NOVEL NEXT Chapter 121 : History! Fifty-plus triple-double
Ryan's soaring alley-oop had trimmed the deficit to 93–85, igniting a flicker of hope for Iron City.
But across from them stood Hardell.
And tonight, he wasn't the same man they'd faced in their last meeting.
Back in Iron City, Hardell had stumbled through the second half with heavy legs, weighed down by a late night out. The nightclub shadows had clung to his jumper, every shot short, every step half a beat behind. He looked mortal. Vulnerable.
Not tonight.
For this rematch, with Ryan looming as his foil, Hardell had sworn off the nightlife. No champagne, no velvet ropes, no distractions. He had locked himself in, sharpening his rhythm, saving every ounce of fuel for this game. The result was terrifying: a flamethrower in human form, an uncontainable monster with the ball in his hands.
The Roarers' traps couldn't cage him.
Starships' coach had already drawn up answers during the timeout: use double screens to shake him loose, or shift the ball-handling to Amin. Without the ball, Hardell couldn't be trapped. He'd simply cut, circle back, find his spot, receive the pass—then rise for the jumper or bait contact for free throws.
The scoreboard bled away precious minutes. Four left in the game. Starships ahead, 108–96. A twelve-point chasm.
Crawford finally burned a timeout. His players slumped to the bench, drenched in sweat, shoulders sagging under the weight of inevitability.
Up in the broadcast booth, the energy was the opposite—frantic, electric.
"Hardell's sitting on forty-eight points, eleven dimes, and nine boards!" the play-by-play voice shouted.
"Don't forget," his partner jumped in, "one more rebound and it's a triple-double. And if he cracks fifty? That's not just history—that's the first 50-point triple-double this league has ever seen!"
The arena buzzed like it knew too. Thousands of fans raised their phones, waiting for the coronation.
Crawford sat through the timeout with his brow furrowed. Down twelve, four minutes left—he had no choice but to gamble. His decision came sharp and sudden: Lin in, Gibson out. The long-forgotten three-guard lineup was back. Speed, spacing, and shooting—the only weapons left for one last desperate roll of the dice.
Out of the timeout.
The Roarers' offense failed to produce. Lin found himself wide open on the perimeter, but his three clanged hard off the rim.
The rebound kicked high into the air. Candela had a chance to reach for it, but instead gave a subtle nudge, sealing off his man. The ball dropped cleanly into Hardell's hands.
The arena exploded as Hardell secured his tenth rebound—triple-double complete. Within seconds, the noise swelled into a seismic chant of 'M-V-P!,' shaking the rafters.
"Forty-eight points and a monster triple-double!' the announcer roared.
Hardell wasted no time, flipping the ball to Amin to bring it up. With the ball out of his hands, no double-team could form. Still, Ryan shadowed him step for step, chest pressed close, refusing to surrender an inch of space.
Hardell weaved through traffic, using screens, cutting, circling. Finally, at the top of the arc, the ball swung back to him. Ryan lunged in, eyes locked, teeth clenched. No freebies. Not here. Not now.
Hardell slowed the tempo. He rocked with the dribble, probing, teasing. One hard jab. Then an explosion forward. Ryan staggered half a step back, scrambling to recover. Hardell knifed inside the arc. Ryan chased from behind, arms stretching to contest.
And then—brakes. Hardell slammed to a stop.
Ryan never saw it coming. His momentum carried him forward, crashing into Hardell's back. The whistle shrieked through the noise—defensive foul.
Vintage Hardell. The stop-on-a-dime trick. The oldest con in his book. Defenders too eager, too desperate, always taking the bait. "Rear-end collision," they called it around the league: the car in front slams the brakes, the one behind pays the price. Tonight, Ryan was just another name on the list.
Hardell strolled to the free-throw line. The Roarers were already deep in the penalty. Two shots.
He spun the ball in his hands, eyes steady. First free throw—pure.
Swish.
Forty-nine.
The booth lost its composure. "That's forty-nine points! One more, and it's a fifty-point triple-double!"
The crowd sensed the moment, rising to its feet as one. Arms raised, lungs straining, the chant rolled like thunder:
"M-V-P! M-V-P!"
The Celestial Arena trembled under the weight of it.
Hardell dribbled once. Twice. Lifted his eyes to the rim. His face betrayed nothing—just a calm, suffocating focus. He released. The ball floated, spun, dropped through clean.
Swish.
Fifty. Triple-double. History.
