The locker room smelled like sweat, tape, and unfinished hope.
No one spoke at first.
Jerseys hung limp from open lockers, damp and heavy, as if they carried the weight of the loss themselves.
The hum of the ventilation system filled the silence, steady and uncaring. Somewhere down the hall, the Spiders were celebrating—laughter bleeding faintly through concrete walls—but inside the Buffalo locker room, time felt frozen.
Joe sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
His shooting sleeve was still on. He hadn't taken it off yet, as if doing so would make the game real. His jaw tightened every few seconds, replaying the missed shot, the double-team, the rushed decisions.
Santino leaned back against his locker, eyes closed, sweat dripping down his neck. He pressed his palms into his face and dragged them down slowly, like he was trying to wipe the night away.
Victor unlaced his shoes with mechanical movements. One lace. Then the other. He stopped halfway through the second shoe and clenched his fists. His shoulders shook once, then stilled.
Nemuel and Ruel keeps saying "sorry guys we blow it up."
"Hey, no one is blaming us guys okey" said Tony. "Both of you did your best when you are there, " he added.
Elias Moreno sat quietly at the far end.
His jersey was half-untucked. His hands rested on his thighs. He didn't stare at the floor or the ceiling—he stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused, seeing something only he could see.
The final shot replayed behind his eyes on an endless loop: the catch, the rise, the release, the net snapping cleanly.
Too late.
At thirty eight, Elias had learned how to lose without breaking. But that didn't mean it hurt less.
The locker room door opened.
The sound alone made heads turn.
Charles stepped inside first, his face tight, jaw locked. Eliza followed, her expression controlled but her eyes sharp, already scanning the room.
The energy shifted immediately. Backs straightened. Breaths were held.
Charles took two steps in, then stopped.
He looked around at the players. At the silence. At Elias.
Then his gaze snapped to Coach Fran.
"Why," Charles said, his voice low but cutting, "was Elias Moreno on the bench in the last two minutes?"
No one breathed.
Coach Fran stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed. He didn't answer immediately.
Eliza broke the tension, gently but firmly. "Charles... dad—"
"No," Charles said, not looking at her. "I want an answer. Now."
Coach Fran finally spoke. "It was a rotation decision."
"A rotation decision," Charles repeated, incredulous. "He had seventeen points. Twelve assists. Ten steals. Five blocks. And he controlled the game."
Fran swallowed. "I was protecting him. Minutes. His knee—"
"My knee was fine."
Elias' voice was calm, but it carried.
Everyone turned to him.
"I told you I was fine," Elias continued, meeting Fran's eyes. "I wasn't tired. I wasn't limping. I was locked in."
Fran looked away.
Joe stood suddenly. "Coach, that one's on me," he said, voice cracking. "You trusted me. I couldn't finish it."
"This isn't about blame," Charles snapped. "This is about judgment."
The room felt smaller now. Heavier.
Eliza stepped forward, placing a hand on her dad's arm. "Let's take this somewhere else dad."
Charles exhaled sharply, then nodded. He pointed at Fran. "When we return to the our gym, you at my office. Doors closed. ."
Fran just nod.
The locker room door shut behind them.
The silence returned—but it was different now. Charged.
Joe sank back onto the bench, rubbing his eyes. "I should've hit that shot."
"You hit bigger ones," Victor said quietly.
Santino finally opened his eyes and looked at Elias. "That three… I swear I thought we had it."
Elias nodded once. "So did I."
He stood, slowly, feeling the familiar stiffness in his knee—but it held. It always did when it mattered.
"Listen," Elias said, his voice steady. "This one hurts because it was supposed to. That's how you know it meant something."
Joe looked up at him. "You should've been in there."
Elias didn't argue.
"I know."
By the time the team bus arrived at the Buffalo gym, the story had already escaped the Spider's gym building.
Phones buzzed.
Messages piled up.
"Why was Moreno benched?"
"Buffalo collapse raises coaching questions."
In the media room, Coach Fran stood at the podium under harsh white lights.
Microphones crowded his face.
"Coach," a reporter asked, "can you explain the decision to remove Elias Moreno in the final two minutes?"
Fran stared ahead.
Another question followed. "Was this about load management or trust?"
