In their first game of the regular season, the Spectrums host the reigning champs, the Stanislaus Thrust. But, despite all the work head coach Jackson Price did to rebuild his team, they still suffered a blowout at the hands of the Thrust.

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The game went about as expected, the commentators were already saying on various post-game shows. About as expected. Those three words caused Jackson Price (Fisher, Head Coach) more anger than the loss itself.

Yes, the night had gone well overall. Prism Palace had been packed to the gills by the military crowd from San Diego that the team had been trying so desperately to attract, thanks to a half-price promotion for active and retired servicemembers. The presentation of the anthems and flags of the four services went off without a hitch, and the USMC Silent Drill Platoon had the entire audience on their feet with a standing ovation at halftime. Even Price’s brother, Captain Thomas Price, had been able to be there, in his full Army dress uniform, but the game… the game just failed to show up.

Losing to the Thrust, Price could understand. The Thrust had just won the championship, and they had players any other GM would kill for. On that subject, Price wasn’t sure that Foo Foo hadn’t possibly done that, in the first place; the woman seemed scarier than OMEN, somehow. But to lose by twenty-three points in your opening game of the season, with a team bristling with talent, at home in front of your fans, that hurt.

But the saddest truth of all was that Price was coming to the realization that the team he had just re-built was not as good as he had imagined it would be. Again he had too many rookies. Again there were personality clashes, or players who had been standouts because they were better at stealing the spotlight rather than making plays. Somewhere along the line, things had gone terribly wrong, and now Price was stuck with most of them for at least the next two seasons, and he didn’t yet know how to work another set of Bad News Bears into shape. Doing that the previous year had pushed his stress level up so high that he’d nearly died from a combination of painkillers and blood pressure medicine. Thinking of the latter, the tall fisher paused to rattle a little red pill out of its case and wash it down with a swig of water from the drinking fountain. He should have taken it an hour ago, but was rather distracted at the time.

Still, those three words came back to him over and over again. About as expected. The beauty of modern technology was that he could watch television on his oPhone, but with such advances came the more rapid realization of failure, and Price clicked the phone off before pushing through the doors to the locker room.

There waited his team. Assistant coach Randall Yoster (Border Collie) had reminded them to remain in the main area of the males’ locker room for a meeting as they had in the preseason, and those who had experiences Price’s wrath were the ones sitting, avoiding their coach’s gaze. But the others, well, they had no idea what to expect. Price knew that stories of his shouting and rants had spread amongst the other teams, and some players had stated that they would never want to play for him, but Price didn’t care. He was a former champion, one who had tasted the gold of the biggest wins three times over, and nearly reached it twice more before injury ended his career. The fisher still hungered for a win, and whether this team thought they could do it or not, he would make it happen.

“Hey, Coach,” the voice of Li Ho Fook (Red Panda, G) broke the silence as he stood, jersey untucked.
“Can it, Fook,” Price growled, and the rest of the room knew they were in for it. Removing his trademark yellow hat and blue jacket, Price pulled up a tall stool to lean back on in order to take pressure off of his leg. “Everyone, I’d like to let you know how the nightly news and most of the sports programs have described how we played, tonight. They said the game went ‘about as expected.’ I’m going to stop and let that sink in for a bit here.”

Ears began to droop and tails lost their idle flicks as the realization struck the team. Price could see its effect, but was not content to just leave it at that. Loosening his tie, he then began to roll back his sleeves – a move veteran Price players knew to be the biggest warning sign that they were in for the worst. “About as expected, and we lost by twenty-three points, at home, coming off of a very hot preseason. That means that everyone thinks we suck, and we just confirmed their suspicions out there.”

“But, Coach, we were playing the Thrust, they won the championship!” Milton Dianna (Mink, F) said.

“And we were blown out by twenty-three points on our own court, with a stronger team than we had last season, and a f*ckton more practice playing with each other!” Price snarled back. The rookies and new recruits recoiled at the explosion, but Price was just getting started.