The building erupted, a detonation of noise so violent it rattled the rafters. "MVP! MVP!" cascaded down like a tidal wave.
The announcers were screaming into their headsets, barely audible over the chaos.
"Fifty-point triple-double! The first ever! Do you realize what we're witnessing right now?"
His partner slammed the desk. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime performance! We are watching history being written!"
On the far sideline, though, the Roarers' bench sat in stunned silence. Crawford's jaw was clenched, his eyes hollow. He knew the truth: this night belonged to Hardell. He and his team were nothing more than the backdrop, painted into the portrait of someone else's legend.
The scoreboard read 110–96. Just 3:45 left.
The Roarers weren't ready to roll over. Ryan knifed into the paint, drew the defense, and kicked to the corner. Lin set his feet, let it fly—and finally, mercifully, the three dropped through. A flicker of life.
It didn't last.
On the very next possession, Hardell danced into a double step-back three, fading into the arc's shadows. The shot arced high, kissed nothing but nylon. Fifty-three points. A dagger. 113–99.
The Roarers pushed back, Ryan rising at the elbow for his hopping vampire jumper, pure Westbrook sync.
Swish.
But Amin buried a transition three on the other end, silencing them again.
Every possession became a race against the clock, but the gap refused to budge. You could see it in their shoulders—the five Roarers on the floor sagging a little lower with every trip. Frustration set in. Darius, rushing against ghosts, forced up a contested three. Brick.
Candela pulled down the rebound. Starships pushed in transition, Hardell lofting a perfect feed toward the rim. Candela soared, caught it in stride, and flushed it home with authority.
118–101 had ballooned into celebration territory. The Starships' faithful roared, waving rally towels like a coronation was underway.
Coach Crawford checked the scoreboard again. 2:25 left.
Too late. He slapped the scorer's table for a timeout—not to scheme, but to surrender. The starters were done. Out came the "Garbage Time Big Four" plus Sloan.
The booth didn't sugarcoat it.
"The Roarers' bench is warming up," one announcer said flatly. "That's the sign—they've conceded."
"And Hardell?" his partner chimed in, almost giddy. "Jacket on, night finished. The stat line: 53 points, 12 assists, 10 rebounds. A masterpiece."
On the Roarers' sideline, Ryan sat draped in a towel, staring at the scoreboard with hollow eyes. Thirty-one points, eight assists, five rebounds—it was a solid night by any normal measure. But tonight wasn't normal. Against Hardell's historic triple-double, his effort looked like an opening act at someone else's show.
The timeout ended. Starships emptied their bench too, the torch passed to rookies and role players. The final minutes ticked away in slow motion, a formality more than a fight.
When the horn finally sounded, the scoreboard locked in at 126–109. The Starships walked off victors, but more than that—witnesses to history.
In years to come, fans wouldn't remember Lin's corner three, or Ryan's defiant jumper, or even the final score. What they'd remember was the night Hardell authored his masterpiece. Fifty-three points. Twelve dimes. Ten boards. A triple-double for the ages.
The night the game belonged to him alone.
The final buzzer had barely faded when Ryan rose from the bench. Amin walked over, arms open, pulling him into a quick hug.
"Bro," Amin grinned, "you really gotta fix that jumper. Your three tonight… man."
Ryan chuckled, shaking his head. "Funny, my percentage is still better than yours."
It was true—Ryan sat at 33% on the season, Amin hovering closer to 28%.
Amin fired back instantly. "That's because I shoot twice as many as you. Give it a month of real volume and I promise you'd be under me."
Ryan only laughed, letting the jab slide. Before he could answer, Hardell strolled over. Ryan lifted a fist, and Hardell tapped it.
"Congrats," Ryan said. "Fifty-plus triple-double. History, man."
Hardell smiled. "I'll be waiting when you break it."
Ryan shook his head. "That's a mountain. Maybe I'll set another record and let you chase me instead."
"Oh yeah? What record's that?"
"Season-long triple-double average. Whole year," Ryan replied, grinning. "Not this season, though."
For a moment, Hardell blinked, then laughed in disbelief. "Nobody's ever pulled that off in the ABA. I'd love to see it. But hey—seriously, speaking of business…"
Ryan frowned. "Business?"
Hardell's face shifted into mock-seriousness. "I'm hosting tonight. Nova City nightlife. K-Vibe's coming too."
Ryan burst into laughter. "That's business? Nah, man. Not for me. I don't have your privileges. I've got three more games this week. I'll save my legs."