CHAPTER 102: CHAPTER 102 :LOGO BUZZER-BEATER!

The second quarter tipped off with Ryan taking a breather on the bench. Yates? Same story. Both stars sat out to start the frame.

But it didn’t mean the fireworks stopped.

Maybe it was watching Yates go off earlier, but something lit a fire under Lin.

The Roarers’ backup guard came in scorching—three straight trips, three straight threes. All net, no hesitation.

In just under two minutes, the Roarers had punched out an 11–4 run. Skyhawks head coach slammed the clipboard and called timeout.

49–42. Roarers were up. And Ryan hadn’t even touched the court that quarter.

Announcer Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy roared over the broadcast: "Lin’s stealing the show! Three for three from deep—this kid’s on a mission!"

On the Roarers’ bench, Kamara slapped Lin’s shoulder as he sat, grinning. "You trying to outshine Yates, huh? Keep that heat, man!"

Ryan, sipping water, glanced at the Skyhawks’ bench. Yates was peeling off his ice pack, his eyes burning. He was coming back.

Ryan leaned toward Coach Crawford, voice low. "Coach, can you put me in when Yates goes back out there?"

Crawford’s steely gaze met Ryan’s, silent for a beat. Ryan scratched his neck, sheepish. "It’s just... we got a bet going. No big deal if it’s not the plan."

Crawford’s jaw tightened. "Don’t let some side bet mess with the game. Team wins come first."

He was right—and subbing Ryan in wasn’t that simple. Lin was unconscious right now. No way you pull a guy shooting 100% from deep. And Darius had only just gotten back in after a long first-quarter rest.

Ryan nodded. "Got it, Coach."

Timeout over, Yates strode onto the court, flashing Ryan a taunting grin from across the floor.

With Ryan sidelined, Yates went to work, carving up the Roarers’ defense.

In three minutes, he buried two of three threes and a mid-range jumper, piling on 8 points to hit 24 total, nine ahead of Ryan’s 15. But the Skyhawks couldn’t close the gap—Lin kept cooking, nailing two more threes, and Darius splashed one, keeping the Roarers up 60-52.

Mad Dog’s voice exploded through the broadcast:

"Lin is going nuclear tonight! Five-for-five from downtown! He’s trading bombs with Yates and not backing down!"

It was about time to get Ryan back on the floor—but Crawford hesitated. Lin was still locked in.

He waited another minute.

Then Lin finally missed. Just once.

That was all Crawford needed. He made the switch.

Ryan checked back in.

Ryan stepped back onto the floor. That last minute had been a stalemate—neither team scored, the scoreboard frozen at 60–52.

Eager to close the scoring gap with Yates, Ryan came out aggressive, hunting his shot. But the first-quarter flame had cooled—his rhythm just wasn’t the same.

Yates wasn’t faring much better. After missing two in a row, he eased off the gas, shifting gears into a facilitator role.

Halftime buzzer.

Roarers led 72–65.

The third quarter flipped the script.

Yates came out of the locker room like a man possessed, a one-man storm.

Two minutes in, he drilled two threes and a mid-range jumper. Just like that, Skyhawks were within one:

Roarers 74 – Skyhawks 73.

The crowd went ballistic. Skydome felt like it was about to erupt.

Crawford had no choice. Timeout.

He huddled the team, scrambling to find a way to put the brakes on Yates. But when a player’s that deep in his bag, it almost doesn’t matter who’s guarding him.

Yates came out of the timeout and didn’t slow down—another three, another layup, another punch to the gut.

Crawford shook his head on the sideline. "You can’t defend crazy," he muttered.

And he refused to double. That wasn’t their style.

He turned to Stanley. "You think you can slow him down?"

Stanley looked toward the court, where Yates was practically levitating.

"I’ll try."

At the next dead ball, Crawford swapped Gibson for Stanley.

Yates brought the ball up, but Stanley was on him from the logo, hounding every step. Containing a crazed shooter in a few possessions was a pipe dream—you had to wear them down, sap their legs.

Yates, unfazed, hit Stanley with a behind-the-back dribble, shifting right while nudging Stanley left with his shoulder, then exploded toward the wing. Stanley backpedaled, lunging to block the lane, but Yates pulled back, stepping outside the arc. He fired a three, Stanley’s hand a split-second late.

Swish.

The crowd roared.

Mad Dog screamed: "Yates is unstoppable! Stanley’s fighting, but Yates on another planet!"

Ryan answered with a hard dunk on the next play—slamming one home just to let Yates know he wasn’t going away.

And so the shootout continued.

Yates hit two more buckets, but Stanley’s constant pressure started chipping away. His legs were slowing. His shot wasn’t as clean.

