Soft grunt. "Could've been better." "Yeah?" Quiet curiosity, followed by the soft tread of bare feet crossing the concrete floor. "How so?" "Let your boys get to me." Small shrug just before eyes meet eyes. "That's their job, man." Long silence broken by a quiet huff of air, and it's not quite clear whether it's disgust (with himself, with the game, with the situation, who knows) or acceptance. "Youngest to win." "Yeah, I know." No arrogance there. Just an assured pride in the achievement. "Doesn't make you the best." "No." Muttered creak of the bench as one takes a seat beside the other. "But the trophy…the ring…say that I was for this year." Another long silence, then a nod. "Guess you're here to collect then." "Fair's fair, right?" "Here?" Mild startlement tinged with annoyance. "Trying to weasel out?" "No, just…damn. Floor's hard." "True." Pause, then a small smile as long fingers scratch at a beard-covered chin. "Bed's softer." "Not one here." "True." Lapse in the conversation that lasts about thirty seconds, then eyes meet eyes again. "Hotel?" Hesitation. Just say it. "Yours or mine?" and the words are soft. "Mine." "Alright." Quick look around, then, "alright, let's go." Onto Sports Bet (Paid)
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