Noah's POV
We weren't supposed to win.
I mean—we team wanted to. Trained for it. Bled, ached, screamed for it. I wanted us to win and I'm glad we did. But we weren't supposed to. Not against them. Not against the Red, Red & Reds. We were clearly outmatched. They should have won.
But here we are, in a locker room full of bare chests, tangled towels, and the electricity of raw victory.
Steam fogs the mirrors. Someone's speaker blasts old club music. Sweat and triumph cling to the air like the musk of war gods. Someone starts howling along to the music and a chorus of 'Oh, shut up!'s fill the locker room. Elliot laughs.
Everyone's giddy and happy and my relief feels half-baked even though we now have two more wins to convince the board not to sell this team.
"I told you that last pitch looked weird!" Sven is yelling over the noise. "I knew he slowed it down on purpose!"
"Maybe he just sucks!" Mateo cackles, half-naked on a bench, nursing an ice pack.
