The Dust Dogs' locker room smelled like straight-up failure. It was that thick, heavy scent of sweat and defeat that just clings to everything. Nobody was saying a word. In fact, nobody even had the balls to look at each other.
72-0.
That fucking number was still hanging in the air, like a bad smell you just can't scrub off your skin.
The silence dragged on for a long time. A really long time. No one had the energy or the guts to be the first one to speak. Every single guy was staring at something—anything—else. One guy was blinking fast, staring at a random crack in the floor; another was just staring at his own shaking hands. They were all desperately trying to avoid looking at the reality of that score. That fucking humiliation was basically carved into the air in glowing letters right above their heads, mocking them.
Vargas was the one who finally snapped.
