The crowd inside Iron Vault Arena was still buzzing, replaying it in their minds. Omar—yes, Omar—had just buried the Roarers' first three-pointer of the night.

On the broadcast, Callahan's voice cracked with disbelief: "I don't know much about him. Was that… could that have been the first three of his career?"

It wasn't just the first make—it was the first attempt. Omar himself knew the truth better than anyone. He had never dared launch from deep in an NBA game. And now? He was a perfect 1-for-1. A career percentage frozen at 100.

But fairy tales are fleeting. Back on the floor, the shot changed nothing about the Roarers' offense. That three wasn't drawn up—it had been the byproduct of a blown rotation, a momentary accident. Omar wasn't about to freelance again. He was a bench big, not a green-light gunner. So after that singular moment, he retreated back to his role, parked in the paint, rebounding, setting screens, doing the unglamorous work.

The next four minutes made it clear how badly the Roarers needed perimeter help. No one else could buy a basket from outside. Ryan himself got a clean look, but the shot clanged. By the time the scoreboard clicked to 39–27, the Crows' lead remained safe, the gap refusing to shrink.

Ryan, Darius, and Sloan—all three had played extended minutes without a break. Fatigue showed in their legs, their closeouts a step late, their drives lacking lift. Finally, Crawford burned a dead-ball timeout and made his move. Kamara and Stanley checked in, giving Darius and Sloan a breather. A few possessions later, Ryan finally sat as well, gasping as he hit the bench.

Halftime arrived with the numbers as cruel as the score: Roarers 47, Crows 62. The margin, 15 points, sat there like a brick wall. The stat sheet told an uglier truth—Omar's fluke triple was still the only made three-pointer of the half.

In the locker room, Crawford's face was iron, his brow furrowed, jaw tight.

Kamara's slump was a liability; another half like this, and his legendary "five zeros" stat line—0 points, 0 rebounds, 0 assists, 0 steals, 0 blocks—might haunt them again.

Halftime in Iron Vault felt like a funeral. Inside the Roarers' locker room, the air was thick with sweat and silence—no music, no chatter, only the scrape of chairs and the hiss of the ventilation. The team trailed by fifteen, their offense sputtering, their energy flat. Coach Crawford sat motionless, eyes sweeping across slumped shoulders and vacant stares, letting the weight of it all sink in. Then, after a long beat, he finally broke the silence with a decision that raised more than a few eyebrows.

"DeShawn, you're in next."

DeShawn was the most reliable three-point shooter among the Garbage Time Big Four. He was also the only one—aside from Ryan—that Crawford had ever seen staying late at night to put in extra work with Omar. For players who showed that kind of dedication, Crawford was always willing to give a chance.

Heads turned.

DeShawn froze for a moment, wondering if he'd misheard. He had never played outside of garbage time before.

"Me?"

Crawford didn't flinch. "Is there another DeShawn in this room?"

Crawford laid out a few plays.

Time slipped by quickly.

The Roarers walked out of the locker room to face the second half.

The third quarter began with a lineup of Ryan, Darius, Lin, Sloan, and DeShawn.

Callahan leaned back in his chair, his voice laced with disbelief. "Crawford is putting in another deep reserve? Is this his way of waving the white flag?"

On the floor, though, there was no surrender in sight. The Roarers took possession, moving the ball with patience for once. Ryan probed at the top, drawing defenders, then swung it to Sloan. Sloan immediately hit Lin on the wing. Lin faked, but the closeout was tight; he reset to Darius. Back and forth it went, each pass deliberate, searching for the crack. Finally, the ball zipped to the corner—wide open, Deshawn.

There was no hesitation. Deshawn wasn't Lin, the kind of shooter who shrank under pressure. His eyes burned bright, adrenaline turning nerves into fuel. He rose in rhythm, smooth release, confident follow-through.

Swish.

The net snapped clean, pure music.

Deshawn let out a shout and immediately chest-bumped Ryan, who flashed the rarest of smiles. It reminded Ryan of his rookie debut—back then, after he set up Deshawn for a basket, the two had celebrated with their very first chest bump.

This time, though, it wasn't just a basket. Unlike Omar's earlier non-system three, this one was born directly from Crawford's offense, crafted through patience and execution. It mattered.

