The game resumes, tension thick in the air.
The Boulders brought the ball up, grinding through their half-court set with deliberate patience. Twenty seconds of careful movement—and then a costly miscue. A misread on the cut led to a pass sailing out of bounds. Turnover. Roarers’ ball.
Darius wasted no time, pushing the tempo. He called for the familiar 1-5 pick-and-roll with Malik. The Boulders, locked into their standard drop coverage, had eyes only for the two-man game. But in doing so, they missed the quiet threat brewing in the corners—Kamara on the left, who had gone 2-for-1 from deep in the first; and Lin on the right, who was 2-for-2 on his shots, both buried clean.
In a flash, Darius whips a cross-court pass to Lin. Catch-and-shoot!
Nothing but net. 41–29. The double-digit cushion was back. Lin and Darius slapped hands, stoic and focused, while the Roarers’ bench erupted behind them. A stabilizing shot. A message.
Transition defense. Axton posts up Malik, muscles him back a step, then spins for a floater—but Malik recovers in a blink, fingertips grazing the ball!
The shot caromed off the glass. Chaos under the rim. Axton and Malik both exploded upward, bodies colliding midair—but it was Malik who came down with it, cradling the rebound like a prize.
Axton immediately reached in. Malik pivots, shielding the rock, faking left, then right, refusing to surrender it. Darius sprints over, forcing Axton to retreat.
"Pass it!" Darius extends his hands, but Malik clenches the ball.
"You good?" Darius frowns.
"Yeah." Malik fires a bullet into his grasp, then bolts upcourt.
Darius accelerated, eyes scanning. The Boulders had learned their lesson—no more cheating off the corners. Their defense stretched wider, hesitant to commit.
Darius took it—crossed over hard, left his man behind, and drove. Then—boom—Axton slid into position like a brick wall, arms high, paint locked down.
But just as the lane seemed sealed, Malik flashed in from the wing, cutting like a blade through soft armor.
Darius didn’t hesitate. He floated the ball into the rafters.
Axton turned his head—too late.
Malik soars, snatches the orb with one hand—
Alley-oop hammer! The backboard shudders.
Darius rushed over, hand raised for a celebratory high five—
But Malik was hunched over, his right hand clamped tightly behind his left thigh. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face locked in pain.
"Hammy?" Darius muttered, brow furrowed.
Malik shook his head, breathing through his teeth. "I’m good."
He turned, trying to get back on defense, but the moment he pushed off, his stride faltered—one sharp, awkward step. The kind of compensation only a seasoned player would recognize: classic hamstring trouble.
The ref had already scooped up the ball for the Boulders’ inbound. Malik didn’t hesitate. He flashed a sharp "T" with his hands. "TIMEOUT!"
Crawford glanced at the game clock—9:07 remaining.
A pang of regret hit him. Should’ve pulled him earlier. Malik had already logged 15 straight minutes—way over his workload threshold.
As Darius helped Malik limp to the bench, Team physician Dr. Lopez was already waiting with the med kit. He guided Malik onto his stomach for the active resistance test. At 15 degrees of knee flexion, Malik’s whole body tensed. Beads of sweat popped along his hairline.
Crawford stepped in. "Well?"
Dr. Lopez palpated the proximal tendon. "Mild swelling at the insertion point. No palpable gap—rules out Grade 3. Preliminary diagnosis: 40% chance Grade 1 strain, 60% Grade 2. Need MRI to confirm."
Malik’s jaw tightened.
60% chance of Grade 2? That’s 3-5 weeks minimum. "Feels like Grade 1. Give me a few minutes, I can still—"
"Shut it down," Crawford cut in. "MRI. Now."
No argument. Malik pushed to his feet, shrugging off Dr. Lopez’s offered arm. "I can walk." The arena cameras caught every grimacing step as he vanished into the player tunnel—a smattering of applause trailing behind him. Dr. Lopez followed quietly, med kit in hand.
Ryan clenched his fists as Malik disappeared into the tunnel. The weight of guilt pressed down on him like a second jersey.
If I’d played better while I was on the floor, Malik wouldn’t have had to push himself that hard.
If we’d blown the lead wide open, he wouldn’t have asked to stay in for those extra three minutes.
Crawford didn’t have time to draw up a play—just motioned for Sloan to sub in for Malik.
On defense, Sloan might’ve stood 6’8", but at 230 pounds, he wasn’t exactly built to body up against Axton’s 7-foot, 266-pound frame in the post. It wasn’t close—Axton backed him down like a folding chair.
On offense, Malik’s injury and exit had gutted the Roarers’ morale. They played like they’d lost their spine—sloppy passes, rushed shots, zero rhythm.
The 14-point lead didn’t disappear all at once—it bled out, possession by possession.
Then, with 3:18 left in the half, Boulders finally pulled ahead—
51 to 50. Their first lead of the night.
Crawford burned a timeout. No Ryan. No adjustments that mattered.
A 7-0 run in the final 90 seconds.
Quarter scores: 22–38, then 40–15.
The Roarers trudged back to the locker room, shoulders slumped, like men walking to their own funerals.