Four of the Roarers' starters, all but Ryan, wore grim faces as the memory of last game's 41-point drubbing in three quarters came rushing back, wrapping around them like a cold shadow.
Ryan caught their vibe, his jaw tightening. "Yo, snap out of it!" he barked, voice cutting through the arena's roar. "Game's just started!" His words crackled like a streetball challenge, pulling his squad's eyes to him, a spark reigniting.
Ryan took the ball across halfcourt, the Iron City crowd's chants pulsing like a heartbeat. Jake Callaway, the Lumina's small forward, glued himself to Ryan, his defense tight, arms wide like a cage.
At the right wing, 45 degrees from the arc, Ryan planted his right foot, pivoting, his left probing with quick jabs—textbook step-back footwork. His eyes locked on Callaway's chest, reading every twitch. Callaway's weight shifted, just a fraction, and Ryan pounced, dropping his center of gravity like a coiled panther.
