Thursday night at Iron Vault Arena, the Roarers finally shook off the sting of their 109–126 loss to the Nova City Starships. They clawed out a 99–93 victory over the Vellix City Phantoms, a gritty win that didn't dazzle but let the Iron City faithful exhale.

Ryan was the engine, as always, dropping 26 points, 12 assists, and 10 rebounds—another triple-double in a career stacked with them. Yet the win carried a weary edge. For the first time in nearly three months, the Roarers failed to crack 100 points.

Reporters summed it up simply: "They won, but the legs looked heavy." That captured the night perfectly.

Malik and Gibson, the team's two veterans, looked worn down—sluggish in their rotations, short on lift in their jumpers. Their bodies seemed to be sending the message loud and clear: the grind had caught up to them.

Coach Crawford read the room. With the Yurev Crows looming Friday and a showdown against the Eastern Conference's top-seeded Millvoque Bullets two days later, he made the call: rest Malik and Gibson for the Crows.

The Bullets were the real war, and Crawford was saving his ammo for that fight.

——

Friday night, Iron Vault Arena.

At exactly 9 p.m., the lights dimmed. Drums thundered, the crowd roared, and both teams emerged from the tunnel. The building was packed to the rafters, buzzing with tension and anticipation.

The jumbotron lit up, rolling out the Roarers' starting five:

Ryan. Darius. Kamara. Stanley. Sloan.

The crowd cheered, but murmurs followed. This was a pure small-ball lineup. Kamara, at 6'9", was the tallest on the floor. Sloan, pressed into duty as a makeshift center, stood just 6'8".

And across from them? The Yurev Crows—the ABA twin-forward powerhouse. Dario Banchieri, last season's Rookie of the Year, a 6'10" mismatch nightmare. Felix Wacker, 6'10" as well, who'd taken Rookie of the Year honors the year before that. Add in their 6'11" centera—steel wall of size and skill. The Crows' height alone seemed to choke the air from the Roarers' lungs.

Ryan exchanged a quick handshake with Banchieri at midcourt. The two had clashed at the Rising Stars Challenge during All-Star Weekend not long ago. Now, facing each other again, there was both mutual respect and a flicker of rivalry in their eyes.

The jumbotron swung to the VIP seats, zooming in on Steven Palmer, the Roarers' new owner-in-waiting, his takeover still tangled in paperwork. He held the future of the franchise in his hands.

Notably absent was Chloe, tied up by an evening engagement and unable to cheer Ryan from her usual spot.

Beside Palmer sat not owner Crane, but GM Kevin Buth. Both men leaned forward, speaking in low tones.

The broadcast team was quick to pick up on it.

Jim "The Voice" Callahan dropped his tone an octave, excitement threading his words:

"Take a look at that, folks—Palmer and Buth side by side. You don't see that every night. Looks like they're watching more than just the scoreboard."

His partner, Duke "Ice" Patterson, let out a low chuckle.

"No doubt about it. Once Palmer officially takes over, you can bet the roster won't stay the same. Big changes are coming. This feels like the calm before the storm."

Callahan laughed knowingly. "Anyone could be traded, anyone could be cut—"

"—except Ryan," Patterson interrupted without hesitation, his tone half-joking but dead serious underneath. "That's the one untouchable."

9:30 p.m. The ball went up.

The referee tossed it high, and Sloan—undersized at 6'8" against a 6'11" tower—leapt like a coiled spring. Against the odds, he tipped it clean. His vertical had always been his calling card, one of the sneaky-best in the league, and for a moment Iron Vault Arena roared. Ryan corralled the ball, and the Roarers' first possession set the night in motion.

But basketball nights can turn fast. Eight minutes later, the scoreboard told an uneasy story: Roarers 12, Crows 20. Down by eight.

The culprit was plain to see. The Roarers couldn't buy a bucket from deep. Zero makes from beyond the arc, not even close. The rim might as well have been wrapped in iron. And the Crows, sharp as ever, adjusted. They sagged, daring the Roarers to shoot, walling off the paint with their wall of length.

