After the game, after the interviews, after the long ride back to their own gym, the Buffalo finally had time to breathe.
They showered.
Changed clothes.
Some still shaking from adrenaline, some already exhausted to the bone.
Then the team bus rolled again, this time not toward another battle, but toward a small restaurant just a few minutes away from the gym — a place that had seen them eat cheap meals after losses, silent and broken, wondering if things would ever change.
Tonight, the same doors opened to laughter.
Every single person was there.
Players.
Coaches.
Medical staff.
Utility men who wiped sweat off the floor and fixed broken nets.
Even the bus driver stayed.
Because this win did not belong to only five men on the court.
It belonged to everyone who believed when belief was hard.
When they entered, applause suddenly filled the room.
Not from strangers.
But from each other.
Some players clapped for the utilities.
The utilities clapped back, eyes shining, embarrassed but proud.
Eliza stood near the front, smiling wide, welcoming everyone like a mother welcoming her children home.
"Sit, sit, everyone," she said warmly. "Tonight, nobody rushes. Tonight, we enjoy this together."
Food began arriving — simple food, not fancy, but hot, generous, and full of comfort.
For a few minutes, no one even talked about basketball.
They just ate.
Because winning makes you hungry in a different way.
Not for points.
But for proof that the pain was worth it.
Then Team Owner Charles slowly stood up.
The room gradually quieted.
This was a man who had taken more criticism than praise for sticking with this team.
A man who had watched his players get mocked, written off, ignored.
His voice was calm, but thick with emotion.
"Tonight," he began, "we celebrate the fruit of our hard work."
He paused, looking around the room.
"I know how many sacrifices were made. I know how many of you trained when nobody was watching. How many of you played through pain. How many doubted yourselves but still showed up."
Some players lowered their heads.
They remembered.
He continued.
"Tonight, those sacrifices paid off."
His voice rose slightly.
"We didn't just win. We won big. We defeated an undefeated Komodo Dragons team. Not by luck. Not by miracle. But by preparation. By discipline. By heart."
The room erupted in applause.
Tony stood and clapped so hard his palms turned red.
Victor shouted, "That's right!"
Even the quiet ones smiled, eyes burning with pride.
Charles raised his hand again.
"Tonight, we showed the league that the Buffalo deserve respect."
That word — respect — landed heavy.
Because that was what they had been chasing all along.
Not fame.
Not headlines.
Just respect.
Then his tone softened.
"But I want everyone to understand something."
The room grew quiet again.
"After tonight, teams will no longer take us lightly. They will prepare harder for us. They will study us. They will target us."
He pointed gently toward the players.
"So we cannot be satisfied. We cannot relax. We must prepare even harder than they do."
Then he smiled.
"But tonight…"
he raised his glass,
"…we celebrate what we have earned."
Everyone raised their drinks.
"To Buffalo!" someone shouted.
"To family!" another added.
"To respect!" Victor yelled.
Glasses clinked.
Laughter followed.
Some players leaned back in their chairs, finally letting the tension leave their bodies.
Tony leaned toward Elias.
"Man… remember when we couldn't even get a scrimmage win last season?"
Elias smiled quietly.
"Yeah. And now people are afraid to guard you."
Tony laughed.
"Afraid? They should be. I'm dangerous when I'm confident."
Across the table, John Paul sat quietly, staring at his plate.
Santino noticed.
"Hey. You good?"
John Paul nodded slowly.
"Yeah. I just… I kept thinking I was gonna mess up. And then that corner three went in, and suddenly… I felt like I belonged."
Santino slapped his shoulder.
"You BEEN belonging, bro."
Nearby, two utilities were whispering.
"We used to clean up after losses," one said softly.
"Tonight feels different."
The other nodded.
"Tonight feels like hope."
Coach Ed watched everything.
The laughter.
The tired smiles.
The pride mixed with relief.
This was what he coached for.
Not wins.
But belief.
Finally, he stood and raised his voice.
"I want to say something too."
The players looked up.
"You guys trusted the system when it was hard. You trusted each other when things didn't look good. That's what won tonight's game."
He looked straight at Elias.
"And leadership doesn't always mean scoring. Sometimes it means calming everyone down when the storm hits."
Elias lowered his head slightly.
Coach Ed then looked at the entire team.
"But don't get comfortable. Great teams don't celebrate long. They grow."
He smiled.
"So enjoy tonight. Tomorrow… we work again."
A groan followed, then laughter.
"Coach, can we at least digest first?" Tony joked.
Coach Ed laughed.
"Fine. Tonight you eat. Tomorrow you suffer."
More laughter.
More food.
More stories from the game.
More moments of people finally believing that they were not just survivors anymore…
They were competitors.
They were dangerous.
This night, the Buffalo didn't just celebrate a win.
They celebrated:
The end of being ignored
The end of being laughed at
The end of being called "the weakest team"
They didn't know what the next games would bring.
They didn't know that pressure would soon follow them everywhere.
But for one night…
They allowed themselves to feel proud.
To feel seen.
To feel like all the pain had finally spoken back to the world and said:
We are here.
And we are not going away.
But across the City — A Different Kind of Night
While Buffalo celebrated, the Komodo Dragons were quiet.
Phones buzzing with criticism.
Highlights replaying Elias' shots over and over.
George sat on his bed staring at the ceiling.
Jimmy replayed the block in his head again and again.
Coach Williams sat alone with game film paused on the screen.
They were not angry at Buffalo.
They were angry at themselves.
And that kind of anger doesn't fade.
It sharpens.