CHAPTER 66: CHAPTER 66 :THREE-POINT CONTEST

The Skills Challenge awards wrapped up, the Zentron Celestial Arena still buzzing with fading cheers.

Chloe turned to Ryan, her ruby pendant glinting under the neon lights. She checked her watch, lips quirking into an apologetic smile.

"Alright, I’ve gotta head to the airport."

Ryan blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I booked a 10 p.m. flight back to Iron City earlier," she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

"If I’d known, I wouldn’t have dragged you out here," Ryan said, half-serious.

Chloe’s eyes softened. "No, I’m glad you did. I had a blast. Besides, I’ve got time."

Ryan nodded, his voice warm but steady. "Drive safe, alright? Take care."

"Will do. See ya," Chloe said, her tone light but lingering.

"See ya," Ryan echoed.

He watched her walk toward the exits, her figure fading into the sea of fans and fluorescent lights.

Ryan didn’t bother with the locker room—he hadn’t even broken a sweat during the exhibition. The league had reserved courtside seats for players, but most of the guys there were ones he barely knew.

Not really my scene.

Instead, he climbed to the upper bowl, heading for the seats he’d actually paid for—the same ones Chloe had sat in earlier.

He slid into his spot beside Jamal.

Jamal grinned. "I treat you right, huh?"

Ryan chuckled. "Yeah. Gotta thank you for that."

Next up were fan games, the crowd roaring as lucky spectators got a chance to step on the court and win some cool prizes.

The emcee bounded to center court, mic in hand. "Vega City, you ready for some FUN? Let’s get these fans in the game!"

The jumbotron flashed random seat numbers.

A middle-aged dad in a knockoff jersey sprinted down for a layup contest, airballing his first shot to a collective groan, then nailing the next to wild cheers.

Jamal, predictably, wasn’t picked, his groans drowned out by the arena’s hum. "Every damn time," he muttered, slumping back.

Ryan nudged him. "You’ll get your shot one day, man. Keep dreaming."

"Dreaming?" Jamal shot back, grinning. "I’m out here making your dreams come true."

The arena dimmed again, house lights fading as a single spotlight swept across the court.

Eight shooters stepped forward, the three-point contest officially underway.

The emcee’s voice thundered through the PA system:

"Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the THREE-POINT SHOOTOUT! Eight of the ABA’s deadliest snipers, five racks, one champion! Who’s taking it home?"

The crowd’s roar shook the arena’s eighteen thousand seats.

Ryan watched the eight players step onto the court—most were unfamiliar to him, though one or two had crossed paths with him in earlier games. The only one he really knew was Trey Yates from the Halveth Skyhawks—the same guy who’d opened the Rising Stars Challenge with that ridiculous logo three for Team Vess. They’d actually swapped contacts back when Ryan first reported to Zentron Celestial Arena.

The rules of the three-point contest are simple.

Each contestant had 70 seconds to shoot from five racks, each containing five balls. Among the 25 balls were 9 money balls worth 2 points each, mixed in with regular balls worth 1 point.

In addition, there were two deep three-point zones, each offering a single shot worth 3 points.

The maximum possible score was 40.

After the first round, the top three scorers would advance to the finals and shoot another round to decide the champion.

The first round flew by, but the shooting percentages were far from impressive.

The three finalists just scraped through with scores of 22, 20, and 19 points.

Yates made the cut by the skin of his teeth, edging out last year’s champion, Darian Lennard of the Brontic Bay Krakens, by a single point.

The veteran sharpshooter’s early exit with just 18 sent shockwaves through the crowd.

Ryan leaned back, arms crossed. If Lin were here, this wouldn’t even be close.

He remembered watching Lin drain thirty-five straight threes in a shooting drill once—no crowd, no lights, just cold repetition. The guy was built for contests like this.

But the selection process had little to do with pure skill. It was all about regular season stats... and clout. Lin didn’t have much of either.

Not anymore.

He’d actually won this same contest seven years ago, back when he was a rookie. That time, he’d been a surprise entry—and a surprise winner. But the invites stopped coming after that.

Back at the arena, the pressure was sky-high in the final round.

The first contestant stepped up and posted a solid 20 points—not spectacular, but enough to set an early benchmark.