“We know this team! Yoster and I wrote specific plays for this team! They’re our d*mn direct rival! So what I saw out there tonight was a disgrace to you, to this team’s name, and a f*cking huge disgrace to all the servicemembers we pulled into the audience, tonight! You think they’re going to want to make the two-hour trip up from their San Diego bases to see you get demolished again when their tickets are full price? I don’t f*cking think so! Tonight was supposed to lauch you lot back onto the stage, and impress men and women who work their a**es off for this country while you were at it, but instead you all went out there and played g*dd*mn college ball!”

“So now you’re gonna tell us just what we did wrong, right?” Omar Pink (Saluki, SF) said, unfazed by Price’s anger.

Price looked directly at his team captain and replied, “No. Not this time. I want you all to figure it out on your own, because it doesn’t seem to do a d*mn thing when I’ve been pointing it out in practice.”

“And where the f*ck is the coaching in this, then, if’n y’don’t mind my asking, Coach?” Gwyneth Feyne (Red Squirrel, G) asked in her brash Irish accent, standing up.

“Excuse me, Feyne?” Price asked.

“Well, last season you came down on us like a ton of bricks after every game we lost; I dinnae think you’d go soft on us after a night like this,” she answered. The squirrel’s tone – much like everything about her – was defiant, and the eyes of the team darted back and forth between the diminutive guard and their massive, 6’10” coach.

“You really want that?” Price challenged her.

“If’n I faced a better opponent and lost, I can take that,” Feyne replied. “But if I had a good shot at winning and still went down, I’d expect my coach to tell me just where I f*cked up, sir.”

Price paused. He knew Gwyneth could be a spitfire, but she’d never challenged him so directly, before. Looking back to the team, he asked, “And what about the rest of you? You really want to hear it?”

“Just get it out, Coach,” Lance Cheval (Stallion, C) said, feeling confident in his own performance.

“All right, if you want it, you got it,” Price nodded. “I’ll get to you individually in a moment, but let’s start by setting the scene for this disaster movie, first.

“I re-built this team into what I thought would be a strong, cohesive unit of great talent and limitless drive. In the preseason we went nearly undefeated, and our only loss was on the road. We just beat Spokane, who has to have one of the most terrifying lineups I’ve seen since I was on the Mayors, and we beat them here, with this same lineup. But you go out there and play against a Thrust who’ve been crippled by Hopper’s huge salary, and you let them walk all over you! Yeah, they are the current champs, but that is NOT the team they were last season, and you’re all a f*cking load better than what I started with last season, too! I’m not just disappointed in how you all played, tonight, I’m f*cking embarrassed!

“You want to know what you bungled? Okay, let’s do it. Let’s start at the top of the lineup and work our way to the bottom. Roark (Karre Roark, Coyote, PG), you’re up first. Where the f*ck were you? Seriously, I want to know where you disappeared to in that first quarter, because you sure as hell weren’t leading this mess, and you weren’t doing a d*mn thing to stop Catcher, either. You let him walk all over you, and your brief, apologetic return in the fourth was too little, too late. I could have bought a bigger name than you, Roark, but I didn’t because I trusted your skill. You betrayed that trust tonight by doing f*ck-all on that court.

“Hunter (N’duk Hunter, Mongoose, SG), why the f*ck didn’t I get someone to put you behind? Hell, if there’s anyone in this league who should know Hopper’s game the best, it’s you. He sold you to me as his f*cking successful project. You’ve probably put in more hours against him one-on-one than any of us ever will, but tonight he stomped your a**! You did nothing, absolutely NOTHING to begin to stop him in the first quarter, and you’re the d*mn reason we started off so far behind! I thought you told me you’d been practicing over the summer. I thought you were working with the trainers. Well, whatever the f*ck it was you were doing, it’s made you worse than you were last season. Snap the f*ck out of it and start playing like you did last season, or so help me, your California days are numbered!”

