CHAPTER 101: CHAPTER 101 :THEY PULLED FROM THE LOGO—FIRST MINUTE!

The Skydome Arena was a cauldron of noise on Thursday, 9:30 p.m., its steel beams trembling under the weight of a frenzied Halveth crowd.

The court buzzed as the starting lineups took their places.

Ryan, in his Bright Crimson Vantix custom PEs, felt the floor’s pulse through his soles, each step a spark in the powder keg of the game.

Across the court, Trey Yates, the Skyhawks’ sharpshooting point guard, exuded a predator’s calm.

The Roarers started with their usual five: Ryan, Darius, Malik, Kamara, and Gibson.

Halveth Skyhawks won the tip. Yates grabbed the ball.

The Roarers all dropped back on defense—

All except Ryan.

He bolted forward, pressing Yates full-court, right at the logo, before the Skyhawks could even set their offense.

The crowd erupted in a collective gasp. On the broadcast, announcer Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy’s voice cracked with disbelief: "What the hell is Ryan doing? Full-court press from the jump?"

His partner, Sammy "Quicklip" Lee, chimed in: "He’s going after Yates like a man possessed! Skydome’s losing its mind!"

The announcers didn’t know about the bet Ryan and Yates had made minutes earlier—a friendly wager for dinner, first on who’d score more, then on who’d hit a logo three first.

Ryan wasn’t about to lose.

Yates stayed near the logo, bouncing the ball with casual rhythm. He caught Ryan creeping up and smirked. "You really that scared of losing a meal?"

Ryan said nothing. Eyes locked.

Then, like a snake, he exploded into a crossover, blowing past Ryan’s outstretched arms.

Ryan sank back a step, ready for the drive, but Yates slammed on the brakes, his sneakers squeaking at the logo’s edge.

He squared up, not with a standard jumper but a push-shot, the kind reserved for deep bombs.

Not from that distance. Too far for standard mechanics.

Despite his wiry frame, Yates’ core was steel, his arms launching the ball from his chest with a flick that carried impossible force.

Mad Dog’s voice boomed: "Oh my God, Yates is going logo from the tip! This is insanity!"

The ball arced high, a comet trailing silence as the crowd held its breath. Ryan turned, tracking its flight, his heart pounding. Please miss.

Bang.

The ball clanged off the backboard.

Malik swooped in, snatching the rebound as the Skydome groaned.

Mad Dog leaned into his mic, voice rising. "Wait a second—did Ryan know Yates was gonna pull from the logo? Is that why he picked him up that early?"

Quicklip chuckled. "Could be. He saw it with his own eyes at the Rising Stars game—front row for that logo bomb."

Malik snared the rebound and flipped it to Ryan.

Ryan crossed half court. Yates stepped up to meet him.

Now it was his turn.

The commentators were already buzzing.

"Wait a minute, now Yates is guarding full court?"

Yates didn’t press too tight. "Room to shoot," he said, backing off just a bit. "If you’re feelin’ lucky."

Ryan grinned. "Appreciate the generosity."

He planted his feet at the logo’s center, gripping the ball. No push-shot for him—he went with a standard jumper form, but every muscle in his upper body coiled, slinging the ball with a force that felt almost reckless. The crowd buzzed, sensing madness.

Mad Dog nearly choked: "No way! Ryan’s pulling a logo three now? These guys are unhinged!"

Quicklip shouted: "This is further than Yates’ shot! The kid’s got no fear!"

The ball soared, its arc impossibly long, the Skydome falling silent again. Ryan didn’t need to watch. The system’s voice echoed in his mind from the pre-game draw:

[ONE LOGO THREE, 100% ACCURACY].

As long as he aimed true and powered it right, it was money.

The ball kissed the net with a clean swish, and the arena exploded, Roarers fans leaping like they’d won the lottery.

The Roarers bench went ballistic—players standing, shouting, hugging each other like someone just won the championship.

Ryan turned to Yates, a sly grin spreading. "That’s one meal in the bag."

Yates shook his head, bitter laughter escaping. "You got some damn luck, man."

Ryan shrugged, "Now it’s just the scoring bet. Let’s play for real."

Yates’ eyes narrowed, his smile tightening. "Bet. I’m taking that one back."

Mad Dog was struggling to keep up.

"What just happened?! We’ve got back-to-back logo attempts in the first minute!"

"There’s definitely a bet involved," Quicklip said. "Look at those smiles."

"Had to be during warmups," the first agreed. "They were chatting out there. I guarantee you this was a dare."

