Iron Vault Arena — Broadcast Table
Mad Dog had his elbow jammed against the desk's edge, voice cracking at the top of its range:
"Oh my—! That cross-court laser from Locke threaded a needle from half a court away! Shot clock bleeding red—and Pridy P beats it, from deep, good!!"
He slammed a fist on the table; the headsets jumped.
"Rainbow off the top of the arc, nothing but net—put that one in a museum!"
Mason's voice came steadier, savoring it:
"The thing that gave me chills was that pass. Half the floor, an angle that nasty, threaded clean through. That's Locke for you—the man's been throwing those outlet passes his whole career."
He paused. The camera stayed on the floor — Stith, not bothering to get back on defense, palms spread toward the Roarers' number zero, mouth moving around something.
"Hold on—is he talking trash to Ryan?"
Mad Dog laughed. "Ha—that's just him. What he said? Your guess is as good as mine."