“He’s the best point guard in the league!” Hunter shouted back, though he remained on his seat. “Yeah, I played against him at his place. Yeah, he took me in as a project, but that means he’s had time to learn me, too, or did you not think about that?”

“All I’m thinking right now is that you’d better shape up, Hunter,” Price sneered, then moved on.

“Omar Pink, that was the worst performance I’ve seen you put in since last season. When Roark fell asleep on the job, you didn’t even begin to pick up his slack. Hell, I almost wondered if you should have retired until you came back in the third, there. Pick it up, Slim, I know the injury’s still got you slowed down a bit, but I need you keeping this rabble in line.

“And speaking of rabble, what the f*ck do you call what you did tonight, Toby (Papanastasopoulos, Skunk, F)? You started off strong, great energy, and then with each quarter you just gave up. What’s the matter? You miss playing second fiddle behind Wayans? Only actually have enough energy for a quarter and a half? Well, guess what, stinky, today’s your lucky day, because you’re going right back to the bench against Kansas City, because DeBose (Dayron DeBose, Dingo, F) schooled your striped a** out there, tonight. DeBose, good work, no complaints. You’re starting, next game”

Toby Papanastasopolous, better known as Papa Nasty, bolted up from his seat, face set in an angry sneer. “You can’t do that, Coach! My contract says guaranteed starting position!”

Price did not appear swayed, and he calmly replied, “That was the first offer. You signed a different one. Read your fine print; you should have plenty of time to do it from on the bench. Moving on.

“Lance Cheval (Stallion, C), you’ve had all summer to pose for cameras and worry about being in the best lighting. But now that the season’s started, it’s time to do one thing, and one thing only: play mother*cking basketball! I don’t have room for divas on my team, I only have room for winners, so if you’re more concerned with how shiny your mane is than you are about pulling down boards and blocking shots, well, go talk to Sutters (Crosby Sutters, Genet, F/C) about the best places to go and get pretty, because it is NOT on my f*cking court!

“In fact, come to think of it, all of you starters just gave this game away, and the bench worked their a**es off to try and recover from the mess you made. Well, some of the bench, at least. Fook, how the hell you just dogged the preseason so hard, then came out in spades against the Thrust, I’ll never know, but d*mn it, keep it up. Forget the jumpers, though, you got blocked almost every time. Keep those assists up, and d*mn fine job on those three steals. Keep playing like that and I’ll have to see how you might fare at starting, some time.

“Cross (Vishnu Cross, Grey Tuxedo Cat, G), you didn’t do as well as Fook. Hell, you didn’t even do as well as Hunter, and that’s saying something, tonight. Your timing was off, no aggression, and you weren’t watching the floor for open lanes. Maybe it was just a bad night, but I need you to focus, and I need you watching Hunter when he plays so you don’t repeat his mistakes when I send you in, again.

“Milton, I know I’ve had you in as SF for a while, and you got used to it, so I’m not going to be too harsh. You tried, but you were rusty. Work with the trainers, put in some extra hours in practice, and I know you’ll be fine. But you’re going to sit out this next game until you can get back in form. No offense, but I know you’re better than this.”

Milton Dianna nodded, having already realized his own mistakes, and Price moved on to the bench center, Jack Hinks (Landseer Dog).

“Hinks, much like DeBose, you kicked a** out there, and I’ve got no complaints with what you did to try to save this game. Proctor (Roxanne Proctor, Fossa, G), good effort, too. You’ll be playing bench behind Hunter on Sunday to help bail us out in case he decides to go on a suck spree, again. And Feyne, if you could just channel the defiance you’ve got against me to the other team, you’d actually be able to do something. But you didn’t, tonight, and I’m dearly hoping you’ll bring some of your fire to Kansas City.

“There, have I missed anyone? No? Good. Get showered and dressed and be ready for the press conference. If you’ll excuse me, I have some generals to go apologize to for your disaster, tonight,” Price concluded. He didn’t bother to pick up his hat and coat, instead just turning and heading out of the locker room, leaving the team to let his words sink in.

