This time, nobody laughed.
The sub stopped messing with his tape. Kael slowly set his protein bar down on the armrest. Two or three players subconsciously straightened their backs.
Suddenly, this wasn't a fashion show anymore. It was like looking at a herd of sheep, but instead of a German Shepherd to protect them, it was the fucking beast of Gévaudan.
"Nash Blaze," Cross said, not moving. He rolled his shoulders, trying to show he didn't give a shit. "Yeah, I know. He's good at passing, right?"
"Passing," the coach said with a grimace, as if the word was disgusting. "6'4 ft, 194 pounds. The best point guard I've seen since..." He glanced toward the back of the room. Nobody moved; nobody dared look at the person he was talking about. "...since a long time."
The first clip started. A dark hangar, halogen lights hitting too hard, and asphalt shimmering with sweat. In the middle, Nash, ball in hand. Two defenders closed in on him like two halves of a sandwich.