Two misses later, Skyhawks finally gave him a breather.

3:58 left in the third.

Skyhawks 97 – Roarers 94.

Yates had dropped a monstrous 44 points.

Ryan? 30.

The bet looked all but lost.

Ryan’s career-high was 48.

If he wanted to beat Yates, he’d likely need to set a new personal best.

But he wasn’t giving up.

The moment Yates sat, Ryan locked in. He had to score—and fast.

With Yates out, the Skyhawks’ defense tightened. Yates’ slim frame had been a weak link—Roarers had feasted on mismatches, isolating him for easy buckets. Now, Ryan faced stiffer resistance, his shots contested, his drives smothered.

End of the fourth.

Skyhawks 103 – Roarers 102.

Ryan finished with 34. A solid night by any standard.

But Yates’ 44 loomed like a shadow.

Ten points short.

The fourth quarter opened like a slow burn.

Both teams were grinding. The scoring slowed, the energy drained.

Six minutes in, you could see it: Ryan and Yates were gassed.

Jumpers clanged. Legs dragged.

After yet another miss from Ryan, Coach Crawford called timeout.

The clock froze at 4:33. Tied at 114.

Ryan sat on the bench, drenched in sweat, chest heaving like a piston.

Crawford squatted beside him.

"You good?"

Ryan was breathing hard—harder than he wanted to admit.

But this wasn’t the time to fold.

He nodded. "I’m good."

Timeout ended. The final stretch began.

Roarers sent out their closing lineup: Ryan, Darius, Kamara, Malik, Stanley.

On the other end, the Skyhawks started their possession, but Yates handed off the ball. Even he looked winded now—he’d logged more minutes than anyone.

Scoring remained a struggle. Time slipped by.

One minute left. 122–122.

And still, neither Ryan nor Yates had added to their totals.

Yates had 47. Ryan 38.

Yates tried to take matters into his own hands—dribbled up, looked for space—but Stanley picked his pocket.

Fast break.

Kamara to Darius, then a dish to Ryan—

Boom!

A two-handed slam.

Roarers up by two.

:50 on the clock.

Skyhawks came back down. Roarers dug in. Ten seconds into the possession, Yates drove into the lane, drawing two defenders.

Pump fake. Kick out.

Their shooting guard was wide open on the right wing.

He pulled the trigger—

Swish.

Skyhawks 125, Roarers 124.

:38 left.

The Skydome erupted.

Roarers didn’t wait. Quick inbound.

Ryan brought it up, handed off to Darius, and set the screen.

Darius pulled up from deep—

Bang.

Roarers 127, Skyhawks 125.

:32 to play.

Skyhawks called timeout.

On the Roarers’ bench, Crawford kept it simple:

"Lock in. Especially on Yates. I don’t care if he’s tired—don’t give him daylight."

Whistle. Back on the court.

Fans were on their feet, the building buzzing.

Yates came off a high screen. For a split second, he had space—

He rose up.

Let it fly.

Clang.

Malik hauled in the board.

Skyhawks fans groaned in unison.

Mad Dog’s voice cracked over the broadcast:

"Guess that’s it—Yates isn’t hitting 50 tonight."

Only :27 left.

Crawford didn’t call timeout. No need.

His players knew what to do. Run clock. Stay calm.

Roarers moved the ball patiently, bleeding every second.

With one tick left on the shot clock, Ryan pulled up from the elbow—double-teamed.

Clang.

Skyhawks’ center battled for the rebound—and got it.

:03 left.

No timeout. He turned and hurled the ball downcourt.

Ryan whipped his head around—

No.

Yates had already leaked out to half court.

He caught the pass in stride, took one power step, and launched from the logo—a chest-forward push shot, all in one motion.

The ball left his hands with exactly one second left.

The entire Skydome held its breath.

Red lights flashed on the backboard.

The buzzer sounded.

But the ball was still climbing, still spinning, still defying everything.

And then—

Swish.

Pandemonium.

Fans lost their minds. The roof almost came off the place.

Mad Dog screamed:

"Logo three! At the buzzer! Yates hits 50 on the dot! Are you kidding me?!"

Quicklip shouted over him:

"That’s a nuclear-level closer! 5-0! From the freaking logo!"

Ryan stood under the basket, hands on his knees, smiling bitterly.

What else could he do?

Final score: Skyhawks 128, Roarers 127.

The Roarers’ six-game win streak? Gone.

Yates ran over. The two stars met at midcourt, breathing hard, drenched in sweat.

They hugged.

Ryan shook his head, still smiling.

Guess we split the bet—one meal each."

Yates grinned, wiping his brow. "Fair’s fair, man. Hell of a game."