The fourth quarter opened with a surprise. Crawford didn't immediately go back to his stars; instead, he rolled out a lineup of Darius, Lin, Stanley, Omar, and Kamara.

Kamara, the starting forward, had been a ghost for most of the night. He wasn't scoring, barely touching the ball on offense. Still, Crawford couldn't bury him completely. A starter needs his dignity. A coach needs to show trust, even when the production isn't there.

From the booth, Callahan raised an eyebrow.

"Interesting," he said, voice curling with curiosity. "Crawford's keeping Kamara in the rotation. He's a starter, sure, but tonight he's been ice cold. You've got to think this is about respect—or hope that he suddenly wakes up."

Hope was the operative word.

The Roarers ran their first set for Kamara almost immediately: a pick-and-pop to the elbow. The look was clean, mechanics solid… clank. The ball rattled cruelly around the rim before rolling out.

Next trip down, the ball swung his way again—this time wide-open in the corner for three. Kamara launching from deep. The crowd gasped, held its breath, then groaned as the shot clanged hard off the back iron.

Two chances, two misses. The fans exhaled with audible frustration, hands flying to their heads.

"See, that's the problem," Callahan sighed. "You can give a guy respect, but respect doesn't put points on the board."

To his credit, Kamara didn't sulk. He hustled, rotated well, contested shots at the rim. He looked engaged. Still, engagement wasn't going to close a nine-point gap.

And then, at last, a flicker.

Kamara caught the ball deep in the paint, shoulders squared against Banchieri. He backed in hard—once, twice—before turning over his right shoulder, fading awkwardly, releasing a shot that kissed the glass and fell through.

Two points. Finally.

The arena gave him a polite cheer, part relief, part encouragement. On the stat sheet, Kamara's zero disappeared. He avoided the nightmare line of zero points, zero assists, zero rebounds, zero steals, zero blocks. At least something.

"Kamara! He's alive!" Callahan cracked, chuckling into his mic. "That bucket saves him from the all-zeros special. Maybe that'll loosen him up—but let's be honest, the Roarers need more than a cameo. They need firepower."

The fire never came. His next shot rimmed out, and then Kamara vanished again, swallowed by the intensity of the game. Invisible on offense, serviceable on defense, nothing more.

The quarter hardened into a tug-of-war. Possession by possession, the two teams clawed at each other, trading blows like exhausted heavyweights. Every rebound was a fistfight, every screen a collision.

The scoreboard flickered: Crows 100, Roarers 91. Six minutes left.

Crawford finally snapped. Timeout.

He'd seen enough.

The huddle was short, sharp, surgical. When the horn sounded, the lineup that emerged felt like a declaration of war: Ryan, Darius, Lin, Sloan, Deshawn.

The five who would decide everything.

From the booth, Callahan nearly shouted over the noise:

"There it is! Crawford's closing hand! Look at this—Deshawn, the deep-bench surprise, he's in to finish the fight!"

His partner, Patterson, added dryly:

"Not much choice. Stanley's got no outside shot. Kamara's colder than the North Pole. If you're chasing points, you need Deshawn."

On the very first possession, Lin darted off a Darius screen, caught the pass in rhythm, rose up at the elbow, and drilled a jumper. The net snapped clean, and the crowd erupted.

Next trip down, Ryan knifed into the paint, drew two defenders, and zipped a pass to the corner. Lin, waiting, squared, released. The ball hung in the air like a held breath—swish. Pure.

The building thundered. Lin pumped his fist, Ryan grinned and slapped his hand. "That's the way, brother!" he barked.

Callahan's voice cracked with excitement.

"Would you look at that! Even Lin has found his stroke! Is this… is this the start of something? Could the Roarers actually turn this around?"

The game surged.

Banchieri fought back for the Crows, muscling his way into tough buckets. Every time the Roarers scored, the Crows answered. The lead shrank, swelled, shrank again. The scoreboard ticked like a pendulum.

The fourth quarter had become a knife fight. Timeout chess between the two coaches had drained nearly all the oxygen from the Iron Vault, the fans suspended between hope and dread with every whistle.

And then the scoreboard told the truth: Roarers 107, Crows 109. Less than a minute left.

The arena held its breath. People stood without realizing it, every last body taut, spines stiff, eyes unblinking. The tension was a living creature, crawling from seat to seat, draping itself over the court like a storm cloud.

The Crows had the ball, chance to bury the game. Wacker cut hard to the rim, gathering for the dagger layup—

—but Sloan was there, a wall of muscle and fury. He met him in midair, hands high, body braced. Wacker flinched at the contact, rushed his release, and the shot clanged hard off the iron.

Rebound. Sloan rose like a titan, both hands snatching the ball out of the air, refusing to be denied.

"Rebound! Sloan's got it! Oh my God—he's got it!" Callahan screamed, his voice shredding against the noise. "This is it! The Roarers have the ball, a chance to win it all!"

