The timeout buzzer faded, and Coach Crawford shuffled his lineup, giving the starters a breather.

The Roarers' new unit hit the floor: Darius, Kamara, Lin, Deshawn, and Sloan. Deshawn, riding high from his standout performance last game, had earned Crawford's trust. This five-man group was a gamble—a small-ball lineup built for speed and spacing. Except for Sloan, every player could stroke it from deep, stretching the defense thin.

The downside? The paint was a ghost town, their interior defense as soft as tissue.

But thankfully for the Roarers, the Bullets had pulled John Adebayo-Kambon and Holloway for rest, and one of their twin towers, Blake Larez, was also on the bench. The height gap wasn't as brutal now. Only Benny Porter loomed large for the champs.

The buzzer sounded. The game resumed.

For Crawford, this moment carried extra weight. Just three months ago, his team was running on fumes—barely a seven-man rotation, their depth a glaring weakness. Every time the starters sat, disaster struck. Leads evaporated. Games slipped away in the dreaded "bridge minutes," when the opposition feasted on tired legs and thin benches.

But tonight? Tonight felt different. His bench wasn't just surviving—they were swinging haymakers.

It started innocently enough. Kamara drifted to the left corner, caught a quick swing pass from Lin, and let it fly. No hesitation. The ball traced a perfect arc through the air, kissing nothing but nylon.

Swish.

The crowd erupted, sensing the shift.

On the very next possession, the Roarers pushed the pace again. Darius drove hard, collapsed the defense, and kicked it right back to Kamara—same spot, same rhythm. He rose with confidence, the kind of confidence only shooters understand. The release was pure. Another clean swish. Two in a row. Kamara turned, pounded his chest, and let out a roar that was equal parts relief and defiance. After last game's nightmare showing, he was rewriting the script.

"Back-to-back triples for Kamara!" Mad Dog Murphy's gravel voice boomed from the broadcast booth.

The barrage wasn't over.

On the following trip, the Bullets overplayed Kamara on the wing, terrified of a third straight dagger. Darius read it perfectly, zipped a pass across to Lin at the top of the arc. Lin squared up, shoulders aligned, and launched. His shot had a little more arc than Kamara's, but the result was the same: splash. Three straight threes for the Roarers, and Iron Vault Arena was quaking.

The Bullets tried to steady themselves. They dumped it inside, hoping to punish Sloan one-on-one, but the Roarers collapsed in time, forcing a tough miss. Sloan ripped down the rebound, pivoted, and fired an outlet to Darius. The floor spread like a fast break clinic.

Darius slowed the tempo, called for a screen, and sized up his defender. He dribbled left, then snapped into a step-back, creating just enough daylight beyond the arc. His feet planted, shoulders squared—rise, release, rotation. The shot hung for a heartbeat, then dropped straight through.

Four in a row.

The place went berserk. The bench mob leapt to their feet, waving towels, screaming at the top of their lungs. Kamara sprinted over to slap Darius's hand, shouting something nobody could hear over the chaos.

And then, like a dream turning surreal, it was DeShawn's turn. The rookie had been quiet so far, just keeping the offense moving, but the ball swung to him on the right wing, wide open. The defense dared him. He didn't blink.

Catch. Rise. Fire.

Bang.

Five threes in a span of four minutes.

The broadcast booth was losing its mind. "Are you kidding me?" Mad Dog howled. "This is absolute insanity! The Roarers couldn't buy a bucket from deep last game, and now they're raining fire from every angle!"

Sammy added, half-laughing, half-yelling, "This is what small-ball does, Mad Dog! It's feast or famine—and right now, the Roarers are feasting like kings!"

In the final five minutes of the first quarter, the Roarers unleashed a 17–9 blitz, a relentless wave of threes and hustle. They went 5-for-6 from beyond the arc in that stretch—Kamara's twin daggers, Lin drilling one three but missing another that Sloan cleaned up with a putback, Deshawn's clutch make, and Darius's step-back triple. Every man in the lineup had scored, a true five-man surge that flipped the script.

The scoreboard told the story: Roarers 42, Bullets 37.

