The bench felt more like a wake than a sideline.
The Roarers' starting five sat slumped on the chairs, towels draped over their heads, sweat dripping off their jaws. Not one dared lift their gaze.
Coach Crawford slammed his clipboard onto the seat with a crack.
"What the hell was that out there?" His voice wasn't loud—but every word sliced through the silence like a blade. "You turned the fourth quarter into straight-up garbage time."
No one answered. The quiet deepened, thick and suffocating.
"We're waving the white flag. Bench unit—get ready."
Darius' head snapped up. "Give us a few more minutes."
Crawford's laugh was ice. "Lumina pulled their starters with three left in the third. You wanna embarrass yourselves? Fine. But I won't let you embarrass my franchise."
Darius' knuckles bleached white. "I'm just saying we don't need to set the ABA's all-time loss record tonight."
Kamara let out a dry laugh. 'We already own that one. Two years ago. Paladins game. Sixty-point massacre."
"That was before me!" Darius snapped. "I wasn't a Roarer back then. I don't want my name in the damn record books as part of that legacy."
"Shut your mouth."
Crawford's bark cut through the air. Silence fell again, deeper this time.
After a few beats, he exhaled through his nose, picked up the clipboard, and pointed.
"Stanley. Sloan."
The two primary rotation guys stood. He wasn't about to throw all five deep-bench guys into the fire. Not yet.
Then his gaze swept the end of the bench. "DeShawn. Brent. Jalen." Three rookies jerked upright like electrocuted.
Ryan's hands balled into fists. His nails bit into his palms.
Garbage time... and still no call?
Crawford flipped the board, marker screeching as he slashed red lines across it.
"Offense runs Horns Set. Milk every second off that clock—I want five passes minimum before you even look at the rim." He snapped the cap back on with his teeth. "Defense? Full denial. You shadow them like their own fucking sweat. Switch everything—if you have to crawl through a screen on your knees, you do it. Let them so much as breathe clean, and I'll bench you until next season."
He snapped the board shut, eyes burning through each of them.
"One goddamn mission—don't let the deficit hit sixty. Move!"
The fourth quarter opened. The buzzer sounded. Roarers ball, sideline inbound.
Stanley brought the ball up with all the urgency of a funeral procession, the shot clock bleeding away with each methodical dribble.
The team moved into a mechanical Horns set—five passes, four resets, all of it looking more like clock-punching than basketball.
With :04 left, the ball swung to Sloan in the corner.
Catch. Shoot. A clean release.
Clang.
The iron rang louder than a fire alarm. Lumina's third-string center—a guy who usually spent games handing out towels—snatched the rebound like it was a paycheck.
Transition chaos.
Roarers' defense scrambled, rotations broken before they even formed.
Open in the corner!
A waterboy-turned-shooter caught, dipped, and let it fly—
Swish.
The Lumina bench exploded. Players on their feet, flashing threes with their fingers, grinning like they'd just hit the game-winner.
The scoreboard taunted Roarers: 44-point deficit.
Roarers inbound again. Stanley dribbled upcourt like his sneakers were filled with wet sand, scanning for options that didn't exist. He never saw the double-team coming.
The trap came hard. Stanley panicked, flung a wild pass toward the wing—intercepted by Lumina's sixth man.
Fast break massacre.
The guard exploded downcourt, untouched, launching from inside the foul line—
BOOM!
Tomahawk slam.
The rim shook. The backboard swayed.
Harbor Crown Center went ballistic.
Even the Lumina's bench guys were acting out, pantomiming shock, hands to their heads like they'd just witnessed a murder.
Lamar stood up, clapping like a proud parent.
Crawford didn't yell. Didn't curse.
Just raised a hand.
"Time."
The clock froze at 11:03 in the fourth.
In under a minute, the scoreboard jumped again—a 5–0 burst.
107–61.
The arena pulsed with noise, but on the Roarers' bench, it felt like a tomb.
Darius stared at the scoreboard , his voice barely above a whisper.
"Damn… we're about to set the record for the worst blowout in ABA history."
Coach Crawford didn't argue.
"Stanley. Sloan, you're out."
His voice was flat, resigned. Across the court, even the other team's third-stringers were playing like they'd been shot with adrenaline.
Crawford had seen enough. He was done fighting. If a historic blowout was coming, he'd at least have the excuse of fielding his deep reserves.
"Omar... and Ryan. Get in."
Ryan blinked. Did he hear that right?
His heartbeat kicked up. Finally. His chance.
He was going in.
Right now, his Westbrook fusion sync rate sits at 72.4%—specifically pulling from Russ' MVP triple-double season. Against the other team's third-stringers? That might be enough. Maybe even more than enough.
He assesses himself: "I'm like current-day Westbrook—diminished, but don't sleep on me. I can still pop off."
Need proof? Take the Knicks game from late last year—it was still part of the 2024–2025 season—Denver was down 31 at home.
Coach had emptied the bench. Westbrook flipped the switch. He led a bunch of backups, went ballistic, and forced the Knicks to keep their starters—Towns, Brunson, the whole crew—on the floor. By the final buzzer, he had dropped 24 in a single quarter. He set his career-high for points in a single quarter.
Even at his peak, he'd never done that.
Ryan glances at the scoreboard. 46 points down. A comeback was fantasy. Unless you had 92 Dream Team backing you up, this one was lost. But pride? He was taking that back. No doubt.
He stood, started to stretch—and then the system pinged.
[DEBUT GAME BONUS: WESTBROOK 100% EXPERIENCE MODE UNLOCKED(TRIAL VERSION)]
[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 72.4% → 73% → 75% → 88% → 92% → 100%]
[LOADING COMPLETE.]
Ryan freezes.
Wait… for real? System, I freaking love you.
He could feel his slight frame pulsing with explosive power.
Before he could fully process the gift, the system kept updating him.
[DETECTED: HOST IS PLAYING THE FINAL QUARTER.]
[SEARCHING FOR WESTBROOK'S BEST PERFORMANCE FROM THE 2016-2017 SEASON TO MATCH HOST'S FINAL QUARTER SCENARIO...]
[RESULT FOUND: "57-POINT TRIPLE-DOUBLE @ ORLANDO – MARCH 29, 2017" – 4TH QUARTER PERFORMANCE: 19 PTS (6/8 FG, 3/4 3P, 4/4 FT) IN 6 MIN.]
Ryan's brain short-circuited for a second.
Then he smiled.
Oh yeah—this was going to be fun.
As Ryan steps onto the court, the arena erupts in boos. Lumina fans, smelling blood, heckle without mercy.
Ryan tilts his head up… and grins.
Boo all you want. By the time I'm done, you won't make a damn sound.