Breakball arenas were special; no two were the same. Some looked like massive airplane hangars, others were sketchy basements with rickety bleachers, and then you had those outdoor cages where the wind slapped your sweat right off. You had to love the chaos.
Always five-on-five, playoffs at the end, big finals if you made it. That was the dream.
Tonight? Blacklist was up against the Skull Diggers. On paper, dead even, both squads stacked with decent players, but nobody famous enough to get their name on a sneaker.
For Nash, that meant one thing: free stat points. Time to flex, see what he could really pull off with eyes on him.
The team rolled up in a Frankenstein's monster of a bus, refitted just for Breakball teams. Fat leather seats, wide enough for big bodies, aka, Jaz, overhead racks bursting with shoes, towels, whatever junk they dragged along.
