CHAPTER 47: CHAPTER 47 :[100-PT MILESTONE BONUS: NIGHT OF DIMES]

Halftime buzzer screamed through the arena.

Bullets 58, Roares 55.

The Roares had clawed their way closer, but never quite closed the gap.

Milton had cooled off once Gibson took over the defensive assignment—just 1-for-4 after that—but the Bullets didn’t lean on one star alone.

They still had Holloway. Best known for his clamps, sure, but when his team needed buckets? He delivered. And let’s not forget—this was the defending champs. Every guy on that roster could ball.

Ryan had added four more points in the second, going 2-for-4. Six total.

Not bad. Not enough.

In the locker room, Crawford scribbled plays on the whiteboard, barking adjustments. The break felt too short.

Ryan stayed on the bench to start the third—he’d played the entire second quarter.

From the sidelines, he watched the collapse unfold in real time.

Less than four minutes in, the Bullets tore off a 13–4 run.

Crawford slammed his clipboard and called timeout.

Scoreboard: 71–59. Roares down double digits again.

Many teams tend to fall apart in the third quarter.

Take this season’s Lakers, for example—there was a stretch where they melted down almost every time after halftime.

Fans and media alike had a name for it: the dreaded third quarter collapse.

Analysts threw out reasons—fatigue, scouting adjustments, mental lapses.

But the truth?

You just weren’t good enough.

For a bottom-feeder like the Roares to hang with the champs for a half? That was something.

And Gibson—hell, the man was playing out of his mind. But let’s be real: career 7.8 PPG. A single 21-point game eight damn years ago. He wasn’t morphing into MJ or Kobe tonight. Fourteen points already? More than anyone could’ve asked.

Crawford rolled the dice: five-out lineup.

Back to the three-guard set—Ryan, Darius, Lin—with Kamara and Gibson up front.

Gibson was 3-for-4 from deep tonight.

Four shooters. Four spacing threats. On paper, dangerous.

But paper didn’t hit shots.

Two minutes in—four straight bricks. Ice cold.

Bullets capitalized. Another mini-run. 6–0.

77–59.

The drought finally ended where you’d least expect it: Ryan, smothered by Holloway, stepped back and launched a three.

Swish.

Nine points now.

Right then.

[CONGRATULATIONS: 100 CAREER POINTS MILESTONE ACHIEVED]

Ryan blinked. Wait—already hit 100?

Guess this means a system bonus?

(Note: Ryan’s first four games—35, 14, 33, 9 points.)

[100-PT MILESTONE BONUS: NIGHT OF DIMES]

[Tonight, you’re the playmaker—enhanced court vision, faster reads, pinpoint passing to open teammates. (Receiving players: +50% confidence, +20% FG%). Based on Dec 17, 2016 OKC vs. PHX– Westbrook’s 50th triple-double: 26 PTS / 22 AST / 17 REB.]

Assists?

Ryan’s mouth curled into a grin as he backpedaled on defense.

"System," he muttered under his breath, "I freaking love you."

Roares held firm on defense, forcing a stop.

As the possession flipped, Ryan crossed halfcourt with the ball—and the game shifted. His vision sharpened. Passing lanes stretched wide. The chaos slowed to a crawl.

Holloway stuck to him like a second shadow, but Ryan saw it all:

- The precise angle of Darius’ cut

- The half-second delay in the Bullets’ rotation

- The tiny pocket of space behind the three-point line

A quick crossover. Holloway mirrored it perfectly.

No matter.

"Darius!" Ryan fired a no-look, behind-the-back bullet the moment the help defender leaned in.

Darius caught it in rhythm, feet already set. No hesitation. Just pure, swaggering release.

Swish.

77-65.

Ryan met him midcourt for a flying hand-slap that echoed through the arena.

What followed was an offensive clinic—a blistering exchange where every Bullets bucket was answered with Roares’ artillery fire.

Milton nailed a tough mid-range? No problem. Ryan zipped a crosscourt laser to Lin in the corner.

Swish.

Holloway drove for a layup? Countered. Kamara spotted up off a Gibson screen. Nothing but net.

Five consecutive threes. Five different shooters. The net barely stopped snapping.

83-74. Three minutes left in the third, and the Bullets burned their timeout. The lead had shrunk to single digits.

Both sides made substitutions, giving their starters a breather before the final push.

Milton and Holloway took a seat.

On the Roares’ end, Kamara and Gibson were replaced by Stanley and Sloan.

But the three-point barrage didn’t stop.

With Ryan orchestrating:

- Sloan, a career 28% shooter, drained one from the wing.

- Stanley, usually a defensive specialist, hit nothing but nylon.

The Bullets’ defense stretched to the breaking point. They couldn’t sag off anyone—not with Ryan’s "+20% buff" turning every teammate into Stephen freaking Curry.

So they overcommitted.

Bad move.

Ryan smelled blood. Two straight drives—a euro-step finish, then a finger-roll over the collapsing defense.

End of Third: 92-87 Roares

Ryan had already notched a double-double: 13 points, 11 assists, and tossed in 6 rebounds for good measure.

