NOVEL NEXT Chapter 125 :The First Three Came From Him?
Inside Iron Vault Arena, the scoreboard glared down like a cold reminder: Roarers 12, Crows 22. Ten points down. The buzz of the crowd, once sharp and restless, began to dull, tension hanging in the air like a storm cloud. The issue wasn't complicated—the Roarers' outside shooting was nonexistent. Miss after miss from deep had given the Crows license to collapse inside, turning the paint into a fortress. Ryan's drives ended in brick walls, Darius's cuts died in traffic, and every possession felt like wading through quicksand.
Coach Crawford turned to Lin, hoping the veteran could break the deadlock. The lineup shifted quickly: Ryan, Darius, Lin, Stanley, and Sloan now on the floor.
At 6'8", Sloan was the tallest of the group. A true "death lineup"—small, fast, switch-heavy. What it lacked in size, it promised in mobility. If the Roarers were going to claw back, this was the gamble.
The ball found its way to Darius at the top of the arc. A handoff to Ryan, who knifed past the first defender like a blade through fabric. Instantly, three Crows swarmed, collapsing on him. Ryan planted, pivoted, and with a flick of his wrist slung the ball to the far corner.
Lin caught it. The arena froze. It was the kind of shot every coach dreams of—a wide-open look, feet set, rhythm pure. If it went down, it would be more than three points. It would be a lifeline.
He rose, released. The mechanics were flawless.
Clang.
The ball smashed the back iron and ricocheted away. A collective groan rippled through the stands. Another empty trip.
The Crows seized the rebound, their center ripping it down and immediately feeding Banchieri. At 6'10", the versatile forward was a mismatch waiting to happen. Stanley picked him up at the elbow, undersized but relentless, pressing chest to chest. Banchieri didn't flinch. He backed him down, one grinding step at a time, before spinning over his shoulder and laying it softly off the glass.
The scoreboard ticked again: 12–24.
The minutes bled away, the first quarter grinding to its close. The Roarers hustled, scrambled, threw bodies at shooters, but nothing changed. By the horn, the deficit had swelled to 15. The board read 16–31, and the stat line told its own story—eight attempts from deep, eight misses. Not a single three had fallen.
The small-ball gamble had bought them speed, but no clarity. The Crows, longer and more disciplined, dictated everything. Possession after possession, the Roarers crashed into a wall.
When the buzzer sounded, the arena seemed to exhale all at once. The crowd's roar dulled to a hush. And for a moment, it felt as if the pulse of Iron City basketball had skipped a beat.
On the Roarers' bench, Coach Crawford sat stone-faced, arms folded, a deep crease carving across his forehead.
The situation was grim. Malik and Gibson were both resting, shrinking his usual eight-man rotation down to a threadbare six. He had already rolled the dice with a small-ball lineup, hoping speed and spacing might spark some life. Instead, the plan had backfired spectacularly: the three-point drought dragged on, and without a true big man, the paint had turned into a highway for the Crows. Every possession ended the same—battered at the rim, another basket surrendered.
Crawford exhaled sharply, then snapped upright. "Stanley, sit. Omar, you're in."
The words shot down the bench like an electric jolt. Omar's eyes lit up. He leapt to his feet, practically tearing off his warm-up. "Yes, Coach!" His voice cracked with urgency.
For Omar, this moment was long overdue. He hadn't seen meaningful minutes outside of garbage time in months. He'd circled tonight's game the second he learned Malik would be resting—his best chance at real playing time. But no amount of anticipation could dull the rush of adrenaline when Crawford finally called his name. His palms tingled as he flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders loose. It felt like being let out of a cage.
As the horn sounded to end the quarter, Crawford made only the single substitution. Omar slotted in at center, towering over everyone at 7'1, while Sloan slid back to his natural power forward spot. The rotation suddenly felt less desperate, more balanced. The second quarter was about to begin with a very different look.
The arena buzzed as the lineups reset. Up at the broadcast table, Jim "The Voice" Callahan adjusted his headset, his tone skeptical.
"Well, here's something you don't see every night. The Roarers have reached deep into their bench for… Omar." He stretched the name out like he wasn't sure how to pronounce it.
