CHAPTER 92: CHAPTER 92 :BUZZER BEATER FROM THE ASPHALT: VICTORY BY A THREE

K-Vibe’s squad had the ball. Ryan brought it up, crossing half court at a steady pace.

Waiting for him was The Guillotine, who grinned and beckoned him forward with a cocky little finger wave—classic streetball challenge.

Come get some.

On the blacktop, you don’t back down from a dare. That’s a one-way ticket to being labeled soft, and Carver Park didn’t forgive cowards.

Ryan grinned. With K-Vibe on the bench, he didn’t have to force-feed passes anymore. Mano-a-mano? Bet.

The court cleared out, everyone stepping back to give Ryan and The Guillotine their stage. Streetball lived for these moments—one-on-one, no help, just heart and skill.

The Guillotine crouched low, clapping his hands hard, ready to lock up.

Ryan started his move, his crossover growing wider, flashier, the ball snapping between his legs like a metronome. Then, boom—he broke left, only to whip the ball right with a vicious change-of-direction.

Guillotine bit, lunging a step too far.

Ryan froze him with a quick stop, shoulders squaring like he was about to pull up for a jumper. Guillotine leaped, arms up for the block.

Big mistake. Ryan ducked low, center of gravity dropping, and exploded forward, blowing past like a gust of wind.

The lane was wide open.

He launched, one hand cocking back, and slammed the ball through the rim with a tomahawk dunk that rattled the backboard.

BOOM!

The hoop groaned, swaying under the force.

The crowd erupted, a few "Ryan!" chants cutting through the roar.

Not Iron City, but it felt good.

Ankle Reaper’s turn. Instead of going at Cameron like he’d been doing all game, Reaper locked eyes with Ryan and crooked his finger.

Same challenge, new stakes.

Cameron exhaled, relieved, and jogged to the side, happy to dodge the smoke.

Ryan sighed, stepping up. No choice now.

Ankle Reaper went to work, his handles a dizzying show—crossovers, hesitations, pure streetball flair.

Ryan didn’t bite. He just watched, like a guy watching a warm-up act.

He’d seen Ankle Reaper’s highlights during dinner earlier. All that flair? Pure showmanship. The real attacks came after the flash.

Ankle Reaper’s showboating didn’t fool Ryan.

He stayed put, conserving energy. But when Ankle Reaper’s stance lowered, his dribble slowing to a deliberate rhythm, Ryan knew it was go-time. He sank into his defensive stance, legs wide, arms spread, ready.

Ankle Reaper rocked back and forth, chaining three quick crossovers. Then, in a blink, he flicked the ball under Ryan’s legs with a backhand, spinning the opposite way to slip past Ryan’s left side. The ball popped out behind Ryan, and Reaper snatched it mid-stride, gliding to the rim for an effortless layup.

The crowd lost it.

"Sick move!"

"Reaper’s a killer!"

"Ryan got froze!"

Ankle Reaper was a nightmare—too quick, too smooth. Ryan hadn’t even had time to react. But when the crowd looked at him, expecting a grimace, Ryan’s face was calm, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

He took the ball upcourt, pointing at Ankle Reaper.

You got me? I’m getting you back.

That’s the street code—give as good as you get.

Ankle Reaper stepped up, ready to lock in.

Ryan didn’t bother with the fancy stuff.

His game was ABA-bred: simple, brutal, effective.

He jabbed left, then exploded right, his crossover sharp but practical. No need for theatrics when you could just go. His scissor-step fake sent Ankle Reaper sliding, and Ryan was gone, streaking to the rack for a two-handed slam that shook the rim.

50-41. Down nine.

Ryan turned to Ankle Reaper, grinning. "Got you back. We even."

The crowd buzzed, loving the back-and-forth. This was Carver Park at its finest—pure, unfiltered hoops.

The game was a full-on war now, both squads trading blows like heavyweights. K-Vibe’s crew leaned hard on Ryan and Cameron for buckets, while Ankle Reaper’s team answered with their big three—Ankle Reaper, Ballet Bear, and The Guillotine—running the show.

Ryan had tried to set up Jamal for another corner three, but the shot clanked off the rim. No sweat—Ryan crashed the boards, snatching the rebound and slamming it home with a putback dunk that kept them in striking distance.

Time ticked away fast. With less than a minute left, the scoreboard read:

78–73. Ankle Reaper’s squad on top.

By now, the fatigue was setting in.

This wasn’t the ABA—there were no endless timeouts, no parade of intentional fouls to drag out the final minute. Streetball ran on rhythm, flow, and pride. Unless a foul was blatant or on a jumper, the refs mostly swallowed the whistle.

The ref K-Vibe brought in only called the obvious stuff—traveling, shooting fouls, nothing else. Body contact? Ignored. Most plays were straight-up isos, and with just one sub per team, almost everyone was gassed. Ballet Bear, all 330 pounds of him, had only played two minutes in the second half before his tank ran dry and he sat for six.

