The horn's buzz cracked the air, and the timeout broke apart. Piedmont's huddle dispersed first, their sneakers stomping in unison as Coach Ron's last command still echoed in their heads:
"We're Spartans. No panic. Back to our grind. Hit 'em where it hurts."
Across the court, Vorpal's bench clapped in rhythm, a defiance that buzzed louder than the crowd. Coach Fred stood with arms folded, saying nothing—he didn't need to. He'd left the huddle in Ethan's hands.
Ethan Albarado's eyes were sharp, voice clipped and firm as he looked around at his teammates.
"Me, Coonie, Jeremy, Kai, Brandon. Louie sits. They're going heavy inside, so we match 'em with size. Crash the boards, and we run."
Nobody argued. Nobody even hesitated. Coonie gave a sharp nod. Jeremy cracked his knuckles. Kai tugged his jersey tighter. Brandon clenched his mouthguard between his teeth.