The clock showed twenty-four seconds, perfectly aligned with the shot clock. One possession. One shot. One fate.

The ball found Ryan. Of course it did.

He brought it up slowly, pounding the dribble against the floor, his eyes cold, calculating. He wasn't going to rush. This possession had to be the last—he would bleed the clock dry, leave the Crows with nothing. Not a second to breathe. This was going to end on his terms.

"Clear out!" Ryan barked, waving his teammates to the corners. He stood just beyond halfcourt, eyes locked on the timer as it ticked away. The Iron Vault seemed to hold its breath, every heartbeat syncing with the countdown.

Ten seconds.

Ryan exploded forward. One instant he was still, the next he was a blur, slicing into the lane like a black flash. The Crows panicked, collapsing their defense in desperation. Three defenders swallowed him, arms reaching, bodies crowding.

And that's when Ryan's vision widened.

Bottom corner: Lin. Wide open. Hands ready, feet set. The veteran. The survivor. His shot had come alive again tonight. Rationality whispered: this is the smart pass, the safe pass.

Other side: Deshawn. The kid. The rookie no one expected to even play real minutes. The night's wild card. The miracle-maker who'd already shocked everyone with his fearlessness. His arm was raised too, demanding the ball.

Six seconds.

Ryan's chest clenched. His mind split in two. Safe or bold? Veteran or revelation? Stability or chaos?

He clenched his jaw and snapped the ball to Lin.

Experience. Reliability. That's what he told himself.

Lin caught it cleanly, rose in rhythm, and let it fly.

The ball struck iron.

Clang!

The sound was a hammer to the chest. The Iron Vault groaned as if stabbed, a thousand throats gasping at once. Time seemed to fracture.

The ball ricocheted high, hanging cruelly in the air, up for grabs—

—and Sloan again crashed into the chaos like a madman, his body colliding with everyone, arms ripping the ball out of the sky. He landed heavy, ball secured against his chest, eyes wild.

"Rebound! Sloan again! He won't be denied!" Callahan roared, voice nearly gone.

Four seconds.

Sloan pivoted. On the arc, Deshawn was waving, screaming for it, eyes burning, every fiber begging for the chance.

Sloan didn't hesitate. The ball left his hands.

Three seconds.

Deshawn caught it, squared, and rose. No dribble, no fake. Just pure instinct.

The building fell into silence.

Two seconds.

The ball arced upward, impossibly high, carving a perfect parabola across the sky. Every head tilted, every soul frozen, as if the entire city had been placed inside a snow globe and held still.

One second.

The horn blared.

Swish.

Pure. Clean. The net snapped like a gunshot.

And then the world detonated.

The Iron Vault convulsed with noise, a roar so violent it shook the rafters. Fans collapsed into each other's arms, strangers clutching strangers, voices shredded into primal screams.

Callahan lost himself completely: "HE HIT IT! HE HIT IT! DESHAWN! FROM NOWHERE! THE DEEP-BENCH HERO! THE BUZZER-BEATER OF DREAMS! YOU CAN'T MAKE THIS UP!"

On the court, chaos reigned. The Roarers' bench emptied, players in warmups sprinting onto the hardwood, tackling Deshawn to the ground in a pile of bodies and joy.

The scoreboard sealed it in cold, glowing numbers: Roarers 110, Crows 109.

Fate rewritten in the final second.

In the VIP section, Palmer leapt to his feet, fists pumping in sheer exhilaration.

For Ryan, the stat line read like a star's script: 28 points, 7 assists, 3 rebounds. For Sloan, heroism on the glass. For Lin, a redemption half written.

But the night belonged elsewhere.

Deshawn.

The rookie. The afterthought. The garbage-time body who, in his entire short career, had never mattered more than tonight. Five three-point attempts, four makes. Twelve points, each one louder than the last. And then, the last one—loudest of all.

When the microphones came out for the on-court interview, the camera lights found him. Not Ryan, not Sloan, not even the steady veterans. It was Deshawn, eyes wide, voice trembling, grinning like a man who'd been struck by lightning and somehow lived to tell the tale.

He stammered through answers, clutching the game ball like a relic. The fans chanted his name, syllable by syllable, thundering down from the stands.

Later, back in the locker room, the rookie turned into a one-man parade. He danced, he sang, he jumped onto the benches, teammates egging him on, spraying him with water bottles like champagne.

Crawford finally cut through the chaos with a grin.

"Alright, listen up. Press conference tonight—Deshawn, Omar. You're both coming with me."

Omar, who had quietly stacked a strong line of 10 points and 5 rebounds, lit up at the mention. The two young men embraced, almost shaking with excitement.

And in that cramped, sweaty locker room, you could feel it: for one night, the spotlight wasn't on the stars. It wasn't on the usual suspects. It was on the overlooked, the underplayed, the guys who usually sat at the end of the bench praying for scraps of time.

This was their night.

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