Malik shook his head, grinning. "Damn. Never seen Gibson play with this much fire before."
Ryan nudged him, nodding toward Gibson’s son, who was now waving the poster board wildly. "Look."
Malik followed his gaze and chuckled. "Oh. That explains it."
On the court, Gibson sank the free throw.
From there, with Gibson leading the charge, the Roares clawed their way back, while Milton’s shooting cooled off slightly.
Then, with 5:15 left on the clock, Gibson pulled up from deep—nothing but net.
Ryan whistled low. "Gibson’s hitting threes now?"
Malik shrugged. "Actually leads the team in three-point percentage."
Ryan waited for more, but Malik left it there. Whatever. Fine. I’ll ask Kamara.
As the starters subbed back in, Coach Crawford called out the next rotation: Ryan, Lin, Kamara, Gibson, Sloan. No new plays—just ride the rhythm.
Ryan leaned over to Kamara.
"Gibson has the best three-point percentage on the team?"
Kamara replied under his breath,
"58.3%. But he’s super selective. Won’t shoot unless it’s wide open. Averages... 0.8 attempts per game."
Ryan blinked. "If he took more, he’d be a legit spacing threat."
Kamara smirked. "And that 58% would vanish."
Same old routine—Ryan checked the system before subbing in.
[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 78.3%]
This time, no matter what excuse he gave—’first time playing an East Coast team’ or whatever—the system shot back the same response every time: [REASON TOO WEAK. NO LUCKY SPIN.]
Ryan exhaled, then turned to Gibson.
"Hey," he said, nodding toward the stands. "Your kid was right. You are the best... three-point shooter. Hit a couple more for him."
Gibson glanced at his son and grinned.
With Milton resting, their offense lacked teeth. Roares locked in and forced a stop.
Now Ryan had the ball.
And across from him stood Holloway—arguably the best perimeter defender in the league.
Now he knew what Darius had been feeling earlier.
It wasn’t like guarding LaVonte. LaVonte was a mismatch—built like a truck, defending with sheer force. Guarding him felt like going up against a lion.
Holloway was a panther. Quick, fluid, impossible to shake.
No matter how Ryan shifted, crossed over, or faked—Holloway stayed glued to him, his hands active, his feet impossibly light.
Ryan took a deep breath, the ball heavy in his hands. Across from him, Holloway crouched low, his eyes locked onto Ryan’s hips like a predator tracking prey. The crowd noise faded into a dull roar as Ryan processed his options.
He exploded right, then crossed back left—but Holloway slid with him effortlessly, cutting off the lane. Ryan pivoted, using his body to create just enough space, and glimpsed movement in the corner. Gibson stood wide open, his hands ready.
Gibson caught and released in one fluid motion.
Second triple for Gibson. Tie game, 17-17.
The Roares bench erupted, but the celebration was short-lived. The Bullets responded with a quick 5-0 run, their ball movement crisp and precise.
The Bullets nudged ahead again, refusing to break. The pace quickened, but the margin held.
By the end of the first quarter, Bullets led 28-26.
Ryan had logged 2 shot attempts, converted one—2 points, 2 assists. Nothing flashy. But solid.
With Gibson resting to start the second, Milton returned to the floor—and immediately went to work.
His first possession: a curl off a screen, catch-and-shoot from the elbow. Nothing but net.
His second: a hesitation dribble into a step-back, draining it over Kamara’s outstretched hand.
His third: a contested fadeaway that kissed the glass before dropping.
It was one of those stretches. When a shooter’s midrange felt like a layup. Like Kobe’s fallaway jumper. Physics bowed out. Timing and wingspan became irrelevant.
44–36. Bullets pulling away.
Crawford barked for time.
6:01 left on the clock.
Crawford sent Gibson back in.
As the players gathered near the bench, Gibson stepped forward.
"Let me take Milton," he said, voice low but steady.
Gibson smirked. "His fadeaway’s nice. But is it Marcus nice?"
Silence. The name hung in the air like a hush across a cathedral.
Everyone knew what he meant. When Marcus was breaking defenders with his unguardable signature fallaway jumper, Milton had still been playing college ball.
And no, Marcus never got branded a "midrange maestro"—too small a box. He wasn’t just a shooter. He was a weapon. A blueprint. The GOAT in war paint.
"Marcus put me through hell for months, Gibson continued, rolling his shoulders. "Thousands of those fadeaways. At 4 AM. After full practices. Man made me guard him until my legs gave out."
Malik couldn’t help but nod. Of the current Roares roster, only he and Gibson had shared the court with Marcus. Had held the trophy with him. Had lived those nights.
The younger players leaned in unconsciously. This wasn’t just strategy. This was legacy.
Roares took the floor: Ryan, Darius, Kamara, Gibson, Sloan.
Ryan and Darius. A flurry of handoffs and hesitations shredding the Bullets’ defensive shape.
Then—ghost-cut. Gibson slipped behind the chaos, unseen. Ryan lobbed it up, soft and perfect.
Gibson flushed it home. Alley-oop.
44–38. A two-point bandage over a bleeding wound.
Bullets ball. Milton came off a pin-down, caught it clean on the wing. Isolated. Just him and Gibson now.
And in Gibson’s head, the voice of Marcus returned.
"Balance and stance. That’s the foundation. You can’t challenge a fadeaway if your feet are lazy—or worse, late."
Gibson crouched low, arms alive, feet buzzing. No space given. Milton tested him with hesitations, jabs, shoulder twitches.
"Disrupt his rhythm. Make him shift. Make him guess. Don’t let his body remember where the rim is."
Gibson swiped at the ball, forcing Milton back a step.
"Watch his hips. The feet lie. The hips don’t."
Milton faked a jab step. Subtle, smooth. But his hips shifted—just barely.
He’s spinning. Fallaway coming.
"On the spin, get into him. Hands high. Block his vision."
Gibson closed the gap instantly, just like he had against Marcus all those nights in the gym. Back then, he’d turned to watch the shot arc—only for Marcus to blow past him, snag his own miss, and smirk.
"And for fuck’s sake, Taj, don’t just stand there. Go get the rebound."
The lesson had stuck.
Milton’s fadeaway left his fingertips—
Gibson was already boxing out, leaping to secure the board. He secured the ball with both hands, then met Milton’s gaze.
"Marcus’s fadeaway was prettier."
Milton didn’t flinch. "Yeah. It was."
Then he sprinted back on defense.
Marcus was a legend—Milton’s idol, like he was for half the league. That fadeaway? Milton had studied it for years, drilled it for thousands of hours. There was no shame in admitting the original was better.
Behind Gibson, Ryan shook his head, nearly groaned.
Dammit, Gibson. If you’re gonna trash talk, at least say his fadeaway looks like dogshit compared to Marcus’.