. Every time the ball hit a pin, he struck a pose like he had just hit a game-winner at the buzzer. When he finally scored a spare, he turned to the others and declared, "Gold medal energy only."
Jairo treated the entire game like a scrimmage. Each time someone bowled, he yelled, "DEFENSE!" and spread his arms wide across the lane.
Felix, calm as ever, bowled perfectly in silence — three strikes in a row — and ignored the chaos unfolding beside him.
Mico sat quietly on the bench, staring at them, his expression unreadable. Somewhere between horror and reluctant admiration.
"This team," he muttered, "might actually be allergic to seriousness."
Prof. Damaso, seated a few lanes away with fries and coffee, didn't even look up. "Allergy or not," he said, "they're undefeated at being themselves."
After they finished — and narrowly avoided being banned from the bowling alley — the group walked back under the streetlights, laughter echoing through the quiet campus roads. For once, no one was arguing, showing off, or trying to prove anything.
They were just… together.
Jairo threw an arm around Lynx's shoulder. "We're not normal."
Uno nodded, still holding his tiny trophy keychain from the arcade. "But we're going to win anyway."
Felix smiled — a rare, genuine smile. "That's the point."
Mico didn't say anything, but for the first time in weeks, he felt something he hadn't planned for: peace.
Maybe they weren't normal. Maybe they'd never be. But maybe — just maybe — that was exactly why they might actually have a shot.