CHAPTER 32: CHAPTER 32 :A BEAUTIFUL FAN. THE CITY’S RICHEST. THE TEAM’S NEW BOSS?

Ryan pushed the ball past half court, low dribble, eyes scanning.

The Boulders’ point guard was right there with him—shadowing every move. There was no daylight, no breathing room beyond the arc now. They’d learned their lesson.

Crossover. Stutter step. Behind the back. Ryan threw every trick he had at the defender, trying to crack the armor. Nothing worked. The defense stuck to him like glue, refusing to bite.

He had to give it up.

The Roarers swung the ball around the perimeter, trying to create something—anything. But the Boulders were locked in, switching seamlessly, closing out every passing lane like they’d memorized the playbook. Every shot attempt was contested. Every dribble was a risk.

Seconds bled off the clock.

The offense started to rush. The rhythm turned jagged.

Desperation crept in.

Darius caught it at the top, forced a skip pass—too slow, too telegraphed.

Interception.

The Boulders’ guard snatched it midair and turned jets on.

Ryan chased, legs pumping. He closed the gap and lunged for the block—too late. The layup dropped in clean.

112–110.

Forty seconds left. Boulders back in the lead. The Roarers were down and in a tough spot.

Last Stand.

Ryan and Darius ran a blur of handoffs, trying to warp the defense. A hesi-cross into a behind-the-back pullback—Ryan exploded toward the rim.

But Axton was waiting.

Big man, wide stance, arms spread like wings. A wall. And worse—help defense collapsed instantly. The paint was a minefield.

Ryan hit the brakes. No opening.

Then—a flash of movement in the corner.

Lin.

Alone on the baseline.

Ryan rifled a pass—laser-quick, low and tight.

Lin caught it. Hesitated. Hands trembling. Breath shallow.

He pulled the trigger.

The ball flew—a high arc that sailed just a touch too far.

Air ball.

It dropped past the rim untouched.

Chaos under the basket—Kamara and Axton both went up, bodies colliding mid-air. Kamara got a hand on it, couldn’t hold. The ball slipped through his fingers and skidded out of bounds.

Ref signaled: Boulders’ possession.

Coach Crawford didn’t hesitate—arms up, yelling for a timeout.

27 seconds on the clock.

On the Roarers’ bench, Ryan leaned in, voice urgent.

"Should we foul? Send them to the line?"

Crawford shook his head. "No."

This wasn’t like their game against Lumina—where down three with 29 ticks forced their hand. But now? Down two. That was different. That meant choice. Strategy.

A quick bucket could send it to overtime. Fouling now would just dig the hole deeper.

He scanned the players, voice rough and low:

"Listen up. No fouls. Pressure them full court. Force a turnover—don’t let them run the clock down."

A beat.

"If we get the ball back, don’t rush a three. Take the clean two. Get us to overtime. Now go!"

Horn. Chaos.

Boulders inbounded. The Roarers pounced like caged beasts set loose, smothering every pass, contesting every dribble. Boulders fought for every inch—screens set and shattered, ball movement strained, every touch tinged with panic. The Roarers stayed glued to them, but the steal never came.

The shot clock drained—down to just two seconds.

Boulders’ point guard pulled up at the free-throw line, fading away—

Let it fly.

Clang! Off the rim.

Kamara soared for the rebound—snatched it.

Four seconds left!

He fired it to Ryan, but a defender was already in his face—full-court press.

Ryan flipped it to Darius.

Darius caught it on the run, shook his man, sprinted toward the logo—

One second!

He launched it. A deep prayer into the air.

The horn blared. Time expired. The entire arena held its breath, all eyes locked on the ball spiraling through the rafters...

Bang! Off the glass. No good.

22-38. 40-15. 29-21. 21-36

Final score: Boulders 112, Roarers 110. Heartbreaker.

The arena erupted.

Boulders’ bench spilled onto the court like champagne foam, swarming their teammates in a frenzy of chest bumps and bear hugs—as if they’d just clinched the Finals, not a mid-season nail-biter.

On the other end, the Roarers stood frozen, heads down, the air sucked out of their lungs.

Darius crouched at the center-court logo, his elbows on his knees, sweat dripping off his chin and dotting the hardwood below. He stared up at the scoreboard, like it might change if he willed it hard enough.

Ryan approached quietly, placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "Don’t beat yourself up. You gave us a shot."

Darius didn’t even glance at the hand. Just snorted, wiping his mouth with his jersey.

"You know what’s crazy? The moment that ball left my hand... I already pictured it. The buzzer-beater. I even picked which section I was gonna give a full 90-degree bow to."Ryan let out a soft chuckle. "That moment’s coming."

Darius stood, wiped his face with the back of his arm.

"Next week. We get our revenge."

Yes—next Wednesday, back on home court.

The Roarers and Boulders will meet for the fourth and final time this season.

As Axton stood courtside, smiling through his post-game interview, the Roarers trudged off the floor in silence—single file, heads down—toward the tunnel.

