John Adebayo-Kambon might be the league's reigning MVP, but even kings have flaws. For him, it's the free throw line. His career mark sits at a miserable 59 percent, a blemish that stubbornly refuses to improve. Every trip to the stripe turns into a ritual: the deep breaths, the long pauses, the exaggerated dribbles. He milks every second of the ten-second window, searching for rhythm, searching for a feel that too often betrays him.

Kambon's free throw clanged off the back iron with a harsh metallic echo. Sloan boxed out perfectly, snatching the rebound with two hands, and wasted no time. He zipped an outlet pass straight to Ryan.

That's when the Roarers flipped the switch.

Ryan already had Coach Crawford's voice in his ear: "Fight fire with fire—if they run the break, we'll run it right back at them."

He took the ball at three-quarters speed for only a heartbeat, then hit the gas. Two dribbles and he was at half court. By the third, he'd already shifted gears, angling his body between defenders, slashing downhill like a knife through fabric. One final gather, a leap through traffic, and Ryan hammered home a thunderous dunk that rattled the rim.

"Beautiful coast-to-coast from Ryan !" Mad Dog exploded on the broadcast. "And folks, did you catch that? Look at the way he handles the ball—it's unorthodox, it's different."

Mad Dog wasn't just shouting into the mic. He was dissecting. Few analysts study the nuances like he does, and Ryan's dribble had become a pet project of his. Ryan doesn't glide like most guards. He doesn't pound the ball low and tight.

Mad Dog leaned in. "See that push move? That's not your classic crossover. Ryan doesn't care about shaking ankles. He cares about speed—pure, unrelenting speed."

The "push crossover" is a move that almost seems too simple: one hand nudges the ball across to the other, not snapped low, not disguised with flair, but pushed. The key lies in that word—push. The transfer is quicker, less dramatic, but it allows momentum to flow without interruption. Where a normal crossover might cost a fraction of a second, the push keeps the accelerator pinned.

That's why Westbrook weaponized it. And that's why Ryan has started making it his signature too. In transition, it's devastating. One push move, and suddenly he's changed direction without losing a single stride of pace. From half court to the rim, the ball seems to vanish and reappear, always staying one step ahead of the defense.

There's another wrinkle most fans miss, but Mad Dog didn't. "Look at the height of his dribble!" he barked. "He's not keeping it low like other guards. He's letting it ride high, waist level, even chest level at times."

It sounds counterintuitive—high dribbles invite turnovers. But for a player like Ryan, the benefits outweigh the risks. A higher bounce means fewer dribbles to cover the same distance. Each push propels him forward like a sprinter's stride. Instead of six dribbles from half court to the rim, he might need only three. Less wasted motion, more raw velocity. Add in his explosive leaping ability, and suddenly the picture is clear: why he can go from a standing start at midcourt to a poster dunk in the blink of an eye.

And it isn't just a fast-break trick. Even in the half-court, when defenses are set, the push crossover gives Ryan an edge. He doesn't toy with defenders—he blasts through them. One high push, a burst of acceleration, and the defense is cracked open, the help arriving too late.

As Mad Dog wrapped his breakdown, the replay flashed on the screen—Ryan's dunk from three angles, each one capturing the violence of the finish. The arena was still buzzing, fans on their feet, the sound rolling like thunder.

The Bullets didn't take long to answer. And of course, the response came from their anchor, their immovable force in the paint—John Adebayo-Kambon.

There are players you can scheme against, even great ones. You can double, trap, zone, rotate—hope to bend them into inefficiency. But Kambon? No one in the league has found an answer. His game is as blunt as a hammer and just as effective: put his head down, carve a path, and finish through whatever flesh dares to stand in front of him.

This time was no different. He caught the ball in stride, his shoulders lowering like a fullback, and barreled down the lane. The Roarers had scrambled back, Sloan squared up, chest braced, but it didn't matter. Contact echoed like a car crash, and Kambon spun the ball softly off the glass before landing on both feet with a grunt. Two more points, easy as breathing.

Coach Crawford, arms crossed, didn't flinch. He'd expected this. His instructions were the same: no doubles. They'd let Kambon eat one-on-one, trust Sloan and Gibson to survive the collisions, and instead choke off the lifelines—the passing lanes, the kick-outs. Kambon could score forty and Crawford would live with it. What he wouldn't live with was Kambon creating open threes for everyone else.