Next was Trey Yates. He looked sharper than in the first round, his release smoother, his rhythm locked in. Shot after shot dropped through the net. When the buzzer sounded, he had 23 points on the board—an impressive improvement and enough to take the lead.

Last up was Chris Harrow from the East’s Drayport Talons.

He took a deep breath at the three-point line, then began his final round.

By the time he reached the last rack, only the money ball remained. His score stood at 22. Ten seconds left on the clock—not exactly rushed, but no room for hesitation.

He inhaled again, steadying himself, squared up, and released.

The arc was clean. Perfect.

The entire arena seemed to hold its breath.

Swish.

The money ball dropped through.

Two more points. Final score: 24.

Just enough to edge out Yates by a single point and claim the three-point contest crown.

Yates shook his head with a wry smile, then stepped forward and pulled Harrow into a congratulatory hug.

The emcee practically bounced with excitement as he grabbed the mic.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your 2025 Three-Point Champion—Chris Harrow!"

The crowd roared as confetti rained down. Harrow stepped forward to accept the trophy, his grin as steady as his release.

The emcee handed him the mic.

"I’m just really happy right now," Harrow said, catching his breath. "It’s an honor to be here tonight with so many incredible shooters.

I’m proud to write my name into All-Star Weekend history."

After the awards ceremony wrapped, the lights dimmed and the arena’s pulse quickened. The emcee’s voice cut through the buzz like a blade.

"And now... the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Vega City—make some noise for the 2025 Slam Dunk Contest!"

One by one, the four dunkers emerged from the tunnel, each name booming over the PA to a wave of cheers.

"First up, from your very own Vega Tigers, the Atlantis golden boy—Colter Frye!" The emcee’s voice hit fever pitch as Frye jogged out, flashing a megawatt grin, his Tigers jersey catching the light. The hometown fans erupted, their screams a tidal wave of pride.

Ryan, slouched in his seat next to Jamal, sat up straighter, eyebrows raised. "Frye’s in this? Didn’t see that coming." He hadn’t checked the dunk contest lineup, too caught up in the Skills Challenge earlier—

and he hadn’t really paid attention to who was sitting in the players’ section either.

Jamal nudged him, grinning. "Man, you sleepin’. Frye’s about to put on a show for the home crowd."

"Next, from the Eastmoor Vipers, the explosive Emeka Rollins!" The emcee gestured as Rollins bounded onto the court, all raw energy, his dreads bouncing with every step. The crowd gave a solid cheer, though it lacked the hometown fervor.

"From the Orvara Eclipse, the fearless Jeremiah Knox!" Knox emerged, his lean frame moving with quiet confidence, nodding to the fans. The applause was warm but restrained—Knox was a name most only vaguely knew.

"And finally, representing the Koreya Flameguardians, the two-time defending champ, gunning for a three-peat—Dax McConnell!" McConnell swaggered out, his smirk radiating confidence, the crowd’s roar spiking with respect for the dunk contest veteran.

To be honest, this wasn’t a star-studded field. No All-Stars, no MVPs, no headline-grabbing names. Just young guns and second-stringers.

Out of the four, Frye had the biggest following—Atlantis’s golden boy, beloved by fans and media alike.

Dax McConnell had some buzz too, but not for what he did during regulation games. He wasn’t even a starter. His reputation came from being a two-time dunk contest champion. This was his third year competing—and he was chasing a rare three-peat.

As for the other two—Rollins and Knox—they were rookies. Talented, sure. But unknowns outside their own locker rooms.

The slam dunk contest, for all its flash, wasn’t a draw for the league’s elite.

First, there was the injury risk. High-flying dunks demanded grueling practice—hours of reps, choreographed leaps, and risky landings. One bad fall could mean a twisted ankle or worse, derailing a star’s season. No MVP wanted to gamble their body for a trophy that didn’t add to their legacy.

Second, the well of creativity had run dry. Decades of dunk contests had exhausted the playbook—windmills, 360s, between-the-legs, over-the-car stunts. For a megastar with a brand to protect, pulling off something truly new was near impossible. A lackluster dunk could tank their image, critics ready to pounce on social media with clips of bricks or bobbled landings.

Why risk the embarrassment when you’re already a household name?