The day after they toppled the Bullets, just past one in the afternoon, Ryan walked into the Roarers' practice facility.
No practice the day after a game—just film. He'd changed and was heading for the screening room when he caught the sound of a ball pounding the floor on the far court. Steady. Rhythmic. One bounce, then another.
He cut over to look.
Omar.
Alone under the far basket, shooting threes, his tank top soaked through and clinging to his back. Every release came with a tight, clipped exhale. Make, chase the ball down, back to the arc, shoot again. Mechanical. Stubborn.
