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::drip::
The gear is stowed, the lights mostly out, the room empty aside from one man still sitting at his stall. The only sound is that of a tap dripping.
::drip::
Kronside still sits there, eyes closed, his jersey still on and a ball gripped in his right hand.
::drip::
His fingers move back and forth on it, from two seam fastball to circle change. Back to the fastball then into a curve.
::drip::
Finally it's gripped in the white knuckled fashion of what can only be described as a choke hold.
::drip::
The whiteness spreads from the knuckles down the fingers until his hand starts shaking either in fury or just from the tension.
::drip::
His eyes snap open, staring directly at the tap maybe 30 feet away. Another drop forms, slowly building, and as Jace's entire arm begins to tremble from the force of his grip, it falls.
::drip::
Like an explosion he launches himself from his seat, his arm reared back in an arc of expelled rage. The ball whistles through the air as his body contorts, nearly sending him to the ground. There is a shattering crescendo as Kronside stands, his back to the offending sink.
The sound of his cleats retreating down the tunnel and that of broken glass coming to rest is only disturbed by one thing.
::drip::
Two inches outside again.
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