After several days of relentless training—early mornings, sore muscles, repeated drills, and constant corrections—Eliza finally gathered the entire North Gate Buffalo roster at center court. The players sat or stood in a loose circle, towels around their necks, water bottles half-empty in their hands. Sweat still clung to them, but there was something sharper in the air now: anticipation.
Eliza folded her arms, her posture calm but commanding.
"Alright, everyone, listen up," she began. "We've confirmed our first tune-up game."
The chatter stopped immediately.
"We'll be facing the Bulldogs," she continued, letting the name sink in, "last season's second runner-up."
A low murmur passed through the group.
"They're led by their Twin Towers—Ricky and Roy," Eliza said. "Both dominant in the paint. Their team captain is Joseph, one of the league's most reliable scorers. And they're coached by Larry Cruz."
Several players exchanged looks. Everyone knew the Bulldogs' reputation. Physical. Ruthless. Disciplined.
"This will be a serious test," Eliza went on. "Not just of your skills, but of what you've learned together. I don't expect perfection. I expect effort. Just play your best, guys."
Coach Fran stepped forward, confidence clear in his voice.
"No worries," he said. "We're ready. And besides, we've got our own ace—Joe Cruz—to lead us."
At that, Joe gave a small nod, though his jaw tightened slightly.
From the side, Assistant Coach Ed shook his head, barely noticeable—but Fran caught it.
"Coach Ed," Fran said, eyebrow raised, "you got something to say?"
Ed exhaled, then shrugged.
"Nothing negative," he replied. "Just saying… if you trust each other and share the ball, we can do this."
The room fell quiet for a second.
Ed looked around at the players. "Talent won't save us. Teamwork will."
No one argued.
Two days later, the day of the tune-up game finally arrived.
The arena buzzed—not packed, but alive. Players stretched along the sidelines. Coaches whispered final reminders. The Buffalo felt a mix of nerves and excitement. This was their first real chance to show what they had learned.
Coach Fran gathered the team.
"Our starting five," he announced, "Santino at power forward. Ian Santos at center. Team captain Joe Cruz. Lord Victor at point guard. Jose Bernardo at shooting guard."
Elias watched quietly from the bench, hands clasped, eyes locked on the court. He didn't feel disappointed. He understood. This was just the beginning.
Across the court, Bulldogs head coach Larry barked orders.
"Ricky. Roy. Dominate the paint," he said. "Joseph, lead them. Nico, John—space the floor."
Then, with a cold smile, he added, "Crush the Buffalo. No mercy."
The referee's whistle blew.
Jump ball.
As expected, the Bulldogs controlled it.
They moved with precision. One pass. Two. A screen. The ball swung to the corner.
Boom.
Joseph drained an open three-pointer.
Coach Fran clapped his hands. "Go! Go! Go!"
The Buffalo brought the ball up. Victor passed to Joe. Joe took one dribble and fired.
Air ball.
Ricky grabbed the rebound effortlessly, launching a cross-court pass to Mark, who quickly fed Roy.
Roy rose and dunked it hard.
The Bulldogs' bench erupted.
Play after play, the pattern repeated. The Bulldogs moved the ball smoothly. The Buffalo forced shots. Joe kept attacking, shooting over defenders. Sometimes he scored—but often, he didn't.
Then the buzzer sounds that ended the first half echoed like a wound being torn open.
The scoreboard told a brutal story.
Bulldogs: 52
Buffalo: 15
The scoreboard glowed mercilessly above the court, numbers too large, too bright, impossible to ignore. As the North Gate Buffalo jogged—no, dragged—themselves toward the tunnel, the crowd noise followed them. Some fans still clapped, trying to show support, while others murmured, shook their heads, or sat in stunned silence.
A few Bulldogs fans cheered loudly, their voices sharp and confident.
"DEFENSE!"
"BULL-DOGS! BULL-DOGS!"
The Buffalo players kept their heads down.
Elias, sitting at the far end of the bench, stood as the starters passed him. He met their eyes one by one. Joe Cruz avoided his gaze. Lord Victor clenched his jaw. Santino wiped his face with his jersey, frustration written all over him.
As they entered the locker room, the door slammed shut behind them.
Silence.
Not the calm kind—but the heavy, suffocating kind. The kind that presses on your chest.
Coach Fran stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, breathing deeply. Assistant Coach Ed leaned against the lockers, hands on his knees, staring at the floor.
