The Roarers' locker room.
Down ten to the Paladins—but the mood inside wasn't nearly as heavy as you'd think.
Kamara was parked on the bench, going off at full volume: "You see that play? The way I timed my close-out on Stith—didn't leave him a sliver of room to get it off!"
Only the Garbage-Time Big Four bobbed their heads along, playing hype man. The rest of them couldn't be bothered to answer, each off in his own world—drinking water, wiping sweat, stretching.
Ryan leaned against the lockers, spinning an empty bottle in his hand, a few scenes cycling behind his eyes: Herring, right in his face, rising into those two pull-up threes; and then LaVonte's chase-down, pinning it flat against the glass—the same scene as last game. That was LaVonte's signature, the one that struck fear across the whole league. He'd been way too careless.
Kamara was still running his mouth at the Big Four when Malik finally cut him off: "Quit bragging. We're still down ten."
