After the postgame presser, the Roarers flew straight to Eastmoor City to prepare for their Saturday matchup against the Eastmoor Vipers—a team buried at the bottom of the Eastern Conference standings.
There was no point flying all the way back to Iron City. With tipoff set for 5:30 PM Saturday, a two-leg travel schedule would’ve only drained the team further. Might as well head straight to Eastmoor.
The mood on the plane was light. A win always did that.
"Alright," Ryan said, stretching back in his seat. "We’ve got the Vipers next. Anyone got a story about them? Anyone used to play there?"
Everyone turned to look at Darius.
Ryan raised a brow. "Oh? We got a heartwarming tale coming?"
Darius scratched his neck awkwardly.
Kamara chuckled. "More like a soap opera."
Ryan leaned in, clearly interested. "Do tell."
"Six years back, this guy was battling it out with another dude for alpha status. Constant back-and-forth, cheap shots, little mind games. Then one day—boom. Broke the guy’s jaw with a punch. Got slapped with an eight-game suspension. After that, got into it with the coach, skipped a couple games for no reason..."
"Enough," Darius cut in. "Ancient history. And the Vipers are trash—always have been. Owner’s a joke. Front office? Worse."
Kamara fell quiet. Ryan didn’t press further.
The conversation died. Some slept. Others scrolled through phones or drowned out the hum of the plane with headphones.
Ryan dug into the Vipers’ stats.
- 10th in the East (8-36, Last 10: 1-9)
- Offense: 119.5 PPG (4th in the league)
- Defense: 128.9 PPG allowed (dead last)
Every article said the same: high-octane offense, zero defensive effort.
The Roarers had already beaten them twice this season, home and away. Darius had dropped 30+ both times.
The guy Darius had punched? Niko Marović—still on the team. Starting power forward. Locker room veteran.
But lately, younger players had started to challenge his voice in the room. The tension was obvious, even from the outside.
More headlines popped up: players calling each other out, cryptic quotes about rotations, locker room leaks. Ryan kept scrolling, fully awake now.
This wasn’t a basketball team—it was a tabloid machine, just like Darius said.
Before he knew it, 90 minutes had flown by. At 2:30 AM, their plane landed in Eastmoor City.
They checked into their hotel. At long last, a real night’s sleep.
After lunch, the team boarded a bus to a local university gym.
League rules only allow visiting teams 90 minutes of court time at the home arena—either the day before or the day of the game. So the Roarers had rented out the college gym to prep.
After warm-ups, Crawford gathered the team.
"We all know the Vipers. Run-and-gun. No defense."
Darius smirked. "Because every guy’s chasing his own stats."
Crawford nodded—rare agreement. "No clear hierarchy. Too many ’heroes.’"
"Everyone wants to be the guy," Darius added. "Same toxic culture for years."
"Well," Crawford said, "if they want to run, we’ll let ’em. We can outscore them, but if we lock in on defense, we’ll bury them by the third quarter."
Darius cracked his knuckles. "Saturday, I swear—I’m gonna beat them down."
And on Saturday, Darius did.
Just not the way anyone expected—he didn’t beat them down with buckets, but with a fist.
Right from the tip, Darius and Marović were jawing—old wounds clearly not healed.
Three minutes in, they battled for a rebound.
Then—boom. Darius threw the same right hook to the same jaw. Six years later.
Chaos erupted in a heartbeat.
Bodies converged—Vipers players shoving Darius, Malik and Kamara muscling their way in to shield him. Referees wedged themselves between the tangled mass of jerseys, whistles screaming like air-raid sirens.
From the bench, Ryan’s instincts kicked in before his brain did.
He took a single step onto the court—just past the sideline—
and was yanked back instantly by two assistant coaches grabbing his jersey.
"Don’t go out there—you’ll get suspended!"
one barked. "Non-active players can’t step onto the court during an altercation. Period."
The scuffle was dying down. No swings, just raised voices and flaring tempers, and the refs working to regain control.
Then the head referee—a grizzled vet with 20 years of breaking up brawls—snapped into his ejection ritual.
He flashed a hard T-sign with both hands, wound up like a pitcher, and fired his arm forward—finger pointed at the tunnel.
Darius shook his head, spat a curse, and stalked off—jersey pulled over his face to muffle the stream of profanity trailing behind him.
The lead offender was already gone—Darius had been ejected.
Now came the fallout.
The three officials huddled at the review station, their faces flickering with the glow of the replay monitor. A murmured debate—pointing at angles, rewinding key frames—while the arena hummed with restless energy.
A minute later, the crew chief put on the headset.
Time for the verdict.
"After review..." His voice boomed through the PA.
Three Vipers players were hit with technicals—each cited for escalating the altercation through unnecessary shoving and attempts to prolong the chaos.
Then came Kamara—caught in 4K delivering a sneaky elbow to a Viper’s ribs while "separating" players.
And Marović? Nothing.
He hadn’t thrown a punch, hadn’t retaliated.
Of course Darius only swings at guys who talk shit but won’t throw.
The medical check confirmed it: Marović was fine. A split lip, no fracture. Hell, this punch was a love tap compared to the jawbreaker he’d taken six years back.
Finally, after a long delay, the game resumed.
Free throws? No offsetting.
Each tech stood on its own—each free throw taken one at a time.
The Roarers got three:
One for each of the Vipers’ technicals. Lin took them all. Swished all three.
The Vipers got three of their own:
Two from Darius’ Flagrant 2—Marović, the one who took the punch, stepped to the line. He made the first, bricked the second.
One from Kamara’s tech—taken by their point guard, smooth as ever.
Score check: Roarers 14, Vipers 12.