That left Ryan and Darius—the backcourt engines—staring at a clogged lane. Every drive funneled into a forest of arms. Every hesitation dribble met with a collapsing defender. Layups were swallowed. Kick-outs only circled back to more bricks.

Crows basketball at its most ruthless: take away your strengths, make you win with your weaknesses.

The Roarers looked restless, tapping the ball, searching for daylight where none existed. The home crowd grew quieter, the thrum of Iron City pride caught somewhere between frustration and faith.

Eight minutes in, it was already a test. The underdogs had drawn first blood at tip-off, but the twin-forward giants from Yurev were dictating the terms now.

Ryan glanced at the scoreboard as he jogged back on defense. Twelve points in eight minutes. No threes. He exhaled hard. Tonight, nothing would come easy.

On paper, the Roarers' lineup wasn't the issue. Sloan stepped in for Malik at center—both were paint-bound bigs without a three-point shot, so the spacing stayed the same. Stanley took Gibson's spot on the wing. Yes, Gibson technically led the team in three-point percentage, knocking down over 60 percent of his tries, but he averaged barely one attempt per game. That kind of efficiency didn't make him a real floor-spacer, and Stanley offered no more or less from deep. In theory, nothing had truly changed—the structure still held.

The real problem came from elsewhere.

Darius couldn't buy a basket. He bricked two threes, clanged a mid-range jumper, and scraped together just two points at the line. Kamara was no better—two attempts from deep, both misses, and a box score otherwise filled with zeros. Ryan, normally the safety valve, was forced into taking more himself, but even he had only four points to show for it.

The irony? Sloan, the makeshift center, was their best player in the opening stretch. He protected the rim, ripped down three defensive boards, and even grabbed an offensive rebound for a thunderous put-back dunk. Without him, the deficit would've been worse.

On the Roarers' bench, Gibson sat in street clothes, resting per the coach's orders. When Sloan ripped down a rebound, he saw Palmer clapping and nodding in approval before leaning over to speak quietly with GM Kevin Buth.

That's when the unease hit him. Sloan was supposed to be a swing forward, a utility piece bouncing between positions. But lately, his minutes had crept up, eating into Gibson's rotation. And now—now the new owner Steven Palmer was watching closely, clearly impressed.

Gibson thought about his deal, less than a year left. For the first time, the roar of the crowd felt distant. The game on the floor was one thing. The bigger game, the one about futures and contracts, might already be underway.

Gibson's chest tightened. Sloan might swing between the four and the five, but he spent most of his minutes at forward. Lately, the time he'd been getting as Gibson's backup had crept up—and now he'd won the new owner's favor. Thinking about his own contract, with less than a year left on it, Gibson couldn't help worrying about his future.

Back on the floor, the Roarers tried to reset. Ryan pushed hard into the lane, weaving through traffic, but the defense collapsed and the shot wasn't there. Without hesitation, he zipped a pass to the left corner.

Kamara caught it—wide open, the kind of look coaches beg for. But instead of letting it fly, he hesitated. One extra beat, one extra thought, and the window closed. He put the ball on the floor, drove inside, and instantly ran into a wall of bodies. Felix Wacker slid over, cutting him off.

Kamara tried to muscle up a post move, backing down with his shoulders, but Wacker read it like a book. A quick poke, the ball spilled loose.

Dario Banchieri scooped it up and was gone in a flash. He sprinted the other way, nothing but hardwood ahead. Only Ryan gave chase, the two of them locked in a sprint down the court. For a heartbeat it looked like Ryan might close the gap, but Banchieri extended, gathered, and laid it in.

Crows 22, Roarers 12. Double digits.

The Iron Vault groaned. Coach Crawford had seen enough. He signaled timeout, frustration etched across his face. The scoreboard showed 3:27 left in the first quarter, and already the home team was reeling.

From the huddle came the first adjustment: Lin was checking in. Once upon a time, Lin had been the deadliest shooter in the league, a man defenders respected from thirty feet out. Maybe, just maybe, he could break the lid off the rim tonight.

That wasn't surprising. What was? The sub. Normally Lin would spell either Ryan or Darius. This time, it was Kamara headed to the bench. No mystery there—his start had been nothing short of disastrous.

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