News about the Buffalo's games got the League-Wide Attention.
The league took notice.
Executives watched the tape differently now. Not asking how old Elias was—but how effective.
"He doesn't rush."
"He doesn't panic."
"He bends defenses without forcing shots."
Commentators began asking the question out loud:
What if the Buffalo build around him—just long enough?
And for the first time in years, the league wasn't asking if he belonged.
They were asking how much longer they had ignored him.
The clips of Elias' steals, assists, and blocks flooded social media. Analysts paused the tape, rewinding again and again.
"Look at his positioning," one said.
"Watch how he anticipates the pass."
"This isn't luck. This is IQ."
Former players chimed in.
"At thirty eight, he's seeing the game two steps ahead."
"You don't bench that guy."
Then another news broke within hours.
"Buffalo Coach Fran Suspended, with a rumor that he did Resign on the Same Day?"
"Internal Conflict After Elias Moreno Benching"
"Veteran Star Benched—Coach Out"
Analysts debated it endlessly.
Some sided with Fran. Youth. Development. Long-term vision.
Others were ruthless.
"You don't bench control."
"You don't bench the floor general."
"You don't bench a man who has the game in his hands."
And Elias Moreno's name was everywhere.
Not as a liability.
As a solution.
In the Buffalo locker room the next morning, the atmosphere was different.
Elias didn't read the headlines.
He just showed up early.
The ball still bounced true.
The gym is quieter—but steadier. The chaos had settled into something resembling resolve.
Joe sat beside Elias, watching film.
"Pause it," Elias said, pointing at the screen. "Right there. See how the help defender leans? That's when you attack. Not before."
Joe nodded slowly. "I see it now."
"That's growth," Elias said. "It doesn't come from force. It comes from patience."
Joe exhaled. "I wanted to win it myself."
Elias smiled faintly. "Everyone does. That's why teams exist."
Then Joe first heard it by accident.
He was walking down the hallway outside the training facility, sweat still clinging to his neck after his training with Elias, his towel draped over one shoulder.
Practice had ended early, the kind of ending that left questions hanging in the air instead of answers.
As he slowed near the equipment room, two facility personnel stood near the doorway, voices low but careless.
"…can't believe he resigned like that."
"Coach Fran? Yeah. Packed his things already."
Joe stopped walking.
His chest tightened, like someone had pressed a fist straight into it.
"You sure?" the other man asked.
"I saw it myself. Office door's open. Boxes everywhere."
Joe didn't wait to hear more.
The towel slipped from his shoulder and fell to the floor. He didn't notice. His feet moved before his thoughts caught up, carrying him down the hall, past familiar walls now feeling strangely foreign. Every step felt heavier than the last.
No. That can't be right.
Coach Fran wasn't just his coach.
He was blood.
Joe turned the corner toward the administrative wing, his heart pounding harder with every step.
Memories flooded him without warning—late-night workouts, shouted corrections, quiet encouragements that only family knew how to give.
You're not ready yet, but you will be. Trust the work. I won't lie to you, even if it hurts.
Fran's office door was open.
Joe slowed.
Inside, boxes sat half-filled on the floor. Books were stacked neatly. Framed photos leaned against the wall instead of hanging where they always had.
The room looked like it had already begun forgetting its owner.
Coach Fran stood by his desk, folding a jacket with deliberate care.
Joe swallowed.
"So," he said, his voice tighter than he meant it to be, "the news I heard… it's true?"
Fran looked up.
For a moment, the coach disappeared—and Joe saw only his uncle. Older. Tired. Calm in a way that hurt to look at.
Fran smiled softly. "You shouldn't listen to hallway talk."
"But it is true," Joe pressed.
Fran didn't answer right away. He placed the jacket into a box, smoothing it once before letting go.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It's true."
Joe stepped fully into the room. "But why, Uncle?"
Fran leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. His eyes moved around the office one last time, taking it all in—not with regret, but with acceptance.
"You can stay here if you want," Fran said gently. "They have good plans for you. Real plans."
Joe shook his head. "That's not what I asked."
Fran met his eyes. "For me," he continued, "I think I'll only become a hindrance—to the Buffalo, and to your future."
Joe felt something break open inside his chest.
"You're not a hindrance," he said immediately. "You're the reason I'm here."
Fran smiled again, but this time there was sadness behind it. "Sometimes the people who get you here aren't the ones meant to stay."
Joe's hands curled into fists. His voice shook as he spoke. "I'll talk to them. I'll fix this."
Fran shook his head slowly. "Don't."
"If you're out," Joe said, words tumbling out now, raw and unfiltered, "then I'm out too. I won't trust a team—but I trust blood."
Fran's smile softened, almost proud. He walked over and placed a hand on Joe's shoulder, squeezing once.
"You always had a big heart," he said. "Just don't let it blind you."
Joe pulled away.
He turned and walked out before his uncle could say anything else.
Charles' office door was closed, but Eliza stood just outside, reviewing something on her tablet. She looked up when she saw Joe approaching, his face flushed, eyes burning with purpose.
"Joe," she said calmly. "What's going on?"
"I need to talk to him," Joe said. "Now."
Eliza studied him for a moment, then nodded and opened the door. "Come in."
Charles sat behind his desk, posture relaxed but eyes alert. When he saw Joe, he leaned back slightly.