Duke "Ice" Patterson let out a dry chuckle. "Not exactly plan A. But with Malik and Gibson both sitting, Crawford's got no cards left to play."
Callahan grunted. "Cards or not, they need one thing and one thing only—somebody has to hit a three. Until that happens, the Crows will just keep packing the paint."
"Second quarter underway," Patterson said. "Let's see who's got the guts to finally break the drought."
The Roarers opened with possession. Ryan held the ball near the arc, calling Omar up to set a screen. The big man lumbered forward, shoulders wide, planting himself like a wall. Ryan burst off his hip, knifing into the elbow. Immediately, two Crows collapsed on him, sealing off any lane. Same script, different page. The ball swung out, this time to Lin, waiting alone in the corner.
It should've been perfect. Wide open. Feet set. Rhythm shot. The kind of opportunity shooters dream about.
But Lin hesitated, just for a blink.
Maybe it was the sight of Palmer and GM Kevin Buth sitting side by side, whispering as they watched, maybe it was just the weight of the moment. Either way, Lin tightened up. He was that kind of player: plenty of skill, smooth mechanics, but when the pressure mounted, the nerves crept in. And when the nerves came, the shot usually didn't.
He pulled the trigger. The ball arced high, rotation tight.
Clang.
The shot rattled off the back iron, cruel and unforgiving. Another brick.
Groans rippled through the crowd. Same story, again and again.
Sloan and the opposing center tangled under the rim, arms hooked, bodies grinding for position. Before either could seize control, Omar burst into the fray. He rose above the scrum, arms stretching impossibly long, and snatched the ball clean. A ripple of gasps swept through the stands.
Instinct kicked in. He dropped to the floor, eyes darting for Ryan on the perimeter. The safe play, the logical play—reset to the star guard. But before he could make the pass, Ryan's voice cut through the din.
"Take it yourself!"
Omar froze. For half a second, confusion clouded him. Was this real? Was Ryan actually telling him to finish? He turned his head, and the truth hit: no defender had bothered to close on him. Everyone was watching the perimeter, bracing for the kick-out. No one cared about Omar.
The lane was wide open.
Something primal took over. Omar pounded the ball once, lowered his shoulders, and surged forward. One massive stride carried him to the rim. He rose, both hands gripping the ball like it was prey, and hammered it through the cylinder with a thunderous slam.
The arena erupted. For the first time all night, the crowd had something to cheer for. Omar let out a roar as he landed, chest heaving, teammates rushing to slap his back.
The very next possession, the Roarers finally strung together a stop, forcing the Crows into a wild miss. The rebound triggered a break, Ryan pushing the pace and calling Omar up for a screen.
But the moment Ryan hit the elbow, two defenders swarmed him hard, cutting off every passing lane. He pivoted, scanning desperately, but the only open option was the man who had set the screen—Omar. And Omar, instead of rolling or slipping into space, was just… standing there. Frozen.
It was a mistake, no doubt. He wasn't supposed to be parked that far out. But Ryan had no choice. He fired the ball his way.
Omar caught it, eyes wide, almost startled. The paint was clogged, big bodies packed like bricks, and creating his own shot wasn't in his toolbox. Yet something felt different. Nobody closed out. Nobody even moved toward him. He had all the space in the world—so much space it felt eerily familiar. Like those countless late nights back at the Roarers' training center, alone in silence, launching threes just to prove to himself he could.
He inhaled, bent his knees, and let it fly.
From the broadcast table, Callahan's voice spiked in disbelief. "Oh my God—Omar just took a three!"
Swish.
Clean as silk.
Patterson burst out laughing. "It's good! The Roarers' first triple of the night—off the hands of a backup center!"
The Iron Vault erupted. The Roarers' bench stood in shock, jaws dropping, before erupting in chaos. Down at the end, Omar's three closest friends—the rest of the so-called "Garbage Time Big Four"—were on their feet, waving towels like lunatics.
Barely a minute into the second quarter, the Roarers had rattled off five straight points. All of them belonged to Omar.
Scoreboard: Roarers 21, Crows 31.