CHAPTER 31: CHAPTER 31 :POSTER DUNK!NO-TOUCH RIM DUNK!SPIKE DUNK!

Roarers’ bench looked like a war zone.

Five players collapsed onto their seats, chugging sports drinks like lifelines. Their jerseys were soaked, chests heaving.

Coach Crawford didn’t grab a clipboard.

He didn’t say much at all.

Just one sentence, raw and raspy:

"Two and a half. Hold the line."

This was it. These five would close the game.

And they understood.

Not an order. A covenant.

No one answered. No one could.

Five men just nodded—barely.

One brutal fourth quarter of switching, pressing, rotating, sprinting had hollowed them out.

Muscles trembling, lungs on fire.

They were playing on fumes and sheer willpower now.

Time-in. The war resumed.

Boulders ball. Down by one.

No panic. No rush.

Just calculated passes, probing the defense like surgeons finding a weak pulse.

Roarers were fading—feet heavier, closeouts lost their bite, switches slower, contests a step late.

And finally, it cracked.

Left corner. Wide open shooter.

Swish. Bottom of the net. Home crowd explodes.

107–105. Boulders back on top.

Ryan’s eyes locked onto the scoreboard. No frustration. Just cold fire. He inhaled deeply—one last draught of oxygen before the inferno.

Ball in hand, he advanced—silent, sharp, coiled.

Beyond the arc, Darius came flying toward him, hand extended—looked like a dribble hand-off.

The defense keyed in on Darius.

Ryan was about to hand off the ball to Darius.

But Darius whispered, "You go."

And Ryan took off.

First step—explosive. Second step—he was already through the arc.

His man? Toast. Chasing shadows now.

Waiting in the paint: Axton.

The Boulders’ 7-foot rim protector, arms spread wide like a medieval gate.

Ryan didn’t flinch.

He snatched the ball with one hand and launched.

Axton went up too—perfect timing, perfect position.

Bodies collided mid-air.

Ryan’s hand—still two inches from the rim.

Play-by-play, Richard Mason:

"Too far... he’s not gonna make it..."

But Ryan clenched his teeth—and fired.

Threw. The. Ball. Down.

Like a damn meteor.

Slam. Straight through the hoop.

No rim contact. No grab. No hang.

Just pure, violent, air-borne fury.

It’s a rare kind of dunk—less common than your typical poster dunk.

The most iconic example? Ja Morant skying over Wembanyama.

Sure, it didn’t count—the whistle blew first.

But who cares? That image is burned into basketball history.

"HOLY—POSTER DUNK OVER AXTON!"* Mason screamed.

Color analyst, David Wilson:

"He didn’t even touch the rim! That’s a no-touch rim dunk!"

Mason:

"It’s a freakin’ volleyball spike! A spike dunk!"

107-107. 2:06 left.

The Roarers’ bench?

One guy leapt to his feet screaming.

Another just held his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d seen.

And Ryan?

He landed, stood tall, turned to Axton—

Thumped his chest twice, and roared:

"That all you got?!"

TWEET!

Referee sprinted in—technical foul on Ryan. Excessive taunting.

Ryan muttered curses as he backpedaled into defense.

Kamara jogged past him, murmuring:

"That tech wasn’t necessary."

Ryan barked:

"Don’t care! We needed the momentum!"

Kamara smirked.

"Gonna cost you two grand."

Ryan’s eye twitched. "...Shoulda let me stay hyped."

The Boulders wasted no time.

Axton caught the ball at the high post, Kamara draped on his back.

One slow, deliberate dribble. Then he lowered his hips—shoulders squared, legs driving.

Like a bulldozer plowing through concrete, he backed Kamara down into the paint.

From the weak side, Ryan saw it unfolding.

He’s getting cooked.

He abandoned his man and lunged to help—too late.

Axton spun.

Didn’t fade, didn’t finesse—just rose up through contact.

Kamara took the full brunt to the chest and staggered back.

Ryan, desperate, wrapped both arms around Axton’s waist and yanked—

But Axton still floated it off the glass.

Glass.

Whistle.

Bucket.

And-one.

Axton straightened, locked eyes with Ryan, then bent down slightly, palm-down, leveled the "too small" right in his face. Payback.

He walked calmly to the line.

The arena held its breath.

Swish.

110–107. Boulders back on top.

1:47 left.

The war was far from over.

Roarers ball.

Ryan took the handoff from Darius beyond the arc.

Because of his relentless drives all night, the defender sagged back—way back.

Ryan froze.

A good two meters of open space in front of him.

He glanced at the defender.

No close-out. No step up.

Just standing there, daring him.

He hadn’t hit a three all game.

0-for-3.

But this? This was disrespect.

You serious?

Darius had warned him—no more threes.

But this was practice-level open.

Ryan set his feet.

Deep breath.

Bent knees.

Let it fly.

The arc was clean. The rotation was true.

Eyes across the court followed the ball’s path.

Swish.

110–110. Tie game.

Ryan clenched both fists and let out a roar.

Darius charged in—they met beyond the arc, chest-to-chest, fire in their veins.

The game raged on—1:29 left—both coaches keeping their timeouts tucked away like unspent bullets.

In games this tight, when it’s a one-possession difference, coaches often let their players ride the momentum—unless someone’s clearly out of sync or a matchup is falling apart.

It’s about rhythm, guts, and trust.

Call a timeout too early, and you risk killing the flow. The fire goes out. The hands cool down.

That’s something casual fans don’t always understand.

Even in the NBA, you’ll see coaches with timeouts left, choosing to hold them—then the game slips away and they get roasted for it.

But the smart ones know: sometimes, you let your players decide it.

The Boulders cycled the ball with playoff-level discipline—no reckless shots, no forced heroics. Every pass crisp, every cut precise, probing for the slightest crack in Roarers’ frenetic defense.

Then Axton established high post position at the elbow, calling for it with a snarl.

He got the ball.

Triple-teamed.

Kamara’s chest pressed into his spine. Stanley’s arms waved like tentacles in his face. Ryan lurked nearby, ready to intercept any escape pass.

Axton went up anyway—a fading, off-balance jumper through a forest of arms.

Clang!

Back iron.

Bodies crashed in the paint.

Shoving, elbows, chaos—no whistle.

Through the scramble, Ryan muscled in, dug deep, and came away with the rebound.

Boulders scrambled to get back on defense.

1:06 remaining. Roarers’ ball. One possession to seize control.

This next play wouldn’t just decide the lead—it would dictate the soul of the game.