CHAPTER 67: CHAPTER 67 :SLAM DUNK CONTEST

The emcee’s voice snapped Ryan back to the moment. "These four are about to DEFY GRAVITY! Who’s walking away with the crown?"

The crowd roared, ready for the show, as the dunkers warmed up, each eyeing the rim like it was their destiny.

The ABA Slam Dunk Contest followed the same format as the one in Ryan’s world—the NBA. It was a two-round showdown: prelims and finals.

In each round, every contestant had two dunk attempts, with up to three tries allowed per dunk. The top two scorers from the first round would advance to the final. There, the highest combined score from two dunks would determine the champion.

If there was a tie, a tiebreaker round would be held—dunk for dunk—until a winner emerged.

The Zentron Celestial Arena pulsed with anticipation as the slam dunk contest kicked into gear.

The emcee, his voice a thunderclap, hyped the crowd. "Vega City, let’s get this party started! First up—Jeremiah Knox from the Orvara Eclipse !"

Knox sprinted from beyond the three-point line, launching into a windmill dunk that rattled the rim. The crowd’s cheer was polite but muted—no one was blown away. It was clean, sure, but lacked the spark of originality. The five judges, ABA legends with poker faces, scribbled their scores. Cards flashed: 7, 8, 7, 8, 6. Total: 36.

A lukewarm start.

Jamal leaned over to Ryan, shaking his head. "Man, that was basic. You shoulda signed up for this."

Ryan smirked, slouched in his seat. "And do what? Same old spin-and-slam? I’d be out there looking like him."

Next up was Emeka Rollins, the Eastmoor Vipers’ rookie. Ryan vaguely recalled facing the Vipers, but Rollins hadn’t left a mark. The emcee bellowed, "Give it up for the explosive Emeka Rollins!"

Rollins went for broke with a high-risk 360-degree spin dunk. His first attempt clanged off the rim, drawing groans. The second bobbled, another miss. Third try—he finally powered it home, the crowd rewarding his persistence with a solid cheer. But the judges weren’t impressed with the stumbles. Scores: 8, 9, 8, 8, 8. Total: 41. Better, but not game-changing.

Then came Colter Frye, the Vega Tigers’ golden boy. The emcee seized the moment, voice soaring. "Vega City, make some NOISE for your hometown hero—Colter Frye!"

The arena erupted, eighteen thousand fans screaming as Frye jogged out, flashing his signature grin.

Frye’s first dunk was a showstopper. He tossed the ball high, sprinted, caught it off the backboard, spun mid-air, and slammed it reverse with a flourish. The crowd lost it, a tidal wave of shrieks. The judges leaped from their seats, clapping wildly. Scores flashed: 10, 10, 9, 10, 10. Total: 49.

The bar was set.

Finally, Dax McConnell, the Koreya Flameguardians’ two-time champ, strode to center court, chasing a historic three-peat. He didn’t move right away, standing still as the arena held its breath.

Then—a low rumble. A sleek black car rolled from backstage, parking right under the hoop in the restricted area.

The crowd exploded, phones flashing like a lightning storm.

Jamal’s jaw dropped. "Yo, this dude jumped a motorcycle last year, now a car?"

Ryan leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "That’s bold as hell for a first dunk. Creative, high-risk... but saving it for the finals might’ve hit harder."

Jamal grinned. "Nah, he’s coming for blood. Bet he’s got an even crazier trick up his sleeve."

McConnell took his mark at halfcourt, the arena buzzing with tension. He sprinted, legs a blur, and launched over the car’s hood, soaring impossibly high. The ball slammed through the hoop with a thunderous crack, the rim shaking as the crowd erupted into chaos. Judges clutched their heads, mouths agape, one slamming the table in disbelief. Cards shot up: 10, 10, 10, 10, 10. A perfect 50.

The emcee nearly lost his voice. "Are you KIDDING me? Dax McConnell just REWROTE the playbook!"

The second round of dunks kicked off, and as expected, Colter Frye and Dax McConnell topped the prelims.

Frye racked up 97 points across his two dunks, a hometown hero’s masterclass.

McConnell, though, was untouchable, posting a perfect 100—two flawless 50s that left the Zentron Celestial Arena buzzing.

The finals were electric, the crowd of eighteen thousand on edge, phones poised to capture history.

McConnell went first, his confidence radiating. He sprinted from halfcourt, leaped over a teammate holding the ball aloft, and threw down a reverse windmill that shook the rim. The judges, still reeling from his car-leaping opener, didn’t hesitate: 10, 10, 10, 10, 10. Another perfect 50.

The emcee lost it, screaming, "Dax McConnell is rewriting gravity!"

Frye stepped up next, the Vegas faithful roaring for their golden boy.

The emcee fueled the frenzy: "Vega City, your Tigers’ own—Colter Frye!"

