Crawford sent Malik back in, giving Kamara his first breather of the night.
The veteran center cracked his knuckles as he jogged onto the court, his eyes locked on Derrick Langley—the man who'd humiliated him last game. Tonight, Malik swore silently, would be different.
He turned to Ryan, the other starter who'd been grinding non-stop, sweat gleaming under Iron Vault Arena's unforgiving lights. "You good to keep going?" Crawford asked, voice low.
Ryan's jersey clung to his back, drenched from the first-quarter onslaught, but his breathing was steady. The kid had lungs like a marathon runner.
Ryan nodded, wiping his brow. "No problem, Coach."
The game roared back to life, Iron City's neon pulse thumping through the stands.
The scent of popcorn and sweat mixed with the faint metallic tang of the arena's steel beams, a signature aroma of Iron Vault's gritty charm.