From the broadcast booth, Callahan's tone flipped instantly. "Unbelievable… every three the Roarers have hit tonight has come from their deep bench!"

The Roarers' bench exploded in celebration. Towels whipped through the air, players on their feet, shouting and laughing in disbelief.

And the crowd—oh, the crowd. Iron Vault shook as if the roof itself might rattle loose. It had been waiting, desperate, for a reason to believe. Now it had one.

Scoreboard: 50–62.

The deficit was shrinking.

Fueled by energy, the Roarers tightened defensively, digging in.

On the next Crow possession, Sloan bodied up Banchieri, cutting off his space and forcing a tough fadeaway.

Brick. The rebound kicked high off the rim, and Sloan muscled in to claim it, ripping it down with authority.

Transition time. Ryan pushed the ball, scanning, slowing when the defense set. He waved his teammates through, then reset. Another possession, another test of patience.

This time, Darius rose for a midrange jumper.

Clang.

No good.

But Sloan, relentless as ever, fought through contact to grab the offensive board. He pivoted, defenders swarming, the paint collapsing around him. There was no room for a shot.

So he kicked it.

Corner again. Deshawn. No hesitation.

Release. Arc. Net.

Swish.

Back-to-back.

It was Sloan's assist that set it up, a crisp kick to the corner. Deshawn buried the three, pure as silk. Instinctively, he slapped hands with Sloan—then, grinning wide, jogged straight toward Ryan for another chest bump. Ryan could only shake his head with a wry smile.

Still, he was genuinely happy for the kid. Every shot like this gave Deshawn a little more reason to believe, a little more hope he might survive roster cuts and still be here next season. Ryan knew better than anyone that turnover was the law of the league—players came and went, faces changed, bonds were fleeting. He and Deshawn weren't especially close.

But Deshawn had a way of making himself impossible not to like. He was the team's mood-maker, the guy cracking jokes on long flights, clowning around during film sessions. And when they won? He turned the locker room into a party, singing, dancing, dragging everyone into his orbit.

Callahan's voice cracked with astonishment. "Again! Another one! Two threes already! I take back every word I said earlier—Crawford isn't throwing in the towel. He's playing the masterstroke, sending out an unsung hero at just the right time!"

The arena was unglued. Fans roared, stomping, pounding on the plexiglass railings. The noise thundered, rolling like a wave. Deshawn ran back on defense pounding his chest, eyes wide with the disbelief of a dreamer living a moment too good to be true.

And then Lin, perhaps unwilling to let a benchwarmer steal all the shine, found his own rhythm. Off a curl, he rose from the wing and buried one. Nothing but net.

The dam had burst.

On the very next trip, Darius, who had bricked everything all night, finally saw one drop from deep. His first of the evening, but it landed like a thunderclap.

Suddenly, the Roarers weren't cold anymore. They were scorching.

Seven minutes into the third, the once-hopeless scoreboard now read: Roarers 67, Crows 76. The gap, once 15, was now single digits.

Momentum is a living, breathing thing in basketball, and now it had changed jerseys. The Crows' coach saw it immediately, slamming his clipboard in frustration before signaling a timeout.

The Roarers' bench sprinted to meet their teammates, screaming, high-fiving, towel-whipping like a storm. For the first time all night, belief had a heartbeat.

Crawford, calm amid the chaos, used the break wisely. He rested Sloan and Darius, subbing in Omar and Stanley to keep legs fresh.

When play resumed, the Crows could no longer sag inside. The Roarers had punished them from deep; they had to respect the arc. And that, finally, unleashed Ryan.

The star guard smelled blood. First possession, he split two defenders, knifing to the rim for a gliding layup.

Next trip down, he pulled up from fifteen feet, rising smoothly into a jumper that splashed home.

And then, the exclamation point: a high screen from Omar gave him daylight, and Ryan exploded down the lane, cocking the ball back with fury and hammering it through with a vicious slam.

The roar from Iron Vault was deafening. Fans were on their feet, arms raised, voices hoarse, living every beat of the comeback.

When the horn finally signaled the end of the third, the scoreboard glowed like a miracle: Roarers 79, Crows 86.

A game that had once felt like a funeral now had the pulse of resurrection.

The largest deficit of the night—15—was gone, replaced with possibility. And as the players walked to their huddles, there was only one thought in the air: this might just happen.

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