They were right.

Skyhawks’ ball. Yates dribbled at the top, his wiry frame moving with a cobra’s grace. Ryan, fresh off his logo three that won their first bet, eased off the full-court press. No need to hound Yates at halfcourt now—Yates had lost the logo bet, and those shots were more about luck than strategy.

Yates wasn’t done, though.

He called for a screen, slipping past Gibson’s pick with liquid ease, popping out to the arc with a sliver of space.

Without hesitation, he rose, firing a pull-up three, the ball slicing the air like a cannon shot.

Swish.

Clean.

The Skydome erupted, fans leaping as Yates spun, throwing Ryan a quick glance, his smirk saying, Game’s not over.

Ryan’s jaw tightened, his competitive fire flaring.

No way he’d let Yates steal the spotlight. The Roarers inbounded fast, Darius charging upcourt like a sprinter, weaving through defenders.

He hit Ryan with a slick hand-off at the elbow, where only the Skyhawks’ center stood in his way. Ryan squared up, his shoulders dipping in a fake jumper that sent the center’s massive frame soaring for a block. Ryan sidestepped right, smooth as silk, and launched a mid-air floater.

Swish.

The ball kissed the net, and the Roarers’ bench roared.

Ryan shot Yates a look, his grin sharp.

Your move.

The crowd was electric, the announcers feeding the frenzy. Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy’s voice boomed over the broadcast: "Yates with a dagger three, but Ryan answers right back! These two are putting on a show!"

Sammy "Quicklip" Lee jumped in: "Ryan not letting Yates run this court!"

Skyhawks’ ball again, and Yates wasn’t slowing down.

At the three-point line, Ryan slid in front, arms wide, but Yates’ eyes gleamed with reckless confidence.

He rose, ignoring Ryan’s outstretched hand, and fired another three, the ball arcing high. Swish.

The net barely moved, and the Halveth fans lost it, their cheers a tidal wave.

Mad Dog dragged out his call: "Another trey from Trey Yates!"

Quicklip added: "He’s shooting like he’s got a personal vendetta!"

Ryan didn’t flinch.

Roarers’ possession, he pushed the pace, weaving through traffic to the paint. Skyhawks’ center loomed again, but Ryan slipped under him, floating a layup that danced on the rim before dropping.

Mad Dog shouted: "Ryan’s keeping pace! These two are trading blows like prizefighters!" Quicklip laughed: "I’m telling you, Jack, they’ve got a bet going. Yates usually sets up his squad first, but tonight? He’s gunning like it’s personal."

Mad Dog leaned into his mic: "No doubt! Both guys are on fire—this is a duel for the ages!"

The quarter turned into a streetball slugfest, Ryan and Yates locked in a scoring war. Both were scorching—Ryan’s shots were mostly twos, crafty drives and mid-range pull-ups, while Yates leaned on his sniper’s touch, drilling threes.

Both coaches, Crawford for the Roarers and Skyhawks’ veteran sideline general, seemed to sense the magic.

They kept their stars on the floor, letting the duel play out.

The crowd fed off it, every bucket igniting cheers or groans, the Skydome a pressure cooker of noise and heat.

Ryan’s mind was a blur of focus, his Bright Crimson PEs gripping the hardwood like claws. He could feel the system’s Westbrook sync—88.3%, steady but not enough to dominate Yates alone.

The logo three had been a system gift, but now it was raw skill against raw skill. Yates was a beast—20-plus points a game, 11.4 assists, a playmaking wizard—but Ryan had broken Maddox last game. He could break Yates too.

As the first quarter wound down, the scoreboards blazed 38-38, a deadlock. Ryan went 6-for-8, his only three the logo shot, plus two free throws, for 15 points. Yates matched his shots, 6-for-8, but four of his were threes, giving him 16, edging Ryan out.

The buzzer sounded, and the Roarers jogged to their bench, sweat dripping, the crowd still buzzing. Kamara grabbed Ryan’s shoulder, eyes wide. "Yo, what’s up with you and Yates? Y’all going at it like it’s a streetball grudge match."

Ryan grinned, wiping his face with a towel. "Just a little bet. Dinner’s on the loser, whoever scores less."

Kamara laughed, shaking his head. "Man, you’re wild. But hey—if you lose, I’m definitely tagging along for that free meal!"

Ryan glanced at Yates across the court, the point guard’s eyes still burning. The duel was far from over, and with the scoring bet still alive, Ryan knew the second quarter would be a war.