The Roarers inbounded from the sideline. Their hot shooting hadn't cooled, and after two sharp passes around the arc, Darius rose up with confidence. The ball traced a clean line through the air and splashed down. Three more points.

The second quarter turned into a tug-of-war. Every basket answered by another. For the Roarers, it was their perimeter artillery; for the Bullets, it was all Kambon, relentless in his attacks at the rim. But the defense couldn't sag too far inside, because Milton showed touch from midrange and even buried a three, while Holloway, usually quiet, drilled one from deep.

When the buzzer finally rang, the scoreboard read: Roarers 63, Bullets 61.

Inside the locker room, sweat still clinging to jerseys, the team gathered around Coach Crawford. His tone was calm, but firm.

"Stanley," Crawford said, eyes narrowing with intent. "Third quarter, you're in. Stick to Kambon. Don't give him space. Make him work for everything."

Stanley nodded, jaw tight. "Yes, Coach."

Crawford didn't need to explain. Kambon had already hung 29 points on them, his presence like a wrecking ball in the paint. If they let him continue unchecked, it could break the game wide open.

The matchup looked absurd on paper—Stanley giving up a half-foot in height, a mismatch by every definition. But basketball is more than measurements. Sometimes chaos works better than size. Crawford wanted a "mad dog" glued to Kambon's hip, and Stanley was perfect for that role.

Look at this season's NBA—Western Conference Semifinals, Game 7, Thunder versus Nuggets. Denver's colossus, Nikola Jokić was stifled. Not by another seven-footer, but by 6'3" Alex Caruso. He clung to Jokić like a shadow, clawing, bumping, denying every touch, daring the officials to whistle him off the floor. It wasn't size or skill that broke Denver's rhythm, but chaos. And because of it, the Thunder stormed past the defending champs and into the Conference Finals.

Stanley didn't hesitate. He hadn't played a minute in the first half, but his eyes gleamed with a kind of hunger only a role player knows. "Yes, Coach."

The third quarter opened like a different war. Both sides clamped down on defense, bodies crashing, arms everywhere. The Roarers' hot shooting cooled. Each basket now had to be earned through grit and patience.

Stanley didn't shut Kambon down—no one alive could—but he made every touch miserable. His chest pressed into Kambon's back, his arms clawing at passing lanes, his feet never stopping. Each drive cost Kambon more sweat, more breath. The big man scored, but every bucket came with bruises. The crowd fed off Stanley's relentless energy.

On one possession, Stanley's relentless pressure forced Kambon into a rare travel, the whistle a small victory that sent the home crowd into a frenzy.

With five minutes left in the quarter, the scoreboard read Roarers 78, Bullets 75.

The Bullets brought the ball up, Holloway directing traffic. At the top of the arc, Kambon demanded it, palms wide, voice cutting through the arena. He wanted isolation. He wanted blood.

Stanley crouched low, arms spread.

Kambon caught it. He faked a jumper, sharp enough to pull Stanley's weight forward. The instant the defender bit, Kambon drove left, pounding the ball with his off hand. Stanley slid, quick for his size, but Kambon planted hard on his right foot, spun like a tornado, and pulled the ball back to his right hand.

It was his signature. A lightning-fast spin from the middle of the floor, the kind that left defenders clawing at empty air. And once he cleared the first body, his freakish explosiveness did the rest—usually finishing with a thunderous dunk.

Stanley stumbled, momentum gone. Kambon exploded past him, cutting down the lane like a predator uncaged.

Malik stepped up, arms wide, desperate to wall off the rim. But Kambon's stride was too long, his body too strong. He slipped around the contact, leaning into space, eyes fixed on the basket. The rim beckoned, and the crowd surged with anticipation.

He cocked the ball in one massive hand, coiling for a finish that would shake the rafters. The kind of dunk that ends up on posters, a statement of dominance.

But just as he lifted off, a shadow streaked into the frame. Ryan had read it all, breaking free from the weak side, sprinting with every ounce of fury left in his legs.

In one perfect heartbeat, flight met flight.

Kambon rose, intent on destruction. Ryan rose higher, driven by something rawer—vengeance.