Even as the Roares chipped away at the lead, the Bullets weren’t sweating it. They were the defending champs—confident, composed, almost casual.

Some fans started chanting, "We want Kambon!"

Kambon heard them. He shot up from the bench, pretended to stretch, then jogged onto the court with a grin.

He snatched the ball from the mascot mid-performance (the poor guy was attempting half-court trick shots), took two dribbles, and threw down a windmill dunk that sent the crowd into hysterics. Kambon milked it, waving to the stands like this was an All-Star Game before sauntering back to the bench. Message sent: We’re not worried.

As the fourth quarter began, Crawford gave Ryan and Darius a quick breather to start the final frame.

Two minutes.

That’s all the rest they got before the Bullets ripped off a 7-2 run, stretching the lead back to 99-89. Back in they went.

What followed was another shootout. The Bullets leaned into their half-court sets, grinding out buckets. The Roares? They ran. And when they run, Ryan thrives.

By the 2:45 mark, Ryan had piled up 4 more points and 5 more assists—but the real magic was coming.

Milton rose for a contested fadeaway with Gibson draped all over him.

Clank.

Ryan snagged the rebound and landed in motion. Without hesitation, he rocketed a full-court outlet pass.

Darius was already sprinting. Holloway reacted instantly and gave chase.

Most full-court heaves are prayers—too hard (out of bounds) or too soft (picked off).

Full-court outlets aren’t supposed to work like that—not with a defender on your tail.

Holloway closed the gap. If Darius slowed to catch it, he’d be toast.

The ball sailed downcourt—first over Holloway’s head, then past Darius.

Holloway was sprinting, glancing up, calculating. Too far? That’s going out... right?

But it wasn’t.

It dropped.

Perfect weight. Perfect angle. Perfect timing

That was the system’s bonus at work—Ryan had calculated Darius’s top-end speed to the inch.

It dropped perfectly in stride—soft and smooth. Darius didn’t have to break stride or strain for it. He caught it with ease, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Darius took one step and exploded for a two-handed slam.

BOOM.

114–113. The Roares were within one.

The announcer lost his damn mind:

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! That pass from Ryan Carter was ABSURD! Sixty five feet of PERFECTION!"

The Bullets’ coach frantically called timeout, his clipboard trembling. What followed was a chess match—both teams burned through their remaining timeouts, adjusting, counter-adjusting.

117-117.

The Roares had tied it up again. It was the 47th minute of play, and they still hadn’t led once all game.

45 seconds remained.

No timeouts left. From here on, it was up to the players.

Roares’ Possession.

Ryan and Darius went to work, slashing through the lane like scalpels. When the defense collapsed, Ryan spotted Lin wide open in the corner.

The pass was perfect. The shot?

Clang.

Off the back iron. Rebound, Bullets.

Ryan clenched his jaw. A clean look. With the system’s +20% FG boost and he still bricked it? Then he remembered what Kamara once told him:

"Crunch time? Don’t pass to Lin."

The Bullets came down with purpose. Crisp movement. Sharp cuts. The ball swung to Milton, curling just inside the arc.

One dribble. Pull-up. Textbook mid-range.

Splash.

The Midrange Maestro always delivers in the clutch.

The crowd exploded.

119–117.

15 seconds left.

Bullets by two.

"Full court press! Lock in! No threes!" the Bullets coach screamed from the sideline.

Final possession.

Ryan took the inbound and charged ahead.

The Bullets’ shooting guard lunged at halfcourt—bit too early.

A quick fake, and Ryan blew by.

He reached the arc. Waiting for him?

Holloway. Arms wide, sliding his feet, locked in.

7 seconds.

Ryan drove hard, eyes locked on the rim. Holloway backpedaled, tracking every step.

5 seconds.

Suddenly—Ryan spun back.

He retreated to the arc.

Holloway blinked.

For three?

He lunged forward to contest.

2 seconds.

Ryan whipped a pass to the corner—Gibson. Wide open.

1 second.

The shot was off.

Zero.

BUZZER.

Clang!

The ball ricocheted straight up off the rim, then dropped straight down like dead weight.

Swish.

Buzzer-beater!

119–120. Roares win.

Silence.

The arena froze. Stunned.

Then the Roares bench exploded.

Gibson turned to the crowd, pumping his fists toward the stands—

his son was there, waving the poster board and screaming his heart out:

"YOU’RE THE ROARES’ BEST!"

His voice was shot.

Four teammates swarmed Gibson on the court, nearly tackling him.

Ryan grabbed him by both hands—then pressed them to his own throat.

"The hell?" Gibson blinked.

"Choke sign," Ryan grinned.

Gibson hesitated. "That’s way too provocative."

"Exactly. That’s what makes it epic—you hardly ever make the highlights."

So Gibson started running around, doing the choke sign like he’d just ended someone’s career.

The crowd erupted in boos.

His son quietly folded the poster and sat down.

(Postscript: Gibson received a 10K fine for the gesture. Ryan—through gritted teeth—paid half.)