The days that followed felt less like practice and more like a test of will.
From the first whistle in the morning to the last stretch before sunset, the Buffalo pushed themselves beyond what they thought their bodies could give.
The gym became their second skin—its smells, its sounds, its unforgiving honesty. Sweat soaked through shirts within minutes. Shoes screeched across the floor until the sound lost its sharpness and became a constant scream of effort.
Coach Ed wasted no time.
"Again," he would say, not shouting, not angry—just firm.
And they went again.
Defensive slides until legs trembled. Full-court presses until lungs burned. Offensive sets run over and over until timing became instinct rather than thought. When someone missed a rotation, the drill didn't stop. The mistake stayed with them, replayed until it was corrected.
Cramps came early.
Nemuel was the first to go down, hands grabbing at his calves during a defensive drill. His face twisted, teeth clenched, pride fighting pain. He tried to stand too soon.
"Sit," Elias told him, firm but calm. "It's not weakness. It's work catching up."
Nemuel nodded, embarrassed, but grateful.
By the third day, cramps weren't isolated incidents anymore—they were a shared experience.
Santino collapsed near the sideline after a fast-break drill, chest heaving, fingers curled as his legs locked up.
Victor finished a defensive set with his jaw clenched so tight his temples throbbed, refusing to show how badly his thighs screamed with every step.
Even Elias felt it.
At thirty eight, his body sent warnings sooner than the others. Tight calves. A dull ache behind the knee that never fully left. But he stayed on the floor longer than most, not because he had something to prove—but because he understood something they didn't yet.
This kind of pain was temporary.
Regret lasted longer.
Between drills, no one joked much anymore. Conversations were shorter, quieter. Everyone was saving breath—not just physically, but emotionally. Every player knew who waited for them at the end of this preparation.
The Komodo Dragons.
The tallest mountain.
Coach Ed balanced intensity with care. He watched closely, knowing when to push and when to pull back.
"Water," he'd say.
"Stretch."
"Listen to your body—but don't let it lie to you."
Film sessions followed court work. Eyes burned from staring at screens, minds overloaded with patterns and tendencies.
The Dragons' plays were dissected until everyone could see them with their eyes closed. Every player knew where the traps came from. Every shooter knew where the closeouts would arrive from.
Still, doubt crept in.
Late one night, as the gym lights dimmed and most of the team had gone home, Victor sat alone on the bench, towel draped over his head. Elias joined him without speaking.
"Think we're doing enough?" Victor asked quietly.
Elias took a deep breath. "Enough isn't the question."
Victor looked up. "Then what is?"
"Whether we'll show up brave," Elias said. "Prepared teams still lose. Brave teams don't disappear."
Victor nodded slowly.
On the fifth day, something changed.
The drills didn't get easier—but the hesitation did.
Passes snapped harder. Communication grew louder. Rotations sharpened. When one player stumbled, another filled the space without thinking. They weren't perfect—but they were connected.
They were becoming a team.
The final practice before the game ended without a whistle.
Coach Ed simply gathered them at center court.
"You've done the work," he said. "Now trust it."
No speeches. No dramatics.
Just truth.
As the sun dipped low and the day finally ended, the team didn't scatter immediately like they usually did. They sat on the floor. Some stretched. Some stared at nothing. Some laughed softly out of sheer exhaustion.
Then Eliza entered the gym.
The room quieted.
She didn't carry a clipboard. No phone. Just herself.
She looked at them—really looked. At the taped ankles. The ice packs. The fatigue carved into young faces and the quiet resolve etched into older ones.
She smiled.
"Why do you all look so serious?" she asked.
A few players exchanged glances, unsure how to respond.
"This isn't a funeral," Eliza continued gently. "It's basketball."
Some shoulders loosened.
"Just do your best," she said. "Follow what Coach Ed tells you. Don't pressure yourselves too much."
She paused, letting her words sink in.
"This is only a tune-up game."
A few eyebrows lifted.
"But," Eliza added, her tone sharpening just enough, "we are not going there to lose."
That got their attention.
"We are going there to surprise everybody," she said. "To show that this 'not-so-good' team can be giant killers."
Elias felt the words settle deep.
"Let's show those two teams who beat us," Eliza continued, "that we learned from them."
She looked around one last time.
"Rest well," she said. "Tomorrow, we climb."
As the team slowly stood and gathered their things, something felt different. The fear hadn't vanished—but it no longer ruled them.
They weren't walking toward the Komodo Dragons as victims.
They were walking toward them as challengers.
And for the first time, the mountain didn't look impossible.
It looked ready to be climbed.