Silence.
"Coach?"
Fran adjusted the mic slightly… and said nothing.
After thirty seconds, the moderator ended the session.
The silence said everything.
In Charles' office, the door shut with a dull thud.
Coach Fran was being called upstairs.
No announcement. No explanation.
Just a quiet instruction passed from Eliza to the equipment manager, then to Fran himself. The kind of summons that carried weight before a single word was spoken.
Elias noticed it immediately.
Fran straightened his jacket, nodded once to the room, and walked out without looking back. The door closed softly, but the sound lingered.
Joe swallowed hard. "That's on me," he muttered again, more to himself than anyone else.
Elias finally stood and walked over, placing a hand on Joe's shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding.
"No," Elias said quietly. "That's on decisions. Not effort. Don't confuse the two."
Joe looked up, eyes red. He nodded, but the doubt stayed.
Inside Charles' office it was quiet except for the ticking of a clock mounted above a framed championship photo from years past—another team, another era.
Eliza stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the city lights shimmer outside.
Coach Fran enter the room and stood in front of the desk.
Charles didn't offer him a seat.
"What were you thinking?" Charles demanded, pacing. "Tell me honestly."
Coach Fran sat down heavily, hands clasped together. "I saw the pressure building. I thought fresh legs would stabilize things."
"Fresh legs don't replace control," Charles shot back. "Experience does."
Fran's shoulders sagged. "I panicked."
The word hung in the air.
"I panicked," Fran repeated. "The crowd. The run. I thought if we lost with Elias on the floor, everyone would say I ran him into the ground. I thought—"
"You thought about optics," Charles said quietly, "instead of basketball."
Fran didn't respond.
Eliza folded her arms. "The league saw tonight, Fran. You can't undo that."
Charles stopped pacing and leaned forward, palms on the desk. "You benched the one man who had the Spiders guessing."
Fran closed his eyes.
"I know."
"I know? Is that all you can say Fran?," Charles added.
Fran just remain silent.
"You're suspended," Charles said flatly.
The words hit harder than any shout.
Fran blinked. "Suspended?"
"One week," Charles continued. "Effective immediately."
Fran's jaw tightened. His hands clenched at his sides.
"For what?" he demanded.
"For removing Elias Moreno in the most critical moments of the game," Charles replied.
"For ignoring everything the floor was telling you. And for not following my clear instructions of giving him enough time in the floor special during that momen," he added.
Fran let out a sharp breath, a bitter laugh escaping him. "So that's it? One bad decision and—"
"One bad decision?" Charles cut in, his voice rising. "You benched the man who was controlling the game. You benched leadership."
Fran's composure cracked.
"We cannot rely on one old shoes forever!" he snapped, emotion spilling out at last. "Basketball is about the future, Charles. Joe, my nephew Joe, has that potential. Real potential. Once he develops, once he grows—he can bring championships. Not just one. A dynasty. A grand slam!"
Eliza was surprise to know that Joe was Fran's nephew and turned slowly from the window.
Charles slammed his hand on the desk.
"Yes!" he shouted. "Joe has potential. And that's exactly why I brought Elias here."
Fran froze.
"To bridge the gap," Charles continued, voice controlled but burning. "To guide him. To show him how to think the game, not just play it. Experience. IQ. Leadership. Joe doesn't lose opportunity because Elias plays—he gains it."
Silence swallowed the room.
Fran looked away.
For a moment, it seemed like he understood.
But pride is a stubborn thing.
"That's dangerous," Fran said quietly. "Elias is fragile. His medical history—his knee—one injury and we're done. And you'll bleed money instead of earning it."
Charles stepped closer.
"It's my money," he said coldly. "Not yours."
Fran stiffened.
"It seems we're not on the same flow anymore, Coach Fran," Charles went on. "If you keep insisting on your path, then we part ways. But I'm giving you time. One week suspension. After that, you tell me—do you resign, or do you follow my direction?"
Fran's pride flared like a wounded flame.
"Why wait one week?" he said sharply. "I'll submit my resignation before the end of the day."
Charles studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"If that's your decision," he said, "then I respect it."
Fran turned and walked out.
The door closed.
This time, it sounded final.