The ball met palm with a crack that echoed like gunfire. Ryan's hand swallowed Kambon's dunk attempt, pinning it against the glass. For a moment, time froze—the MVP, denied, the arena gasping in disbelief. Then gravity reclaimed them both.

Ryan landed first, chest heaving, the ball already bouncing free into Malik's waiting hands. Kambon staggered, his dominance interrupted, his glare fixed on the man who had just erased him.

The Roarers' bench exploded, players leaping, fists pounding the air. The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of noise crashing down.

For Ryan, it was personal. Earlier in the night, Kambon had embarrassed him with a monster block of his own. This wasn't just defense. This was retribution. Balance restored.

The ball was barely in Malik's hands before he snapped it forward, threading a pass that split two defenders. Darius caught it in stride near half court. His shoes squealed against the hardwood as he accelerated, head down like a sprinter exploding off the blocks. The Bullets' transition defense was late, scrambling. One player lunged, another reached, but Darius lowered his shoulder, extended the ball, and finished with a gliding layup that banked off the glass and through the net.

The arena roared.

Roarers 80, Bullets 75.

The Bullets had no choice—they signaled for a timeout. Kambon jogged toward the bench, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin. He had carried the offense on his back all night, pounding the paint possession after possession. He needed a breather, if only to gather strength for the final storm that awaited in the fourth.

During the timeout, the stadium screens replayed Ryan's block from every angle, each slow-motion shot drawing louder cheers.

Crawford also pulled some of his starters, sending in the bench to handle the stretch.

The game resumed, intensity undimmed. Substitutes scrapped for loose balls, bodies crashed under the rim. The score ticked upward in gritty increments, neither team giving ground easily. When the buzzer finally blared to close the third quarter, the scoreboard glowed:

Roarers 88, Bullets 82.

The building hummed with anticipation. Everyone knew what the fourth quarter would bring.

But when the final frame began, the Roarers held back their closing lineup. Crawford trusted his reserves to steal a few more minutes, and the bench fought with grit to protect the lead.

Three minutes bled away. The Bullets, with Kambon back on the floor and wreaking havoc, closed the gap possession by possession. A hook shot here, a pair of free throws there—the lead shrank until the scoreboard read: Roarers 96, Bullets 92.

Crawford rose from his seat, clapped his hands once, and signaled for time. The horn echoed, and the arena buzzed as five figures gathered near the scorer's table. At last, the Roarers unveiled their finishing unit: Ryan, Darius, Malik, Kamara, and Gibson. The starters jogged back onto the hardwood, shoulders squared, eyes burning with the weight of the moment.

The true battle for victory was about to begin.

The crowd sensed the shift. This was it—the last stretch, the heavyweight minutes.

Every possession now carried the weight of destiny.

The game spiraled into chaos and brilliance. Kambon was otherworldly, a colossus with the ball in his hands. He drew double-teams, spun free, dished to shooters, and still managed to dominate inside.

With two minutes left, Kambon sealed his man in the post, powered through contact, and banked in a shot off the glass. His fist pump was thunder, his eyes burning like a man possessed.

But Ryan responded without hesitation. On the very next possession, he froze his defender with a push crossover, rose at the elbow, and buried a jumper that cut through the noise like a blade. He didn't celebrate—just turned and locked eyes with Kambon, a silent promise that this duel wasn't finished.

As the clock bled down and the game entered its final minute, his stat line had grown absurd: 20-for-16 from the field, 16 free throws attempted, 42 points, 12 rebounds, 10 assists—a triple-double worthy of myth.

But Ryan answered. Every time. The Roarers' captain was a storm in human form, controlling tempo with surgical precision. He drilled mid-range jumpers, attacked the rim with fury, and threaded passes that seemed impossible until they were complete. By the time the last minute began, his line glittered too: 12-for-16 from the floor, perfect from deep, 6-of-8 from the stripe, 33 points, 10 rebounds, 11 assists—another triple-double.

In the broadcast booth, Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy's voice cracked with excitement. "This isn't just a clash of last week's Players of the Week—it's a triple-double showdown for the ages!" Sammy "Quicklip" Lee laughed. "Kambon and Ryan are putting on a clinic. Who's gonna blink first?"

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