Ryan called a timeout, his eyes locked on the scoreboard.

He wanted this win. Bad.

He huddled the squad. "We’re running out of time. We gotta shoot threes." He turned to Jamal. "Keep camping in the corner for the trey."

Jamal hesitated, voice low. "I bricked one already, man."

Ryan waved it off. "Relax and let it fly. I got your miss last time, didn’t I?" He shot a look at the center. "Yo, no more coasting. Fight for those boards."

The center gave an awkward grin. "Aight, I got you." He’d been spectating most of the game, letting the isos play out.

Ryan glanced at Cameron. "How ’bout some teamwork for once?"

The whole game had been every-man-for-himself.

Cameron nodded. "Let’s do it."

Timeout over.

K-Vibe’s squad had the ball. Ryan pushed across halfcourt, slicing into the paint with a quick burst. He drew the defense and kicked it out to Jamal, wide open in the corner. Jamal let it rip, but the shot clanged off the iron.

Clang.

Ballet Bear boxed out Ryan like a brick wall, but the center finally showed up, crashing hard and snagging the board.

He fired it back to Ryan, who took one dribble and attacked the rim.

Ballet Bear loomed, with The Guillotine sliding over for help.

Ryan wasn’t fazed. He whipped a no-look pass behind his back, sensing Cameron trailing.

Cameron caught it clean and rose for a midrange jumper.

Swish.

78-75.

Down three.

42 seconds left.

The crowd was on its feet, the air electric.

Ankle Reaper took the ball, and Ryan stepped up to guard him. Cameron’s defense was too shaky to handle this. Ankle Reaper moved like lightning, his crossover a blur. Ryan lunged, but Ankle Reaper’s quick step-back sent him sliding. The dude was untouchable, the ceiling of streetball handles.

But as Ankle Reaper blew by, Cameron and Afro Guy collapsed on him. Afro, seeing the center step up, wasn’t about to be outworked. Ankle Reaper hesitated, eyeing a gap, but Ryan, hustling back, darted in and poked the ball free. He scooped it up and sprinted the length of the court, finishing with a thunderous one-man dunk.

78-77. One point game. 30 seconds to go.

Ankle Reaper grabbed the inbound and pushed fast, catching K-Vibe’s squad scrambling. He weaved through the chaos, driving straight to the rack. Ryan, tracking back, timed his leap and swatted at the ball.

Smack!

The whistle blew. Ryan caught Ankle Reaper’s arm—a shooting foul. Only the second call of the game.

Ankle Reaper stepped to the line, cool as ever. First free throw?

Rimmed out.

Second? Money.

79-77.

20 seconds left.

The crowd held its breath, Carver Park pulsing with tension.

It all came down to this—one final possession, 20 seconds on the clock, K-Vibe’s squad trailing 79-77. Ryan had the ball, The Guillotine glued to him, arms wide, cutting off every angle. Ryan tried to shake him, jabbing left, then right, but Guillotine’s defense was a vice—long, relentless, suffocating. No way through.

Ryan signaled Cameron for a screen. The vet rolled up, setting a solid pick. Ryan darted around it, exploding into the paint. The defense collapsed fast—Ballet Bear and the other center swarming to block his path to the rim. No hesitation. Ryan whipped a pass to the corner, where Jamal stood wide open.

Ankle Reaper’s crew didn’t bother guarding the baseline. They weren’t used to defending corner shooters, and Jamal? Just some no-name to them.

Jamal caught the ball with two seconds left. The crowd held its breath. He took a deep inhale, steadied himself, and let it fly. The ball carved a perfect arc, slicing through the night air under Carver Park’s floodlights.

Swish.

Nothing but net. 79-80.

K-Vibe’s squad stole the win with a buzzer-beating three.

The bleachers froze for a split second, then erupted in a tidal wave of cheers. Sure, most of the crowd was rooting for Ankle Reaper’s crew, but Cameron was Orvara’s own, and that shot? Pure drama. The game had been a banger, start to finish.

Jamal, buzzing like he’d just won the lottery, threw his arms around Ryan. "Yo, I... I hit the game-winner! A buzzer-beater three!"

Ryan grinned, clapping his back. "You stepped up, fam. Big time."

The wiry announcer cranked up the music, K-Vibe’s beats flooding the court again. Both squads came together, dapping each other up, all sweat and respect. Ankle Reaper’s crew didn’t look gutted—nobody was sweating the loss too hard. This was an MV shoot, not a streetball title game.

Ankle Reaper pulled Ryan into a quick hug. "Not bad, rook. Come June, you should join a real squad and ball here for keeps."

Ryan smirked. "Three months out? We’ll see."

Jalyn Bryson, who’d been watching from the sidelines, strolled over, all cool confidence. "Hell of a game, man. I’m hyped for our matchup in two days."

Ryan met his gaze, a spark in his eyes. "Same here, fam."

The crowd lingered, music pulsing, as Carver Park’s magic hung in the air—a night nobody would forget.