NOVEL NEXT Chapter 119 :The Open Three Dare
The second quarter opened with Ryan finally taking a breather. The Roarers rolled out a lineup of Darius, Lin, Malik, Sloan, and Stanley. Across the floor, Hardell checked back in for the Starships, his presence alone shifting the atmosphere inside Celestial Arena.
Right out of the gate, Hardell struck. He danced to the three-point line, his left hand dribbling with lethal calm, and faced Stanley's tenacious defense. With a quick crossover and a step-back, he created just enough space, rising for a silky three.
Swish.
The net barely moved, and the Starships snatched a one-point lead, 33-32. The arena erupted, a Nova City lightning bolt under its neon glow.
On the other end, Lin tried to answer, but his corner triple clanged off the rim. Candela vacuumed up the rebound and fired the outlet. Hardell was already in full sprint, pushing the break with a blur of dribbles.
The Roarers' defense backpedaled in chaos, and Hardell, reading the floor like a chessboard, zipped a pass to Amin slashing down the lane for an easy layup.
Starships 35, Roarers 32.
For the next five minutes, Hardell looked different. Without Ryan on the floor, the duel felt muted, and maybe that shift drained some of his fire. Stanley hounded him like a pitbull, jaw tight, hands busy, never giving him an inch. Hardell barely looked to score—just one floater, off the rim. Instead, he leaned fully into playmaker mode, slowing the tempo, steering traffic, orchestrating every cut and screen. The Starships moved like pieces on his chessboard, and under his command the lead stretched quietly, 46–41.
Crawford called timeout.
He sent Ryan back in for Lin, sketching a few simple plays before the huddle broke.
When play resumed, Hardell brought the ball to the top of the arc. Waiting for him was Stanley—preferred here for his tougher defense compared to Ryan.
Hardell, unfazed, signaled Candela for a pick-and-roll. Candela's massive frame rolled forward, planting a screen that forced Stanley to fight through. Hardell pounced, accelerating left with a burst. Malik, switching onto him, loomed with his long arms, but Hardell was ready.
He planted his left foot, feinting right, then swung his right leg wide in a fluid eurostep, his body swaying like a dancer's—slow, deliberate, then lightning-fast. Malik bit on the fake, lunging right, but Hardell's second step shifted left, his body low, the ball cradled in his left hand.
Sloan rotated over as the last line of defense, but Hardell was already in full stride. With a seamless second step, he slipped past Sloan's reach, gliding into open space. The ball floated softly off his left hand, kissing the glass before dropping cleanly through.
Two more for the Starships, and the crowd roared in approval.
The Roarers inbounded, Ryan slicing across halfcourt, ball snapping under his grip. At the top of the key, Amin Thomas locked in, arms wide, eyes hunting. Hardell, hovering on the wing, shadowed Ryan's path, ready to collapse in help defense.
He knew Ryan's speed was explosive, and Amin might well get beaten off the dribble.
Ryan crouched low, the ball snapping between his legs, testing Amin's balance. Then—bang. A burst of speed, a blur of crossovers, and Amin staggered a half-step behind. Ryan was gone, carving into the paint. Amin spun desperately, chasing, but Ryan's first step was a canyon he couldn't close.
Hardell slid into position, cutting off the lane. He wasn't known for his defense—too much of his fuel burned on offense—but his help instincts and quick hands, dubbed "ghost hands" for their steal prowess, made him a mid-tier defender when locked in.
Tonight, he was locked in. He wasn't about to give Ryan anything easy.
Ryan spun. One violent pivot off his lead foot, ball tight in his right, his left arm warding off contact—Hardell lunged, but caught nothing but air. Ryan had shaken him clean, slicing deeper toward the rim.
Candela shifted over, a wall of muscle waiting under the basket. Hardell, furious, tore back into the play from behind. Ryan was trapped in a vice—Candela in front, Hardell at his back. The lane was gone.
He leapt anyway.
Candela rose to meet him, arms stretched like the wingspan of a fortress, their bodies collided with a bone-rattling thud.
Ryan's impact rocked Candela, staggering him, a crack splitting the defensive wall. Pain seared Ryan's chest, but he fought for balance, his right hand arcing the ball high.
It arced high, kissed the glass—
Bang!
—and dropped straight through.
48–43.
"Unreal!" the announcer howled. "Ryan Carter takes out two defenders and still finishes through Candela!"
Flat on the hardwood, Ryan clutched his chest, the sting of the collision still buzzing through him. Darius and Malik rushed over, pulling him to his feet. He staggered once, then grinned. The shot had fallen. That was enough.
