Roares locked in defensively on every possession from that point on, and Stanley was glued to Axton like industrial-strength duct tape.
Relentless pressure, perfect positioning, and a motor that just wouldn’t die—he smothered Axton with a kind of physicality that bordered on reckless. He fought through screens, denied every passing lane, and never let Axton get comfortable. Sometimes it looked more like a wrestling match than basketball, but the refs—maybe swayed by the home crowd—kept their whistles silent.
Axton wasn’t handling it well.
He started barking at the refs, throwing his arms up in frustration. The usual smooth rhythm of his game—gone. The effortless swing passes, the precise footwork in the post, the soft floaters? Replaced by turnovers and visible disbelief.
Late in the second quarter, Axton tried to go old-school—posting up Gibson, trying to back him down. But Stanley read it and jumped the play. He crashed down from the top, throwing his full weight into Axton’s back. Axton spun, but Stanley’s arm lashed in like a viper—ripped the ball clean, all forearm and fury. Axton stumbled, shouting at the ref.
"That’s a foul!" he yelled, arms outstretched.
Before Axton could react, Stanley was already outlet-passing to Darius streaking upcourt.
Darius sprinted into the open court, no defenders ahead—just hardwood and glory. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ryan and a Boulders guard trailing behind, neck-and-neck.
Behind-the-back bounce pass? No-look lob? And after it drops, should I hit that Ryan pose—arms wide, sprinting into the camera like I own the world?
Still mid-thought, he reached the rim—too late. The window for anything slick had closed. Panicked, he just flung the ball straight up into the air and couldn’t stop his momentum. He stumbled off the baseline and out of bounds.
The Boulders guard had already leapt, eyes locked on the ball—ready to grab it mid-air.
But Ryan arrived just in time.
Though he jumped after the guard, he soared higher and faster.
At the apex of his jump, Ryan palmed the errant "pass" midair like a volleyball set, softly redirecting it through the net.
Up in the stands, Jamal and Kylie leapt to their feet, whacking their thunder sticks and chanting, "Ryan! Ryan!"
Of course they were here. It was Ryan’s first home game—no way they’d miss it.
Beside them, Eddie grinned ear-to-ear.
With the way Ryan was playing tonight,
a major-money shoe contract? Locked in.
At the scorer’s table, tonight’s broadcast team—play-by-play legend Richard Mason and color analyst David Wilson, once again—remained stoic amid the bedlam.
Mason scowled at the monitors. "What in the world was that from Darius?"
Wilson chuckled. "Tried to force a highlight-reel connection with Ryan. Looked like a botched alley-oop turned emergency save."
Mason shook his head.
"Yeah... lucky Ryan bailed him out. Big time."
On the court, Ryan backpedaled past Darius. "That pass? Trash. If I didn’t get that, you were a lock for the Top 10 Worst Plays of the Week."
Darius rubbed his neck. "Uh... maybe we should practice those trick plays?"
With two minutes left in the half, the Boulders called a timeout and took Axton out to rest. Meanwhile, Ryan, who had already put up 8 points and 5 rebounds in the second quarter, was subbed out by Crawford. Yeah, Ryan was sitting on a solid double-double so far—14 points and 10 rebound total.
In the final two minutes, with Roares holding a comfortable lead, the pace slowed down. They relaxed a bit, and Boulders took advantage, ripping off a 10-3 run to close the half.
Halftime score: Roares 83, Boulders 45. (First quarter: 46–21, Second quarter: 37–24)
As Roares players stood to head to the locker room, Ryan paused mid-stride. The jumbotron flashed to Steven Palmer and his daughter, Chloe, sitting courtside.
In the broadcast booth, Wilson leaned into his mic for the viewers watching the broadcast:
"Chloe’s wearing a zero jersey—she a Ryan fan now?"
Mason smirked. "Don’t you know? She signed him last night. Now he’s Ze—"
"Cut!" Wilson hissed, slamming a hand over his partner’s mouth. "No free promo for non-sponsors, man. You wanna get me fired?"
Meanwhile, Ryan clenched his fists as he was about to enter the players’ tunnel.
Not enough... I promised last night I’d make Zero blow up tonight.
A girl’s voice cut through his thoughts.
A twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl leaned over the railing by the players’ tunnel, shouting. She wore a Roares jersey, number 4—Gibson’s.
Gibson, who was walking just ahead of Ryan, stopped and smiled. "Nah, YOU’RE the best."
"Keep it up!" she beamed.
Gibson smiled, "You know it."
He’d already dropped 9 points by halftime—a pretty good night compared to his career average of 7.8 points per game.
Ryan stepped past Gibson and headed into the tunnel.
Kamara slowed his pace to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Ryan.
"That’s his daughter. She never misses a home game, so he always gives 110% when he’s playing here."
"I see. What about you?" Ryan asked. Kamara was already at 26 points—30+ looked inevitable.
Kamara’s grin widened. "All my babies are watching."
The two of them traded jabs all the way down the tunnel, laughter trailing behind them as they stepped into the locker room.
This time, the atmosphere was night and day compared to last game. During that one, the locker room had been weighed down by Malik’s injury—tight, quiet, somber. Now? Light. Loose. Almost cheerful.
Especially from the three rookies who hadn’t seen action yet - DeShawn, Brent, and Jalen. Along with Omar, they were jokingly called Roares’ Garbage Time Big Four."
With a 38-point halftime lead, their long-awaited minutes were practically guaranteed, and the excitement was palpable.
Crawford didn’t say much. No X’s and O’s, no clipboard, no raised voice. He just let them talk, let the moment breathe.
Very soon, the second half was about to start. The team headed out of the locker room, all smiles and ready to go.