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... Not ordered. Not rehearsed. Players moved in small circles toward Jake, some kneeling, others crouched, heads bowed against the cold. Steam curled from their mouths, and breath fogged the air like smoke from something still burning.
Silva leaned forward on his thighs, hair stuck to his forehead. Roney sat in silence, his bottle crushed halfway in his grip. Lowe sat cross-legged, staring straight ahead as if still scanning passing lanes. Chapman bounced once but didn’t speak. Walsh stood ...
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