The locker room smelled of sweat, disinfectant, and something new—relief.
Not relief from winning. Relief from knowing they weren't hopeless.
The Buffalo filed in quietly at first, jerseys clinging to their backs, shoes squeaking against the tiled floor. Some dropped onto the benches immediately, heads bowed, elbows on knees. Others stood for a moment, hands on hips, breathing deeply as if trying to slow hearts that were still racing.
They had lost.
But no one felt defeated.
Joe Cruz was the first to break the silence. He slammed his towel onto the bench, not in anger, but in release. "Damn," he muttered, shaking his head. "We were right there."
Victor nodded, wiping sweat from his face. "Second runner-up last season," he said quietly. "And we pushed them."
Santino leaned back, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling fast. "If we had five more minutes," he said, half-laughing, half-serious, "they would've been the ones panicking."
A few players chuckled. Not loud. But genuine.
Elias sat at the far end of the bench, unlacing his shoes slowly. His knee throbbed—not pain, exactly, but fatigue. The kind that reminded him he was still human. Still thirty-eight. Still carrying years on his joints.
But his eyes were alive.
He looked around the room and saw something he hadn't expected this early in the season.
Belief.
Coach Fran stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always. He let the room breathe. Let the players talk. Let the feeling settle.
Finally, he spoke.
"We lost," he said plainly. "But don't confuse that with failure."
Heads lifted.
"We stayed composed. We adjusted. We fought back. Against a team that bullied us last season."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"This game showed us where we are—and where we can go."
That was all he said.
No shouting. No praise. No blame.
And somehow, that restraint meant more.
As the players showered and changed, the mood stayed light. Laughter drifted from one corner.
Someone joked about Santino almost breaking the rim.
Another teased Victor about the surprise lob that turned into a dunk.
They were smiling.
When they finally walked out of the gym, gym bags slung over shoulders, they were met by a small cluster of reporters near the exit.
Cameras lifted immediately. Microphones extended like eager hands.
"Coach Fran! Coach Fran! Quick comment!"
Coach Fran raised a hand without slowing his stride. "Maybe next time," he said curtly.
But the media wasn't done.
One reporter stepped forward, voice sharper. "Coach, can you comment on what Coach Larry said earlier? He mentioned that if you had put your first pick in earlier, the ending might've been different."
Coach Fran stopped walking.
The players behind him slowed, sensing the shift.
Fran turned to face the media, his expression calm but firm. "We don't usually put rookies in early," he said. "Every coach knows that."
Another reporter jumped in quickly. "But coach, you started your second-round pick—Santino—from the opening tip."
Fran's jaw tightened slightly.
He inhaled, then answered evenly. "Every coach has plans. We put players in at the right moment."
A third voice cut through. "But coach, with all due respect, doesn't that mean you miscalculated? Even Coach Larry said the game could've ended differently if Moreno played earlier."
For a second, the air felt heavier.
Coach Fran smiled. Not warmly. Politely.
"No comment on that," he said.
Coach Ed stepped forward immediately, placing himself between the team and the reporters. "Thank you for your time," he said, firm but courteous. "We apologize, but we need to go."
The media backed off reluctantly, cameras still rolling as the Buffalo boarded their bus.
As the doors closed and the engine started, Coach Fran leaned back in his seat and muttered under his breath, barely audible even to himself.
"Miscalculated… tsk. Tsk."
The bus pulled away.
Back at the Buffalo training gym later that evening, the atmosphere was quieter.
Coach Ed gathered the players briefly before sending them home.
"Get some rest," he said. "Meeting tomorrow morning. Be ready."
One by one, the players left—some still chatting, others already mentally replaying the game.
Soon, the gym was nearly empty.
That was when Eliza called for a closed-door meeting.
Inside the conference room, the coaching staff gathered—Coach Fran, Coach Ed, Assistant Coach Ben, and a few analysts.
Eliza stood at the head of the table, tablet in hand, eyes sharp.
"Show me the stats," she said.
The screen lit up.
She stared.
They had lost—but only by single digits.
She scrolled further.
Rebounds closer.
Turnovers reduced.
Defensive efficiency improved.
She looked up slowly. "Do you realize that last season, this same team lost by twenty… thirty… sometimes forty points to mid-level teams?"
No one spoke.
"And tonight," she continued, "you pushed the second runner-up of last season—the best defensive team in the league—to the edge."
They played the game footage.
The first half was rough. Disorganized offense. Forced shots. Defensive lapses. Eliza frowned as she watched missed rotations, stagnant possessions, frustration building.
Then the second half.
Midway through.
Elias entered.
The tone changed.
Spacing improved. Ball movement sharpened. Defensive communication became louder. Faster. Smarter.
Eliza leaned forward unconsciously.
She watched Elias grab rebounds makes some steals and even block shots over younger players. Point where teammates should be. Calm the pace. Make the right play.
Then she saw how Elias dunks the ball.
She paused the video.
"Why didn't you give Moreno a chance earlier?" she asked, turning to Coach Fran.
Fran didn't flinch. "It was part of the plan."
Eliza raised an eyebrow. "A plan?"
"Yes," Fran said. "This was a tune-up game. We don't need to reveal everything we have in our arsenal. If we show our adjustments now, teams will prepare for us in the actual season."
The room was quiet.
Eliza considered that. Then nodded slowly. "That makes sense."
She sat back, folding her arms. "I agree. We shouldn't show our full hand yet."
The coaches relaxed slightly. Even though they did'nt believe on what coach Fran told Eliza.
But as the meeting continued, Coach Fran's gaze drifted briefly to the paused image on the screen—Elias mid-play, directing traffic, eyes focused, body moving with purpose.
Inside, a different thought lingered.
Moreno just got lucky today, Fran told himself. He played well. But lady luck doesn't goes on your side.
My Ace player and nephew Joe will shine on the next game. I will make sure of that, Coach Fran added.
He pushed the thought aside, returning his attention to the meeting.
Outside, the gym lights dimmed.
The first tune-up game was over.
They had lost on the scoreboard.
But somewhere between doubt and discipline, something had begun to shift.
And not everyone was ready to admit just how powerful that shift might become.