Crawford's eyes swept the bench and settled on Ryan—staring off at the far end of the floor, gaze somewhere miles away.
"Ryan. Focus. You're in. Lin, you're out."
Ryan pulled the towel from his neck, stood, and crossed to the coach in a few long strides.
Then Crawford turned to the whole huddle, voice low, every word clean and deliberate.
"Listen up. Doesn't matter how well anyone over there is playing, doesn't matter how hot they get—that's LaVonte's team. He's the one who makes it run. Everyone else is just a part turning around him."
He tapped the board.
"Next few minutes, barring surprises, LaVonte and Stith come off. Herring and Locke check back in. That's our window." His eyes moved across them, one face at a time. "LaVonte's on the bench—we take it. We claw these points back. Set 3."
Set 3 was their look for when LaVonte was off the floor. They'd run it plenty of times.
Ryan's eyes cut to the scoreboard. 37–44.