Frye signaled to the sidelines, and out bounded the Vega Tigers’ mascot, a snarling tiger named Stripes.

The crowd erupted as Stripes held the ball under the hoop.

Frye charged, snatched it mid-stride, and soared for a tomahawk slam that nearly tore the rim off. The judges leaped from their seats, hands clapping. Scores flashed: 10, 10, 10, 10, 10. A perfect 50.

The scoreboard showed a tie—50 apiece.

The final dunk would decide it all. McConnell, cool as ever, called Stripes back out. The mascot stood under the hoop again, ball raised. McConnell sprinted, leaped over Stripes , and twisted into a one-handed 360-degree slam, the ball slamming home with a crack.

The arena exploded, but one judge hesitated, scribbling thoughtfully.

The scores came up: 10, 10, 10, 10, 9. Total: 49.

A near-perfect dunk, but that lone 9—perhaps swayed by Frye’s earlier leap over the same mascot, or overshadowed by McConnell’s jaw-dropping car dunk—stung. McConnell’s face tightened, his eyes darting to the scoreboard. 99 points total. A single point shy of perfection, and vulnerable if Frye nailed a 50.

Frye took the court, the emcee’s voice a fever pitch. "One last chance for glory—Colter Frye, let’s GO!"

Staff rolled out a spinning platform, a gleaming metal disc set just shy of the hoop. The crowd buzzed, sensing something wild.

Frye grabbed a mic from a staffer, his grin pure showman. "I need a volunteer to make this legendary."

The emcee leaned in, smirking. "You want the computer to pick a lucky fan, or you got someone in mind?"

Frye turned, eyes scanning Section F, Row 7, Seat 17.

Ryan sat there, frozen.

Their gazes locked, and Ryan’s mouth twitched. No way.

Sure enough, Frye’s voice boomed. "Ryan, come help me out. You’re not gonna say no, right?"

The crowd roared, sensing a moment. Ryan chuckled, shook his head, and stood, making his way down. He’d known Frye might pull something like this—Frye was a master at manufacturing buzz, and dragging a teammate into the spotlight was a surefire way to juice the judges’ scores.

Ryan had ducked the players’ section after the Skills Challenge, opting for his own seats, but Frye had clocked his spot from the start.

On the court, Ryan faced Frye, hands on hips. "Alright, what’s the pose?"

Frye pointed to the spinning disc. "Stand on that. Don’t move yet."

He handed Ryan the ball. "Hold it at your chest, both hands."

Ryan stepped onto the platform, steadying himself as Frye adjusted the ball’s height, eyeballing the setup. "Perfect. Stay still—it’s go time."

Ryan nodded, lips quirking.

The disc whirred to life, spinning slowly at first, then picking up speed.

Ryan held the ball firm, his stance deducing expression blank but focused, keeping his pose locked in as the platform turned.

He spun a few times, feeling mildly ridiculous but staying steady.

Frye paced at the three-point line, eyes locked on Ryan, timing the rotations. The crowd’s hum grew louder, anticipation crackling.

Ryan spun another loop, poker-faced, holding the ball like a statue.

Then Frye moved. He exploded toward Ryan, perfectly syncing with the disc’s turn so Ryan faced him at the right moment. Frye snatched the ball mid-stride, leaped over Ryan’s spinning form, switched hands under his legs mid-air, and hammered a one-handed slam that sent the rim rattling and the arena into absolute chaos.

Ryan stepped off the spinning platform, steadying himself as the arena’s roar washed over him.

Frye jogged over, clapping him on the shoulder. "Man, thanks for the assist. Next time you’re in the contest, I owe you one."Ryan grinned, shaking his head. "Nah, I’d rather posterize you in a real game, make you the backdrop."

Frye froze for a split second, then burst out laughing. "If you can pull that off, I’ll tip my hat."

McConnell sauntered over, joining Frye as they turned to face the judges’ table.

The air crackled with tension—this final score would crown the 2025 Slam Dunk Champion.

The judges, still reeling from Frye’s gravity-defying dunk, stood frozen, one gripping his head in disbelief, another pounding the table like he’d seen a miracle. The scores flashed on the jumbotron: 10, 10, 10, 10, 10. A perfect 50.

Frye’s total: 100.

A single point separated him from McConnell, whose dream of a historic three-peat shattered.

The emcee’s voice broke with awe. "Colter Frye just TOOK FLIGHT! Your 2025 SLAM DUNK CHAMPION!"

The Zentron Celestial Arena erupted, eighteen thousand fans screaming, confetti raining like a neon storm.

For Frye, the trophy was redemption, erasing the sting of missing MVP in the Rising Stars Challenge. He hoisted the gleaming prize, his grin brighter than the Vegas Strip.

McConnell clapped, his smile tight but gracious, acknowledging the one-point defeat with a nod.