Glad not to be the only female on the team, this season, Gwyneth pulled Roxanne along to the females’ locker room, letting the boys change in private.

By the time Price came back for his hat and coat, both locker rooms were already empty, and nearly half the team had found their way over to Hunter’s place, as it was only fifteen minutes away, and the mongoose didn’t seem to mind footing the bill for the beer.

Outside of the simple, unassuming duplex condo in the suburbs was parked Roark’s Honda Accord, Fook’s Mercedes S65 AMG, DeBose’s classic Malibu coupe, Crosby’s Vauxhall VXR8, Daius Aurelias’s (Lion, F/C) Ferrari 430 Scuderia, while Gwyneth’s Ducati motorcycle sat parked in the garage next to Hunter’s Land Rover Defender 90, which had been a gift from Omar Pink the season before. The neighbors had long since stopped complaining, as Hunter made sure to keep the music down, and his place had become the de facto team hangout after a loss since late in the last season.

Inside, Sutters and Aurelias took each other on in a game of Gran Furismo while Hunter poured everyone another round. It was the first time at his place for about half of them, but after being railed on by Price, all of them welcomed a change of scenery and each other’s company.

“Thanks, yo,” Fook nodded as he took a pint glass. “Man, is Coach always that bad? He tore you up!”

“Oh, that’s Price, all right,” Gwyneth replied, pouring herself a pint of stout from the second tap. “He’s all smiles when you win, but if’n you lose, he’ll make sure you hear about it.”

“And I thought I was gonna be in for some heavy stuff on the Rapids,” DeBose chuckled, already halfway through his first pint. “Thanks for having us over, Duke.”

N’duk just smiled and shrugged. “Don’t mention it. It’s better than getting harassed by reporters at a bar or something, and drinks are cheaper, too. Just make sure you don’t try and drive off if you’ve had too many.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Cheers, mate,” DeBose replied.

For the better part of the evening, the motley crew of teammates drank, talked, took turns playing games or just tried to forget about the night’s performance. For those few hours, they weren’t teammates anymore, or anything other than just friends trying to have a good time, and Hunter didn’t feel alone. There were minor clashes of ego as Fook and Aurelias each wanted the spotlight for themselves, but in the end it was actually Roark who stole the show with a killer rendition of “Livin’ On A Prayer” in a round of Rock Band. After two drinks, Crosby spoke openly about his summer contract with Formula One, and how it had all gone so terribly wrong, and even Gwyneth opened up about her short-lived boxing career. Aurelias spoke fondly of Rome, and of his old team while Roark smiled and said how good their current one could be if they all worked together, and the normally self-centered Fook agreed. By the end of the night, each of them had opened up a little bit – all but Hunter, though no one seemed to notice as he was busy acting as host.

One by one they left, each having to prove that they were well enough to drive, and Aurelias having to call a cab as he’d had a few too many to drink.

“Thanks again, Duke,” DeBose called on his way out the door. “Almost makes me look forward to our next loss.”

“Look forward to a win, Dayron,” N’duk laughed as the dingo headed out, leaving him alone with Gwyneth Feyne, who’d hit the stout harder than any of them, that night.

“Well, looks like I oughta be heading out, too,” Gwyn said.

Hunter was quick to put his paw over her keys. “Oh no you don’t. I’m calling you a cab,” the mongoose was quick to cut her off.

“Like f*ck you are,” Gwyn slurred. “I’ll have you know I’ve drank double that and made it home just fine, b’fore.”

“Don’t care,” N’duk replied, his tone firm. “You’re not driving home, tonight.”

The red squirrel, even drunk as she was, could recognize that she wasn’t going to win that battle, and with a sigh she leaned back against the couch. “Well… what if I don’t want to go home, tonight?”

The question caught N’duk off-guard, and he nearly dropped his phone. But no cab came, that night, and at the next morning’s practice, Gwyneth arrived in the same clothes she’d been wearing the night before.