Joe dropped onto the bench hard, unlacing one shoe aggressively.
"This is bullshit," Joe muttered.
Victor slammed his towel onto the floor. "We can't even run a set!"
"Man…" Santino added. "This is embarrassing."
That was the spark.
Jose Bernardo snapped his head up. "Embarrassing? That's all you got to say?"
Santino turned. "You think this isn't? We're down almost forty!"
Joe finally spoke, his voice low. "You got a problem, Santino?"
Santino hesitated—just for a second—but the words were already boiling inside him. "Yeah. I do."
Jose Bernardo shook his head. "Every possession feels rushed."
Joe looked up sharply. "So now it's my fault?"
No one answered immediately. That hurt more than words.
Joe stood up. "Say it. Just say it."
Lord Victor finally spoke, his voice steady but strained. "Joe… you're forcing shots."
Joe laughed bitterly. "Forcing? I'm the only one scoring!"
"Ten points," Victor replied. "Out of fifteen."
Joe stepped closer. "And where were you? Huh? Where was everybody else when we needed buckets?"
Santino stood up too. "Maybe if you passed—"
Joe turned on him instantly. "You think you're ready? This is the Bulldogs, rookie! This isn't some college gym!"
Santino's face reddened. "I'm open in the paint half the time!"
"Open?" Joe scoffed. "With Ricky and Roy breathing down your neck?"
Coach Fran slammed his clipboard onto the bench.
"Enough!"
In the locker room, Coach Fran's voice echoed.
But the players keeps on spoking over one another.
"Joe keeps shooting!" one said.
"He doesn't pass!" another added.
Coach Fran raised his hand. "I said Enough! Without Joe's ten points, we'd be in single digits. He's carrying us."
Lord Victor stood up, eyes sharp. "Coach, if he passes, we score too."
Silence followed.
Joe crossed his arms. "I just did what coach Fran told me... Lead."
"Leadership," Assistant Coach Ed snapped, "doesn't mean playing alone."
Joe's eyes flashed. "So now I'm the problem?"
Before Coach Fran could answer, Elias stood up.
The room turned toward him.
Elias rarely spoke. And when he did, it was calm. Measured.
But now, his voice carried weight.
"Joe," Elias said quietly, "you're not the problem."
Joe blinked, surprised.
"But we're not helping you either," Elias continued. "And you're not helping us."
Joe looked away.
Elias took a step forward.
"I've been in locker rooms like this," Elias said. "When pride starts shouting louder than trust, teams fall apart."
Jose Bernardo scoffed. "Easy to say. You're not even playing."
Elias nodded. "You're right. But I see it clearly because I'm not on the floor."
He pointed to the board. "They're not beating us because they're better. They're beating us because they're together."
Coach Fran straightened.
Elias turned to Joe. "You're our best scorer. No question. But even legends need teammates."
Joe's fists clenched.
"You think I don't know that?" Joe snapped. "You think I want to miss shots? I'm carrying expectations—this franchise, this crowd—"
The roar of the crowd seeped faintly through the walls.
Joe's voice cracked slightly. "They believe in me."
Elias nodded slowly. "They believe in the Buffalo."
Silence again.
Coach Ed stepped forward. "Listen to the crowd."
As if on cue, Buffalo fans began clapping rhythmically.
"BUF-FA-LO!"
"BUF-FA-LO!"
Not loud. But steady.
"They haven't given up," Coach Ed said. "Have you?"
Joe sat back down, rubbing his face.
"I don't want to lose," he whispered.
"No one here does," Santino replied softly.
Coach Fran exhaled. His tone softened. "Joe, you don't have to do this alone."
Joe looked up at his teammates—really looked this time.
Victor met his eyes. "Trust me to run the offense."
Santino added, "Trust me in the paint."
Jose nodded. "Trust us to hit shots."
Joe swallowed hard.
Then he nodded once.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's do it right."
Coach Ed smiled faintly. "That's leadership."
The buzzer sounded again.
Second half.
As the Buffalo returned to the bench, the crowd rose to its feet. The cheers grew louder—hopeful, desperate, alive.
"LET'S GO BUFFALO!"
"DEFENSE! DEFENSE!"
Coach Ed spoke.
"Guys," he said calmly, "we're a team. If Joe has an open look, he shoots. Same rule for everyone else."
The buzzer sounded.
But the Buffalo walked back onto the court —talent present, trust fractured, and the real challenge only just beginning.