On the other side of the city, beneath brighter lights and heavier expectations, the Komodo Dragons were finishing their own preparation.
Their training facility was larger, colder, more polished—banners hanging high on the walls like constant reminders of dominance. Championships. Finals appearances. Defensive awards. The Dragons didn't need motivation plastered on posters; their reputation did that for them.
Coach Williams stood at midcourt with his arms crossed, eyes sharp, posture calm. A former international player, his presence alone commanded silence. He didn't yell often. He didn't need to. His voice carried the weight of someone who had played on bigger stages, against stronger opponents, under harsher pressure.
The final whistle echoed through the gym.
"Good," Williams said. "That's enough for today."
Shoes squeaked to a stop. Players bent forward, hands on knees, breathing hard—but not broken. This was a team built for endurance. Conditioning wasn't something they feared; it was something they took pride in.
As they cooled down, laughter slowly replaced grunts. Towels were tossed. Water bottles squeezed empty. The mood was light—almost careless.
That's when the talk started.
"Hey, you guys heard?" one player said while wrapping ice around his knee. "We're playing the Buffalo tomorrow."
A snort came from across the locker room.
"The Buffalo?" another laughed. "The weakest team in the league?"
"Those guys?" someone added. "Didn't they finish near the bottom last season?"
Laughter grew louder, bouncing off the walls.
"So that's our tune-up?" a forward joked. "Man, tomorrow's going to be an easy night."
"They really think they can beat us?" another said, shaking his head. "That's not confidence—that's dreaming."
"Hahaha," someone laughed. "Better wake them up early. They're going to need it."
The room filled with amusement, with comfort, with the dangerous ease of a team that had spent too long on top. Winning had become familiar. Opponents had become predictable. Respect, assumed.
Coach Williams heard every word.
He had been gathering his notes, about to head to his office, when the laughter caught his attention. He didn't interrupt immediately. He listened. Measured. Observed.
Then he spoke.
"Hey."
The room quieted—not instantly, but steadily. One by one, heads turned. Laughter faded. Conversations died mid-sentence.
Williams stepped forward.
"Be serious," he said—not angry, not loud. Just firm.
The players straightened. Some exchanged looks, unsure what had triggered the shift.
"Yes," Williams continued, pacing slowly, "they might have been the weakest team last season."
He paused.
"But that was last season."
Silence settled in.
"We've been watching film," he went on. "And we've been hearing things."
A few players shifted uncomfortably.
"They almost beat the Spiders," Williams said. "And they nearly took down the Bulldogs."
That landed.
The Spiders—second-best team last year. The Bulldogs—third. Teams the Dragons themselves had battled hard.
Williams stopped walking.
"If they almost beat those two," he asked calmly, "do you still think they're the weakest?"
No one laughed this time.
The silence wasn't awkward—it was heavy. Thoughtful.
One player lowered his gaze. Another folded his arms, jaw tightening.
Williams continued, his voice steady but sharper now.
"Do you know what makes teams dangerous?" he asked. "Not talent alone. Not size. Not reputation."
He looked around the room.
"It's hunger."
The word lingered.
"They have nothing to lose," he said. "And teams like that don't play scared. They play desperate. They play free."
He tapped the whiteboard behind him.
"And desperate teams make mistakes costly."
A veteran guard nodded slowly. He had seen this before—young teams catching fire, giants stumbling because they underestimated the climb.
Williams softened his tone slightly.
"I'm not saying they're better than us," he said. "They're not. On paper."
A few players exhaled.
"But paper doesn't bleed," Williams added. "You do."
That got their attention fully.
"Tomorrow," he continued, "they're coming in with belief. They've been pushed. Tested. Beaten—but not broken."
He met their eyes one by one.
"And belief is dangerous."
The room felt different now. The ease had vanished. The comfort cracked.
"So go home," Williams said. "Rest. Hydrate. Clear your heads."
He picked up his clipboard.
"And tomorrow," he finished, "do your best. Because if you treat them like a joke—"
He paused at the door.
"—you'll become one."
Williams walked out without another word.
The door closed softly behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then one player broke the silence.
"Guess it won't be that easy," he muttered.
Another nodded. "They pushed the Spiders? I didn't know that."
"Me neither," someone said quietly.
The laughter didn't return.
As players packed their bags and left the locker room, the weight of the game settled in. The Buffalo were no longer faceless opponents. They were a question mark.
And question marks had a way of humbling champions.
Outside, the night air was cool. The city lights glimmered, unaware of the tension brewing between two teams standing on opposite ends of expectation.
One carried legacy.
The other carried hunger.
And by morning, both would collide on the same court—each believing something very different about how the night would end.