For the first time all night, the underdogs led, storming into the second quarter with momentum that felt like a tidal wave. Crawford, arms crossed on the sideline, allowed himself a rare nod.

Coach Crawford made his move to start the second quarter. Ryan checked back in for Darius, while Gibson replaced Kamara.

The surprising part? DeShawn stayed on the floor, Crawford was trusting him with more minutes.

On the other end of the bench, Stanley sat stone-faced, his warmups still untouched. It was clear he wasn't happy, but Crawford's choice was tactical. No one in the league could single-cover Kambon, not even a bruiser like Stanley. If you couldn't stop him anyway, better to keep a shooter like DeShawn out there to stretch the floor.

Crawford huddled his players before the inbound. "They love to run," he barked. "So do we. Let's beat them at their own game. Push the pace, attack in transition. Fast for fast."

The Bullets brought Kambon and Holloway back into the game. With the Roarers scorching hot from the perimeter, sticking with the twin towers made little sense. So Porter sat, and Larez checked in, leaving just one true big man on the floor.

The ball was inbounded. Ryan Carter dribbled across halfcourt, the arena buzzing with anticipation. Holloway stepped up to meet him, wide stance, arms spread like wings. His focus was razor sharp. Holloway rarely had to lock in this hard before the second half, but Ryan wasn't just any guard. The first quarter had left scars—two clean blow-bys that made Holloway look mortal. For a man who prided himself on his spot on the All-Defensive First Team, pride was on the line.

Ryan dribbled casually at first, rocking the ball between hands, his back slightly hunched, eyes locked on Holloway. Then, in a flash, he jabbed his left foot forward, sliding to his right in one smooth step. Holloway instinctively shifted back, retreating half a step. Ryan's hand flicked, pulling the ball between his legs, then snapping into a sudden retreat dribble. He straightened his torso, feigning a pull-up three.

It was a bluff—an elegant one. Ryan wasn't known for his deep ball, but Holloway couldn't gamble. He lunged forward, closing space, hand up to contest. That was the mistake.

Ryan bent low again, exploding off his right foot. In the same heartbeat Holloway leaned forward, Ryan darted past on his right side, slipping under his outstretched arm. Holloway spun desperately, his feet tangling as his momentum betrayed him. For a split second, the great defender staggered, nearly stumbling to the hardwood.

Larez rotated from the paint, arms raised, a wall of muscle waiting. But Ryan didn't slow—he shifted gears mid-stride. One long step to the right, then a graceful hop back left: the Eurostep. His body glided around Larez like water finding a gap in stone. He extended his arm, the ball cradled softly in his palm, then kissed it high off the glass.

The layup dropped cleanly. The crowd thundered. Holloway slapped his hands in frustration, knowing he'd been baited and broken in a single sequence.

And Ryan jogged back, stone-faced, as if it were nothing more than business.

The Bullets wasted no time striking back. John Adebayo-Kambon bullied his way into the paint, lowering his shoulder and powering through Gibson. The contact barely slowed him—he spun off balance, gathered in midair, and banked it high off the glass as the whistle shrieked. The ball dropped clean, and the crowd groaned. An old-fashioned three-point play in the making.

Kambon's jumper might still be a work in progress, but around the rim he's unstoppable—a blunt-force weapon no defense has solved. He walked calmly to the free-throw line, expression unreadable.

That's when the big screen above Iron Vault Arena lit up with a countdown clock. From the moment the referee bounced him the ball, the numbers started flashing. And the fans? They joined right in.

"One… two… three…"

The chant rolled like a wave through the arena.

On the lane line, Ryan Carter shot a look across Holloway toward his teammate. "What's going on?" he asked Darius, baffled by the count.

Darius grinned. "He always takes too long. They're trying to mess with him."

Holloway, sandwiched between them, sneered. "Cheap tricks. You guys are pathetic."

Technically, the rules were on the fans' side—ten seconds max once the shooter receives the ball, or it's a violation. But officials rarely enforce it unless the delay is blatant. A second or two over? Usually ignored. The countdown wasn't about the rule. It was about rattling the league's MVP.

The chant hit "eleven" just as Kambon finally hoisted his shot.

Clang!

The ball smashed hard off the rim, drawing a roar from the crowd.

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