CHAPTER 45: CHAPTER 45 :MY DAD – ROARERS’ BEST

Tuesday night. Veltox Forum, home of the reigning champions—the Millvoque Bullets.

Not exactly a marquee matchup. Just another regular season game against the floundering Roarers, dead last in the West. But somehow, the arena was packed. That’s the weight of a title—it pulls crowds no matter the night or opponent.

John Adebayo-Kambon wasn’t suiting up tonight. But All-Stars Keith Milton and point guard Jules Holloway were. That was more than enough for the crowd.

At 7:00 p.m., both teams emerged from the tunnel under the lights.

The Bullets’ entrance was met with deafening cheers, while the Roarers might as well have been invisible.

Although Gibson started his career with the Bullets, when the camera cut to him, the crowd didn’t react at all. Understandable—who’d remember a guy who’s been anonymous his whole career, just happened to spend two seasons on the bench here over a decade ago?

Warmups.

Ryan moved through his pregame routine—a few crossovers, a pull-up jumper. He was in his red PEs tonight. The neon-orange pair? Buried deep in his locker after the Paladins disaster. Bad juju.

A hand clapped his shoulder.

"Kid."

Ryan turned.

Kambon?

The MVP stood there in street clothes, grinning like he’d just heard a private joke.

"Hey," Ryan kept it neutral. Superstars deserved respect, even confusing ones.

Kambon smirked. "LaVonte really cooked you last week, huh? Man, he made you look like a JV guard."

Ryan blinked. Was that... shade?

"But I like your game," Kambon continued. "I was actually planning to suit up tonight, play around with you a bit. But coach’s got me on rest protocol. Next time, yeah?" He patted Ryan’s shoulder again and jogged off, leaving Ryan confused.

Tonight’s starting five for the Roarers: Darius, Lin, Kamara, Gibson, and Omar.

On the Roares’ bench, Malik sat next to Ryan, dressed in a grey hoodie and joggers. He’d wanted to play—his hamstring felt 100%—but Coach Crawford insisted he rest one more game.

7:30. Buzzer. Tip-off.

Omar—shockingly—won the jump ball. Roares gained first possession.

Darius brought it up against Holloway. Three crossover attempts. Three shut-downs.

Ryan leaned toward Malik. "This guy’s clamps."

Malik nodded. "Jules Holloway. All-Star. One of the toughest perimeter defenders in the league."

With the shot clock bleeding, Darius forced a stepback over Holloway’s outstretched hand.

Clank.

Bullets rebound.

First blood to the champs. Predictable.

First Possession: Bullets.

Holloway pushed tempo, then slowed at the arc. A subtle finger-twirl—elevator doors play.

Milton curled off a double screen, catching at the left elbow. Gibson fought through, but Milton had already risen into his signature fadeaway.

Swish. 2-0 Bullets.

The crowd’s roar vibrated through the hardwood as Holloway sprinted back on defense, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. The Bullets’ bench erupted, towels waving like battle flags.

Coach Crawford stepped to the sideline and barked at Kamara as he passed by:

"Force Milton left! He’s weak left! CLAMP DOWN!"

The assistant coaches exchanged glances. Easier said than done against a scorer of Milton’s caliber.

Meanwhile, Darius had already brought the ball past the arc.

He wiped sweat from his brow, locking eyes with Holloway’s smug grin. No fancy crossovers this time. Just a crisp pass to Omar at the high post.

Omar pivoted and threaded a bounce pass to Kamara slashing along the baseline. Kamara rose up strong—

but the Bullets’ center rotated over like a thunderclap and spiked the shot into the stands.

Block.

The crowd gasped.

In the chaos, Holloway scooped up the loose ball. Fast break the other way.

At the arc, he handed it off to Milton, setting a solid screen to hold off Kamara.

Milton jab-stepped left. Kamara fought through the screen, leapt to contest—

then Milton crossed back right, just enough space.

Kamara recovered fast, but Milton was already in the air, release quicker than a viper’s strike.

Swish. 4–0.

Coach Crawford slammed his clipboard.

"LEFT! I SAID let him go left!"

The next Roarers possession ended in frustration—Darius lost the ball, stripped clean under Holloway’s suffocating defense and lightning-quick hands.

On the other end, the Bullets kept pressing. This time, Kamara managed to angle Milton hard to the left, forcing him away from his sweet spot.

But Milton simply stepped back—smooth, cold-blooded—and buried the fadeaway.

6–0.

On the Roarers bench, the assistant coaches looked grim.

"Milton’s on fire tonight."

"Yeah, even hitting from the left side."

They didn’t say what everyone was thinking: This could get ugly fast.

Next Roarers possession.

Gibson clenched his jaw as he watched Darius struggle to shake Holloway.

This can’t go on. Another empty possession and this game could spiral.

He glanced toward the lower rows of the crowd, just past the baseline.

There—his son. Easy to spot, wearing Gibson’s #4 jersey.

The kid clutched a huge poster board, but it hung low, not raised.

What’s on it?

Gibson couldn’t read it from the court, but he knew—he felt—it was about him.

Is it me? My play? Is that why you’re not holding it up?

A pang shot through Gibson’s chest.

Enough. No more waiting.

Gibson planted himself in the low block, sealing his man with a vicious forearm. "Ball!" he barked, voice cutting through the noise. Darius, desperate for an outlet, fired a skip pass.

Gibson caught it, back to the basket. One hard dribble—bang—shouldering into his defender, creating just enough space. The double-team came flying, but he was already spinning baseline, his defender stumbling.

Up.

Fake.

Then up again.

The help defender bit on the pump, and Gibson went straight through his chest—monster two-handed finish! The rim rattled as the whistle blew.

And-1.

6–2.

Gibson let out a roar, veins bulging, then turned straight toward the stands. His son was on his feet now, screaming—standing out starkly against the stunned silence of the surrounding Bullets fans—waving that poster board high.

Big, bold letters were scrawled across it in thick black marker:

"MY DAD TARIQ GIBSON – ROARERS’ BEST."

Not anymore, kid. I won’t let you down again.

Gibson pounded his chest once, pointed right at him, and strode to the line.