The Buffalo learned quickly that confidence was not something you claimed—it was something you earned.
In the days following their first tune-up game, the gym no longer felt like a place of routine. It felt like a proving ground. Sweat soaked the floor long after practice should have ended. Voices echoed sharper. Movements carried urgency. Every player understood the truth even if no one said it out loud.
Their next opponent was not forgiving.
The Spiders were the league's most explosive scoring team, a unit built not on hope, but on history. They punished mistakes. They thrived on pressure. And they were waiting.
Film sessions grew longer.
Assistant Coach Ed stood at the front of the room like a general studying a battlefield. The screen froze on a familiar image—Spiders guard Onald curling off a staggered screen, feet already set before the defender could recover.
"This," Ed said, tapping the screen with a marker, "is where games die."
No one spoke.
Onald, the league's reigning three-point king, didn't need space—he created it. A half-step was enough. A late close-out was a sentence. And behind him lurked Stevern, the league's top scorer, a forward with size, touch, and a ruthless sense of timing.
And then there was Leo.
Veteran. Playing coach. Calm like a man who had seen every kind of chaos and learned how to stand still inside it.
"They don't panic," Ed continued. "You panic against them, and they turn it into points. So we don't chase highlights. We don't gamble. We defend with discipline."
He looked directly at the Buffalo players.
"You guard your space. You talk. You rotate. And if you get beat?" He paused. "You recover. Every possession."
The Buffalo listened differently now.
This wasn't just learning. This was survival.
The day before the game, team owner Charles walked into the gym.
Conversation stopped immediately.
Charles wasn't loud. He didn't need to be. His presence carried weight—the kind earned through decisions that shaped careers. He watched quietly as the team finished a defensive drill, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
When Coach Fran called the team in, Charles stepped forward.
"I heard what you did against the Bulldogs," he began. "I didn't just hear the score. I heard how you played."
A pause.
"I'm proud of that effort."
A few shoulders relaxed.
"But let me be clear," Charles continued, voice firm. "The Spiders are different. They don't forgive mistakes. They don't let you hang around."
He turned to Coach Fran.
"I want rotations used wisely. No ego minutes. No experiments."
Fran nodded.
Then Charles added something that sharpened the room.
"I also read Coach Larry's comment."
Everyone had.
If Moreno had been allowed to play earlier, the Buffalo would've won.
The words had circulated fast.
Charles looked back at the players. "That comment tells me two things. One—they respect you more than they want to admit. Two—they're already thinking about you."
Silence thickened.
"Make sure," Charles finished, "they don't stop."
After the meeting, the Buffalo left the gym without a word. No jokes. No music. Just the sound of bags being zipped and doors closing.
Tomorrow would speak for them.
The Spiders' gym was already alive when the Buffalo arrived the next morning.
The stands filled early, a sea of red and black. Banners swayed above the court. Chants rippled through the building like thunder warming up.
"Wow," Santino muttered as they stepped inside. "This place is packed."
Joe scanned the crowd, jaw tight. "That's their sixth man."
The Buffalo moved toward their locker room as the noise followed them, creeping under doors, bouncing off concrete walls.
Inside, the room felt smaller than usual.
Lockers slammed shut. Shoes squeaked against tile. The air was thick with tension and anticipation.
Coach Fran stood in the center, clipboard in hand. He didn't speak right away.
"Look at me," he finally said.
Every head turned.
"They think this is entertainment," Fran continued. "They think this is their house."
He pointed toward the door. "Out there? They expect us to fold."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"We don't."
Assistant Coach Ed stepped forward.
"Leo will try to slow the game down," Ed said. "Onald will hunt early threes. Stevern will test you in the post and on the break."
He locked eyes with the defenders.
"You don't need to stop them alone. You stop them together."
A murmur of agreement moved through the room.
Then Elias Moreno spoke.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
"We don't rush," he said. "We don't match their noise. We play our pace."
Eyes shifted toward him.
"They want chaos," Elias continued. "We give them control."
Santino nodded. "And when they make a run?"
Elias didn't hesitate. "We answer with discipline."
Joe exhaled. "Let's take the crowd out early."
Coach Fran smiled slightly. "That's the idea."
A knock came at the door.
"Two minutes."
The room tightened.
Coach Fran gathered them in.
"No fear," he said quietly. "No excuses. You belong here."
They broke the huddle.
The Buffalo stepped onto the court to a wall of sound.
Boos rained down. Cheers erupted. Drums pounded.
The Spiders entered moments later, and the crowd exploded.
Onald jogged to half court, loose and smiling. Stevern followed, stone-faced, eyes already scanning matchups. Leo walked last, calm, unhurried, absorbing the noise like background music.
At center court, Spiders owner Kris took the microphone.
"Welcome, everyone," he announced. "Thank you for coming to this tune-up game."
He gestured toward both benches.
"We promise you one thing tonight," Kris said. "You're going to see a great game."