"Sit down," Charles said.
Joe didn't.
"I heard Coach Fran resigned," Joe said. "Is that true?"
Charles glanced at Eliza, then back at Joe. "Yes."
"Why?"
Eliza stepped in before Charles could answer. "We gave him a chance to reconsider. A full week. He chose otherwise."
Joe's chest rose and fell sharply. "You pushed him out."
Charles shook his head. "No. I gave him a choice."
Joe laughed bitterly. "That's the same thing."
Charles gestured toward the chair again. "Sit. And talk. I'll listen."
Joe hesitated, then finally sat, gripping the edge of the chair like it was the only thing holding him upright.
Charles folded his hands. "Fran is your uncle. I understand that. But this decision wasn't personal."
"It feels personal," Joe snapped. "He believed in me when no one else did."
"And I still do," Charles replied evenly. "But belief doesn't mean agreement."
Joe clenched his jaw. "If you kick him out, I'm out too."
The words hung in the air, heavy and reckless.
Charles stared at him for a moment… then laughed.
Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just honestly.
"Kid," Charles said, shaking his head, "you haven't proven anything yet."
Joe stiffened.
"You have potential," Charles continued. "A lot of it. But potential doesn't give you leverage. Not yet."
Joe stood abruptly. "So that's it?"
Charles leaned forward. "We accepted you with open doors. And by any means, that door is still open—if you want to walk out."
Eliza watched Joe closely, her voice gentle but firm. "No one is forcing you to stay."
Joe's throat tightened. He looked down at his hands, then back up.
"You're choosing him over family," Joe said quietly.
Charles didn't flinch. "I'm choosing the team."
Joe turned toward the door, pausing only for a second.
"You're wrong," he said. "Both of you."
He walked out.
Behind him, Charles exhaled slowly.
"That kid's heart will either make him great," Charles said, "or break him."
Eliza nodded. "Or both.
And somewhere down the hall, Coach Fran closed the lid of the last box—unaware that the hardest choice was no longer his alone.
Coach Fran had already cleared most of his things when he stepped out of the Buffalo's gym for the last time.
The evening air felt heavier than it should have.
The familiar sounds of bouncing balls and shouted drills were gone, replaced by the quiet hum of traffic and the soft echo of his own footsteps on concrete.
He carried a single box under his arm—years of work reduced to folders, a jacket, and a few photographs.
He told himself not to look back.
The doors behind him were still open when a voice cut through the silence.
"Uncle."
Fran stopped.
He didn't turn right away. He already knew who it was. The weight in his chest had shifted the moment he heard that voice—familiar, stubborn, filled with the same fire he'd once carried himself.
Slowly, Fran turned.
Joe stood a few steps behind him, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, another bag in his hand. His jersey was gone. So was the team logo from his jacket. He looked younger without it—and somehow older too.
Fran's eyes moved from the bags to Joe's face.
"You didn't have to do this," Fran said quietly.
Joe stepped forward. "I know."
Fran exhaled, a tired smile forming. "There are many teams out there who know your worth."
Joe shook his head. "Our worth, Uncle. Our worth."
Fran closed his eyes for a moment.
That was when he knew—truly knew—that there was nothing left to say that could change what had already been decided.
Joe had made his choice, not out of anger, not out of pride, but out of loyalty. And loyalty, Fran knew too well, was both a strength and a curse.
"You're making it harder for yourself," Fran said softly.
Joe met his eyes. "You taught me not to take the easy road."
Fran laughed under his breath, a sound edged with sadness. "I also taught you patience."
"And I learned it," Joe replied. "But I also learned when to walk away."
Fran shifted the box in his arms. "You don't owe me this."
Joe stepped closer. "I owe you everything."
The words landed heavier than any argument.
Fran reached out and placed a hand on Joe's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Then promise me one thing."
Joe nodded immediately. "Anything."
"Don't let this moment define you," Fran said. "Let it sharpen you."
Joe swallowed. "Only if you promise the same."
Fran smiled fully now—proud, aching, unbroken. "Deal."
They stood there for a moment longer, two figures under the dim lights of the gym entrance, bound not by contracts or systems, but by blood and belief.
Then, almost on cue, phones began to buzz.
Joe's phone vibrated first. He glanced down, then frowned. Fran's followed seconds later. When Fran checked the screen, his jaw tightened slightly.
The news had already broken.
BREAKING: Buffalo Head Coach Fran Resigns Effective Immediately.
Sources confirm: Ace prospect Joe Cruz has also parted ways with the team.
Joe looked up. "That was fast."
Fran nodded. "It always is."
Another alert followed.
Questions now loom over Buffalo organization: Who replaces Coach Fran? What's next after the departure of Joe Cruz?
Fran turned his phone face down.
"Let them ask," he said. "We've got our own road now."
Joe adjusted the strap of his bag. "Where do we go?"
Fran looked back at the gym one last time—the place where dreams had collided with reality, where pride had cost more than anyone expected.
"Forward," Fran said. "That's the only direction that ever mattered."
They walked away together, side by side, disappearing into the night as the league buzzed with uncertainty.
Behind them, the Buffalo were left with questions.
Who would lead them now?
And who would fill the space left behind by a future star who chose loyalty over security?
The answers, like the echoes inside the empty gym, had yet to arrive.