The dressing room of the Coastal Arena felt like the inside of a drum that had been beaten for ninety minutes straight. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, deep-heat rub, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
Players were slumped on the wooden benches, their chests still heaving, socks rolled down to their ankles. Some were staring at the ceiling with wide, disbelieving eyes. Others were leaning forward, heads in hands, simply trying to process the fact that they had won.
Eric Maddox stood by the door, watching them. In his previous life, he had seen many dressing rooms after big wins. He had seen the champagne showers and the wild singing. But this was different. This was the quiet, heavy realization of a group of boys who had just realized they were men.
He waited for the noise of the boots clattering on the floor to stop and the heavy breathing to settle.
"Look at yourselves," Maddox said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a knife.
