The celebration rolled on.
Plates never stayed empty, trays of food kept coming, and glasses clinked—even if for the players, it was all soda and juice. The room pulsed with warmth, laughter, and the hum of too many voices in too small a space.
Steam rose from trays of roasted meat, the sharp tang of sauce cutting through the heavier scent of fries and cheese.
Somewhere, a soda hissed open, foam spilling down a can as someone laughed too hard to care. Boots tapped against the wooden floor in rhythm with the jukebox music, the entire restaurant alive with sound.
Then— tap, tap, tap.
A sharp thud against the mic echoed through the restaurant.
"Hello, hello, hello."
Heads turned. The chatter dimmed.
Up front, Coach Owen stood, mic in hand, grinning like he'd just pulled one over on the world.
"We hear you, Coach!" one of the parents called, earning chuckles from the crowd.
Owen gave a theatrical nod. "Good. Saves me from shouting."
