Halftime — Roarers Locker Room.
The players who had just come off the court sat slumped on the bench, towels draped over their heads. Trainers moved swiftly between them, massaging sore legs, pressing ice packs against swollen joints. The silence was heavy — no jokes, no chatter.
Malik was still in the arena’s medical room, undergoing an MRI. The remaining eleven players didn’t say a word.
The dry-erase board rattled as Coach Crawford slammed his palm against it, the marker squeaking violently as he and his assistants debated. After a heated exchange, Crawford turned sharply.
From the far corner of the room, Omar’s head snapped up. His massive 7’1", 271-pound frame trembled slightly—not from nerves, but from the raw adrenaline of a player who averaged less than two minutes of garbage time per game suddenly being called upon in a real fight.
Crawford didn’t like the call, but he was out of options. Axton was a mismatch against everyone — on fire, impossible to contain. All he could do was gamble. Maybe a giant could slow a freight train.
"I want you to use that big damn body of yours to keep him out of the paint. I don’t care if you foul."
He then wheeled on Gibson, his voice sharp. "You—move your feet. Help on the weak side and protect the rim." The unspoken criticism hung in the air—Gibson’s lackluster first half hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Then he pointed back to the board.
"Offense—we’re running Double Drag. You two set hard screens for Darius, pull Axton out, and force the switch."
As he drew up the play, Darius and Gibson gave small nods. No questions. No pushback.
Omar, meanwhile, shuffled over eagerly, eyes fixed on the board, soaking in every word.
Finally, Crawford checked his watch and smacked the board one last time.
"Clock’s up. Get your heads straight—we’re taking this game back."
Omar didn’t change the game for the Roarers—in fact, things got worse.
Defensively, his sheer mass could absorb Axton’s backdowns, but his sluggish feet were no match for the big man’s quick spins and fluid movement. Even when Gibson rotated over to help, Axton simply kicked it out to open shooters with crisp, effortless passes—his playmaking as lethal as his scoring.
On offense, Omar’s inexperience showed. He struggled to execute the Double Drag action, at one point even bumping into Darius as the guard was slashing toward the rim.
The Boulders exploded on an 11–2 run.
Crawford called timeout.
73–55, Boulders up. The clock froze at 10:04.
As Omar walked off, the writing was on the wall—this might be the last non-garbage-time minute he’d see all season.
Crawford sent Sloan back in.
With the Boulders sitting on a comfortable lead, Axton checked out for a breather.
The Roarers made up a little ground while he was on the bench.
Axton returned—and picked up right where he left off, owning the paint like it was his birthright.
Three minutes later, Crawford called another timeout.
And running out of answers.
Finally, Ryan checked in—alongside Kamara, Gibson, Sloan, and Stanley. The Boulders still had Axton anchoring their defense, but three of their starters were resting.
Ryan brought the ball up, his Westbrook-like sync rate at 73.2% robbing him of the explosive first step he’d had last game. No matter how hard he crossed over, his defender stuck to him like glue.
He pulled up from midrange, going straight into a contested jumper.
Play-by-play announcer Richard Mason only needed a second to shout:
"Ryan—hopping vampire jump shot!"
"Oh no," Mason followed. "Ryan’s now 0-for-5. Still scoreless."
Axton snagged the board. The Boulders ran a methodical half-court set, ending in yet another Axton finish.
Ryan dribbled up, stopped just beyond the arc, eyes flicking to the shot clock.
2:10 left in the quarter.
Damn it. If we don’t cut it to under 20 before the fourth, this game’s over.
He called for a high screen from Sloan and attacked hard off the pick.
But Axton was waiting under the rim—coiled and ready. Ryan bit down and went up anyway. The shot didn’t even get off clean before Axton met him at the summit. Whistle.
Ryan stepped to the line, exhaled slowly, and stared down the rim.
Bounced off the front rim... then the back... and in.
"Ryan finally on the board," Mason called.
Second free throw—he was looser this time, maybe a little too loose.
As soon as the ball left his hand, he knew.
Short. Front rim. He could already see the bounce angle—so he moved.
While everyone else boxed out, Ryan exploded.
He soared, caught it midair—and hammered it home.
"Putback jam! Ryan’s first field goal!" Mason roared.
Ryan landed, fist pumping, shouting toward the crowd like a man possessed.
They were still down 91–71, but sometimes basketball isn’t about the score.
Sometimes it’s about juice.
Westbrook knew that. Energy brings life. And sometimes... wins.
The energy spread. On the next possession, the Roarers got a stop, and Ryan fired a laser to Kamara in transition for a corner three.
Both teams tightened up after that, trading misses until the quarter ended. 91-74, Boulders.
Seventeen points was still a gap—but for a team that leaned so heavily on its starters, and without Malik? The odds weren’t great.
Coach Crawford huddled them up.
"Kamara, you’re at the five next."
Kamara just nodded. At 6’9", he’d played small-ball center before.
"Stanley, you’ve got the four."
"Got it," Stanley said. At 6’5", the utility wing had played everywhere from point to power forward.
Then Crawford’s eyes locked onto his guards.
"Next up... Darius, Lin... Ryan."
A beat of silence. Eyes widened.
"We’re going three guards, small-ball lineup," Crawford said slowly.