Lumina inbound. Roarers unleash a full-court press.
Towering at 7-foot-2, Omar planted himself just a meter from the inbounder, arms raised, hopping like a man possessed, casting a shadow like a skyscraper. The other eight players scattered across the court, locked in a high-speed chase—cutting, circling, scrambling for position.
Four seconds… then five.
Panicked, the inbounder flung the pass.
Like a predator reading the play before it happened, Ryan jumped the lane—steal!
One crossover leaves a defender grabbing air. Then—flight. Ryan soars, slamming through the rim with both hands. The backboard shudders.
Soaring Dunk!
116-107. 1:45 left.
The Lumina coach didn't call timeout.
He just shouted from the sideline, voice hoarse: "Lock in! Stay sharp!"
The crowd? Dead silent.
But the broadcast booth?
It erupted.
Jim "The Voice" Callahan: "HE'S DONE IT! THIRTY! THIRTY FOR RYAN CARTER! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOU'RE WITNESSING HISTORY TONIGHT!"
Duke "Ice" Patterson: "HE'S THE SIXTH! RYAN CARTER JUST JOINED THE MOST EXCLUSIVE CLUB IN BASKETBALL HISTORY! 30 POINTS IN A QUARTER—AND HE DID IT IN HIS FIRST GAME!"
The commentators were losing their minds—but the game wasn't over yet.
Lumina inbounded again. This time, their point guard shook free, caught the pass, and pushed upcourt. The Roarers scrambled back on defense. The guard dribbled cautiously, chewing precious seconds off the clock—until whack. Ryan's foul was deliberate, sending him to the line.
Coach Crawford called him over from the sideline. "Next time, foul sooner. Don't hesitate. We just wasted twelve seconds."
Ryan gave a sharp nod and jogged back, planting himself under the rim for the upcoming free throws.
The crowd roared as the shooter stepped up.
Clang. First shot rimmed out.
Swish. Second one fell.
117-107.
The Roarers inbounded quickly. Ryan took the pass near the arc—tightly guarded.
He gestured. Omar saw it, came up for the pick.
"Slip it," Ryan muttered.
The screen came. Ryan attacked hard off the dribble, baiting both defenders.
Omar rolled.
Bounce pass.
Float.
Bucket.
117–109.
Lumina called timeout.
On the Roarers' bench, Crawford checked the clock—1:15—and shrugged. "No magic plays left. Foul early. Put them on the line and get the ball back."
Back on the floor, another full-court press. Lumina's center caught the inbound, but before he could move—thud. Ryan bumped him. Foul.
The big man stepped to the line, nervous. First shot clanked off iron. He pumped his shooting motion over and over before the second attempt.
Ryan leaned toward a Lumina player. "He's missing this. And I'm getting that rebound."
"Bullshit," the opponent spat.
Clang.
Ryan exploded past his man, leaped, and snatched the board. The Roarers surged forward, but Lumina's defense collapsed fast. Ryan probed, crossed over, found no lane—then rose up mid-range, Westbrook-style, all torque and defiance.
The ball kissed the rim once, twice... and dropped. 117-111. 59 seconds left.
Crawford burned his last timeout.
Five exhausted Roarers trudged toward the bench, heads down, sweat dripping. Crawford crouched by the whiteboard, scribbling furiously.
"Full-court press. Go for the steal—if you get it, look for a quick three. If not, foul immediately. If they hit one and miss the second, here's what we run…"
He rattled off scenarios like a chess master predicting five moves ahead.
The buzzer sounded. Game on.
The Roarers pressed. But Crawford's planning went to waste—his read was wrong.
The opposing coach had outmaneuvered him. A flawless inbound play—crisp cuts, screens like brick walls, passes that never stuck to a single hand. Seventeen seconds vanished before a single Roarer could so much as breathe on the ballhandler—no foul, no contact, nothing.
The real problem? The Roarers' rookies were just too raw—no poise, no experience.
Once seventeen seconds were gone, fouling didn't make any difference.
Lumina finally took a contested shot just before the buzzer. It bricked.
Ryan grabbed the rebound and glanced at the timer: 35 seconds left.
"If I were T-Mac right now, I'd rain four threes and drop 13 points in your lap," he thought. "But I'm Westbrook-mode. Still… gotta try, right?"
But trying was the only option. That's what Westbrook would do—relentless until the final tick.
Westbrook's spirit—never surrender.
Ryan tore downcourt like a bolt of lightning. Omar sprinted up to set the high screen. Ryan took the first step—help defender slid in. Ryan stepped back—quick trigger pull-up. Westbrook stance. All power and defiance.
Step-back three.
Swish.
117–114. 29 seconds left.
Lumina called timeout.
This time, Crawford kept it simple—just a trap-and-foul plan.
The play worked. A whistle the instant the ball left the inbounder's hands.
This time, it was that waterboy-turned-shooter—stepped to the line. The arena held its breath.
First shot—swish.
The crowd exploded.
Second—nothing but net.
That might've been the dagger.
119–114. 27 seconds.
Ryan pushed the ball hard.
They needed a three. Only a three.
They ran pick-and-roll, but Lumina blitzed him—hard double team. No space. He wasn't Curry, just had Westbrook's gear. Westbrook could hit open threes, sure. But contested ones off-balance? That was Curry's domain.
Ryan kicked it to the corner. Deshawn.
Three makes tonight.
The defense closed fast. No freebies now.
Deshawn hesitated. His hands trembled.
He fired anyway.
Too much adrenaline. Too much pressure.
Air ball.
It dropped gently into the opposing center's hands.
Thirteen seconds left.
The center kicked it out to the point guard.
The Roarers didn't press.
They just shuffled back, step by step, like they already knew—
It was over.
The Lumina point guard just dribbled in place, the Roarers frozen in exhaustion, waiting for the clock's mercy.
Finally—the buzzer.
32–20. 36–16. 34–25. 17–53.
Final score: 119–114.
Ryan lifted his head, eyes on the scoreboard.
The war was over. No miracle comeback—and yeah, maybe there was a flicker of regret.
But only a flicker.
Because coming back from 41 points down in the fourth?
That was mission impossible.
And yet… he almost did it.