Ryan lingered at the end, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood with every reluctant step, as if the weight of the loss clung to his heels.

Then he heard it.

"Ryan."

A sweet voice cut through the noise like a clean swish through the net. He stopped mid-step, lifting his head.

Just above the tunnel, leaning over the railing on the sideline stands, was a woman—gorgeous, golden hair tumbling over her shoulders like sunlight spilled from a glass.

She wore a white T-shirt underneath a Roarers home jersey—bold in its royal blue and gold, standing out in a sea of neutrals.

That alone was rare. Roarers barely pulled 50% attendance at home games, and seeing one of their fans this far on the road? Pretty uncommon.

But what really caught him was the number.

0.

For years, Roarers jerseys had struggled to sell. Outside of the five starters, only a small batch was ever stocked—just enough to meet minimal demand. All other player jerseys had to be specially ordered, with names and numbers custom-printed.

Of course, there was always the iconic #1—Marcus. Dead seven years now, but his jersey still outsold everyone’s, year after year.

Zero, though?

Is that... mine?

Ryan blinked, unsure. Had anyone ever worn zero before him?

Almost like she read his thoughts, the girl turned. There it was—bright and clean across her back: 0 RYAN.

[Note: Jersey name rules are flexible - Players can choose to use their first name, nickname, or even a preferred name for personal reasons.]

"Holy shit," Ryan muttered under his breath, wiping a streak of sweat from his brow. A fan. A real one. And a knockout, too?

But even beautiful felt like a limp word. This was the kind of beauty that made rookies forget the playbook, that made GMs toss scouting reports in the trash.

She turned back to face him. Her smile wasn’t the frantic grin of a superfan—it was quieter. Knowing.

"Nice game," she said. "Shame about the ending."

Ryan chuckled, a little embarrassed. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Win it next week."

He nodded. "Count on it."

She gave a little smile—close-lipped, unreadable—and didn’t say anything else.

There was a pause. Ryan found himself frozen, unsure what to say next. Was he supposed to offer his shoes? His jersey? Wasn’t that what players did?

But then she said it. Smooth and certain.

"We’ll see each other again. Soon."

Then she turned, just like that, disappearing into the crowd,

leaving Ryan standing there, momentarily lost in place.

No autograph. No selfie.

He shook his head, smiling to himself as he stepped into the tunnel.

By the time Ryan stepped into the tunnel, the others were gone.

No sign of the Roarers—just the echo of their footsteps fading behind the closed locker room door at the far end.

Except for one.

Kamara was still there, lingering near the tunnel’s entrance.

He leaned casually against the concrete wall just inside, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Ryan as he walked in—like he’d been waiting all along.

"You waited for me?" Ryan asked, eyebrows raised.

As Ryan walked by, Kamara fell into step beside him. He draped an arm over Ryan’s shoulder, voice low and teasing.

"Congratulations, man. Chloe Palmer’s got her eye on you."

"Who?" Ryan frowned.

"Don’t play dumb. The girl who just talked to you."

Ryan blinked. "Her name’s Chloe...? You know her?"

Kamara gave him a look, part amused, part exasperated.

"Is there anyone in Iron City who doesn’t know Chloe Palmer? Or more importantly—her father?"

Ryan glanced at Kamara, who looked like he was enjoying the gossip a little too much. The slump in his shoulders from the loss was gone.

He tilted his head. "He someone big?"

Kamara blinked in disbelief. "Wait—you didn’t know that? What, you never watched the news back when you were homeless?"

"Steven Palmer," he went on, like the name should drop like an anchor. "Richest man in Iron City. One of the top names in all of Atlantis."

Ryan raised his eyebrows slightly.

"And get this," Kamara said, lowering his voice slightly. "He’s Roarers’ biggest fan.

He’s been courtside for over a decade—shows up to almost every home game. You see him all the time."

"A diehard? Respect," Ryan said.

Kamara leaned in closer, eyes scanning their surroundings like a gossip about to spill. "You want something juicier?"

Ryan glanced over. "Sure."

"He might be buying the team."

Ryan blinked. "Buying the Roarers?"

"Yeah. Word is, he’s in talks. Might end up as our new boss real soon." Kamara gave Ryan a firm slap on the shoulder.

"Bro, if she’s really yours, you might not even have to play anymore. She could get Daddy to hand you the GM job."

Ryan let out a real laugh this time, shaking his head.

"She just came to support the team and said hi. You’re reading way too much into it."

Kamara smirked. "Yeah? Funny—she didn’t come say hi to me wearing my jersey."

As they reached the locker room door, Kamara swung it open mid-laugh—only to freeze.

Inside, the mood was funeral-quiet. Teammates sat slumped on benches, their faces grim, sweat still clinging to their skin like regret. Coach Crawford stood dead center, arms crossed, eyes burning holes through the grinning duo at the door.

Their smiles died instantly.