Minutes bled away.
The match raged on.
The cold didn't just bite—it seeped deeper with every breath, sinking into muscle and bone. Steam rose from players' mouths like smoke from a battlefield, each exhale proof of their struggle.
The air itself seemed alive, vibrating with tension, every gust of winter wind cutting across the pitch like a knife, rattling flags, stinging cheeks, numbing fingers.
Boots crunched into the frosted turf with each stride, sending up faint sprays of icy pellets that glittered under the floodlights like shards of broken glass.
Crenshaw threw themselves forward with raw street-ball madness.
D-Ro juggled the ball off his shoulder mid-sprint, swagger dripping from every touch.
D-Lo followed with a no-look pass to empty space—except it wasn't empty.
Tyrese materialized like a phantom, latching onto it with reckless precision.
