Roarers bench.
Coach Crawford didn't look up, eyes locked on his clipboard.
"You surprised me out there."
Ryan gave a half-smile. Said nothing.
"They're gonna lock in on you now," Crawford tapped his marker against the board. "Expect drop coverage to cut off your drives. Probably a 2-3 zone. Maybe even… Box-1."
He started sketching plays. "So here's what we'll—"
He glanced up. Ryan's brow was furrowed, clearly not following the chalk-talk.
Crawford clicked his tongue, tossed the marker aside.
"Screw it. Just play your game. If you need help, get Omar up top for a high screen."
Omar nodded sharply. "I'll read your eyes. Just give me the signal."
Crawford pointed to the corner. "If the lane's shut down, swing it here. They're probably gonna sag off the corners. You two—" he looked over at the rookies, "—bury those goddamn open threes."
The rookies swallowed hard, jaws clenched.
Ryan clapped a hand on their shoulders.
"Relax. Let it fly. If you miss, I've got the rebound."
The horn blared. The ref waved them onto the court.
Crawford barked his last line as they stood:
"Defense—cut off penetration, live with the threes. They miss, somebody grabs the board and—"
"Give ball to Ryan."
Ryan rolled his shoulders, stepped onto the hardwood.
Game on.
Lumina inbounded.
This time, their point guard looked far cooler than Polk. Calm under pressure, he called for a high screen as Ryan shadowed him full-court, tight as a second jersey.
The screen came. He took it clean, turning the corner into the lane—but the Roarers' help defense swarmed fast. He stutter-stepped, looking to change direction, carve out space.
Too late.
Ryan slithers over the screen, recovers with freakish speed, and locks onto the ball handler's hip. Then—snap—his arm lashes out.
WHAP!
The ball squirts loose. Ryan's steal.
Transition!
But Lumina wasn't slacking this time. They scramble back in formation, sliding into a tight 2-3 zone before Ryan crosses half-court.
Ryan slowed at the top of the arc, dribbled once—hard—then gave a sharp head-and-shoulder fake right. The defenders bit. He crossed left, ball snapped into his off-hand.
Then—boom—left shoulder dropped, a violent first step straight into the chest of the low man. Pure burst. He blew past the first layer.
The help arrives—two defenders leap, arms outstretched.
Ryan hung in the air, twisted past the help, and at the last second switched to his left—
A fingertip flip—
FLOATER off the glass.
Swish.
107–69.
Ryan didn't celebrate. No fist pumps. No chest thumps. Just turned and sprinted back on D.
The Roarers stuck to Coach Crawford's game plan—leave the corners open. Force the low-percentage shots.
Lumina's shooter caught it in the deep corner. Brent was guarding him—but didn't close out. Just stared him down.
The shooter hesitated, surprised by the space. Then rose for three.
Brent only rushed up and raised his hand to contest at the very last moment before the shot.
Clang.
Off the iron.
Ryan read the rebound, but Lumina's power forward had him boxed out hard, hips low and elbows wide.
It didn't matter. Omar had perfect position—perfect timing, perfect spot. He snatched the rebound, both hands, in traffic. He cradled the ball like a newborn as Lumina scrambled back.
Then—a laser pass to Ryan.
Ryan pushed the pace, blew past the first defender, and elevated.
A defender rotated, leapt for the block—but hooked Ryan's forearm, using the contact to shove him down midair.
Off balance and twisting, Ryan barely managed to flick the ball toward the rim as he fell to the floor.
Whistle. Foul.
Ryan hit the floor, eyes locked on the ball as it rolled around the rim—once, twice—
Then dropped.
AND-ONE.
Ryan stepped to the free-throw line.
A wall of noise rose behind the glass—boos raining down, towels whipping, bam bam sticks cracking like thunder, even a lone shoe spinning midair.
But his pulse didn't spike. Not today. The rim felt huge—like it was floating right in front of him.
He could've closed his eyes and still knocked it down.
Swish.
Next possession, Lumina came down.
The Roarers stuck to the plan—sagged off the corner again.
This time, Lumina made them pay.
Net. Splash.
The Lumina bench—dead silent for a long time—erupted. Three fingers stabbed the air.
Roarers' turn.
Ryan dribbled up, surveying the defense. His man, burned twice already, had retreated a full step deeper into the paint.
This much space? Ryan almost laughed.
He hadn't touched a three-ball in days. Didn't matter. Not with these hands, this rhythm, this fucking glow.
Toe-tap. Set. Rise.
Westbrook-style elevation—legs straight, jump sharp and vertical.
A stiff-armed, no-dip jumper.
Swish.
It felt good.
Ryan backpedaled on defense—couldn't help it—held up three fingers like a goddamn trophy.
Next possession. Same story. Roarers dared Lumina to shoot.
Clank.
Ball bounced wild—Omar, again, in perfect position. Snagged the board in traffic.
Ryan brought it back up.
This time, the defender crept up—no more freebies.
Ryan hesitated, crossed left—defender stayed glued.
So Ryan swung it.
Left corner.
DeShawn.
He'd been chilling in that corner all game, open so long he could've lit a cigarette.
Didn't expect the pass—caught it, paused, then fired.
High arc.
Everyone's eyes tracked the ball—floating, spinning.
Ryan didn't watch.
He leapt.
He'd already seen it.
Too flat.
CLANG.
Off the front rim.
One hand snatching the rebound mid-flight—
BOOM.
One-handed putback dunk.
The rim shook.
And Ryan?
He didn't even grin. Just sprinted back, like murder was still on the menu.
Lumina came down and got two back—clean finish at the rim.
Ryan pushed the pace again, another laser pass to the left corner—same spot, same shooter.
This time, DeShawn was ready. Catch. Rise. Fire. No hesitation.
Lumina's defense had learned—they bodied Ryan, denying him the paint. Didn't matter.
Swish.
DeShawn roared, pumping his fists like they'd just taken the lead. Never glanced at the scoreboard—he'd forgotten they were still down big, 112-80.
He charged at Ryan, eyes wild.
Ryan blinked—was he about to…?
Yep. Shoulder bump incoming.
DeShawn jumped. Ryan didn't kill the vibe. He jumped too.
Shoulders collided. For a second, the deficit didn't exist.
Next Lumina possession, DeShawn was still riding that high—he picked off a lazy pass and slung it to Ryan. Lumina scrambled back.
Ryan sized up the defense at the top. Omar locked eyes with him—"Need me?"
A barely perceptible nod.
Omar's screen was a brick wall. Ryan used it, sidestepping right—too much space.
No drive needed.
Another Westbrook-style rise-up—legs straight, motion crisp.
Pure.
Three more.
A 16–5 run.
Lumina burned another timeout.
112–83.
7:16 left on the clock.
*******
P/S:Finally finished writing this chapter just before the Denver Nuggets vs OKC Game 7 tip-off. Now I can watch the game with peace of mind. Go Denver! Go Westbrook!
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Latest P/S update: it's the fourth quarter now, and just like what I wrote, it's turned into garbage time. Disappointed...