The second quarter was a streetball slugfest, both teams trading blows like heavyweight fighters. The Roarers couldn't contain Jalen Hardell's surgical playmaking, his passes carving up their defense like a blade. The Starships, meanwhile, had no answer for Ryan Carter and Darius, the Roarers' backcourt duo, whose relentless drives tore through the paint.
With ten seconds left in the first half, the scoreboard read Starships 66, Roarers 62. Ryan dribbled past halfcourt, planting himself beyond the three-point line. Amin Thomas, his shadow all night, didn't press up. Instead, he sagged back two steps, daring Ryan to shoot.
Ryan's eyes narrowed. "You disrespecting my three?" he muttered, half-smirking. Amin grinned, cool as ice.
"Take it," he taunted, arms loose.
It made sense.
Ryan's drives were a nightmare—too fast, too explosive—but his three-point shot? Spotty at best, with only a couple of hot nights all season. Amin's gamble was clear: bait the long ball, clog the lane.
Ryan glanced at the clock—five seconds. The Starships' defense collapsed inward, sealing the paint, making a drive a suicide mission. Amin's taunt hung in the air. Not shooting now would be admitting defeat.
Ryan bounced the ball twice, finding his rhythm, knees bent, eyes locked on the rim. He rose, snapping the shot.
Amin, timing it perfectly, lunged forward at the last second, his hand disrupting Ryan's view.
The ball sailed—a weak, wobbling arc. It missed everything: rim, backboard, hope. Airball.
The buzzer blared, sealing the half. Starships 66, Roarers 62.
Amin couldn't hold back a laugh. "Next half, I'm leaving you wide open again. You gonna keep shooting?"
Ryan opened his mouth, searching for a comeback, but nothing came. He flashed an awkward grin, shaking his head, and jogged off the court.
Halftime stats told the story: Ryan was cooking, 9-for-13 from the field, though his lone three-point try clanged off. Add in two free throws, 20 points, 5 assists, and a pair of boards—solid work. Problem was, Jalen Hardell had already dropped 23 on the other side.
Inside the locker room, Coach Crawford made his first big adjustment. Stanley was out, Kamara back in. Stanley's defense was a vice, but his lack of shooting was a dead weight when chasing a deficit. Down four, the Roarers needed firepower, not just stops.
The break barely seemed to last. The buzzer sounded, the players jogged back out, and the second half was underway.
The Roarers set up for another halfcourt possession, the ball once again in Ryan's hands. The Starships had dropped into a packed zone, bodies clogging the paint like concrete pillars. On the perimeter, Amin stayed sagged back, two long steps off, arms loose at his sides. He was daring Ryan again.
A point guard left that open—it was borderline disrespect. A pro had to take that shot. If he didn't, the message would be clear: Amin had gotten inside his head.
From the broadcast booth, the play-by-play man leaned forward. "They're leaving him wide again. Amin's daring Ryan to shoot. Will he?"
His partner chimed in: "He's letting it fly!"
Ryan rose into his motion. His first attempt from deep had been an airball, a moment that still stung. This was only his second try of the night. He had to silence the doubt.
The ball left his hand, spinning, tracking toward the rim—
Clang.
No airball this time, but the shot clanged off the rim.
Grant Candela vacuumed the rebound, sparking a fastbreak. Hardell, reading the floor, slipped past Ryan with a rhythm change and drew a foul on Malik mid-layup. Two free throws swished through.
The next few possessions belonged to one man: Jalen Hardell.
The game tilted into his orbit, every dribble dripping with swagger. He went at Kamara first, selling a hard drive before yanking the ball back between his legs, the defender's feet tangled. Hardell slid into his signature stepback, the shot arcing high, clean as glass.
Splash.
Next trip, it was Darius's turn to suffer. He reached a hand where he shouldn't have, trying to bother Hardell's handle. In an instant, Hardell hooked the arm, elevated, and flung up a shot. Whistle. Bucket. And-one. The crowd detonated as Hardell flexed, his grin cutting across the arena lights.
In less than two minutes, Hardell turned the court into his own highlight reel. Eight points in a blink, a ten-to-two run for the Starships. The scoreboard pulsed: Starships 76, Roarers 64.
The gap was double digits now, the game threatening to slip away. On the Roarers' sideline, Coach Crawford slapped his clipboard and whistled for time, his voice rising over the chaos. The players jogged to the bench, heads down, while Hardell strutted back to halfcourt, chest out, soaking in the roar of the Celestial Arena.