The door of the Falcons' locker room closed with a loud bang, finally cutting off the noise of the crowd from the Sector Central arena. Once the door was closed, the silence inside felt so thick it was almost hard to breathe.
Blacklist 64 - 40 Falcons.
They were down by twenty four points. It was a total disaster, a historic blowout, and it had only taken twenty minutes of playing for things to get this bad.
In the far corner of the bench, Griffin sat with his head in his hands. He was holding on so tight his entire body trembled. The soreness in his muscles was nothing compared to what was going on in his head; he felt utterly broken.
All he could see was Nash at the buzzer, leaping up with such ease to put a stop to his best dunk and let the ball hit the floor as if it were an insect. The memory was burned into him.