The scoreboard read 44–41. Roarers up, and the outside shots still falling. As long as that rhythm held, one man—MVP or not—wasn't enough to drag the Bullets back alone.

The Roarers wasted no time inbounding, Ryan jogging the ball across halfcourt. But Holloway was already waiting, body low, arms spread, the same granite stare.

The duel resumed.

Ryan rocked the dribble casually, eyes calm, then snapped the ball between his legs into a crossover. His left foot jabbed hard toward the right wing, body leaning as if to explode past. Holloway, seasoned as ever, retreated a step, cutting off the drive lane. No invitation this time.

But Ryan wasn't selling speed—he was baiting. Just like before. He slid the ball back between his legs, body snapping upright, and took a hard retreat step. Now he was outside the arc again, three full feet of daylight opening between them.

Holloway's jaw tightened. He'd seen this before. Same setup, same bluff, same damned retreat dribble.

"You're not pulling that twice." Holloway muttered under his breath.

Two meters of space separated them now. Holloway refused to bite. He wasn't lunging again, not after the embarrassment of being burned earlier. If Ryan wanted to take the shot, let him.

Holloway folded his arms tight, daring him: Prove it. You don't have that range.

For a heartbeat, Ryan hesitated. His reputation wasn't built on the jumper. He knew Holloway knew that. But the defender wasn't closing out, wasn't even pretending. And there are moments in basketball where hesitation is the deadliest sin.

So Ryan rose. Release high, motion clean.

The ball spun forward, tracing a perfect arc.

Swish.

The net snapped tight, a pure sound, and the crowd erupted.

Ryan jogged back on defense, expression unreadable. Holloway, meanwhile, could only bite his lip, his pride stung by the simplest cruelty of all: daring a man to shoot, and watching him bury it.

The Bullets came back the other way, predictably pounding it inside again. Sloan met Kambon at the rim, chest firm, arms vertical—but Sloan's body cracked like timber under the collision. The whistle shrieked. Foul.

Crawford clapped once from the sideline, satisfied enough. This was the plan—better to put Kambon on the line than let him finish at the rim. With his free throws, every foul was practically a defensive stop.

And then came the theater.

On the jumbotron above Iron Vault Arena, the countdown lit up. Ten seconds. The referee bounced Kambon the ball, and instantly the crowd began.

"One! Two! Three!"

The chant rolled like thunder, mocking, rhythmic.

But Kambon? He was unmoved. He'd heard it a hundred times. His free-throw routine was molasses-slow, deliberate, eleven seconds from gather to release, every single time.

The first shot kissed the rim and dropped in. Murmurs of surprise scattered through the stands.

The second? Same cadence, same calm. He bent, rose, flicked—clank. The ball smashed off iron, ricocheting high.

This time, Ryan claimed the rebound, palming it with one hand and exploding upcourt before anyone else could blink.

Three dribbles from baseline to midcourt. His dribble rode high, waist-level, almost reckless, but efficient. The push crossover—his weapon of choice—came next, the ball shoved violently from one hand to the other, a sudden veer that shifted his angle without bleeding speed. Defenders scrambled, but they were already behind.

In a blur, he was at the rim. One more stride, legs coiled, body springing skyward—

And then a shadow.

Out of nowhere, Kambon surged back into the frame. The MVP, beaten downcourt, had refused to quit. His recovery was a freight train gathering steam, and now he rose with both arms outstretched, a wall of muscle and timing.

Ryan's eyes widened midair. The dunk was there—he could already see the rim shaking, hear the roar—but now a new picture replaced it: Kambon, apexed, hand cocked, ready to erase everything.

The two forces met above the iron.

Kambon's palm smacked the ball with violent finality, sending it rocketing back the way it came. The block echoed like a cannon shot, a punctuation mark heard across the arena.

Gasps tore from the stands, the sudden silence of disbelief crashing down before the Bullets' bench erupted in cheers.

Ryan landed hard, chest heaving, eyes flicking upward to the titan who had just turned his statement into a question mark.

And in that frozen moment, the contrast was perfect—Carter, the fearless underdog trying to announce himself, and Kambon, the reigning MVP, reminding everyone why the throne was his.

The game was far from over.

But the battle lines were clear.

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