Chapter 139: Chapter 139: It’s Just a Three-Point Title—I Could Win That Too

The day after they beat the Krakens, the Roarers gathered in the film room to prep for tomorrow night’s home opponent—the Drayport Talons.

The lights dimmed, and Crawford put his laser pointer to the screen.

"Sixth in the East. The Talons." He didn’t waste words. "Mid-tier team, but don’t take them lightly. Last time we lost to them, it was the second night of a back-to-back—our legs were gone. That’s the truth. But I’ll say this too—" He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "—you’ve got to give it to them: that fast break of theirs is the real deal. Catch them on heavy legs and it’s a nightmare for anybody."

A few guys nodded, heads down.

That game—88 to 104—nobody liked bringing it up. It had snapped the Roarers’ eight-game win streak at the time. Easy to pin the whole thing on the back-to-back; but everyone there also remembered just how smoothly the Talons’ break had carved them up that night.

"This time we’re home, legs fresh." Crawford pulled up the tape. "But don’t let that make you cocky. Here—take a look at one guy first. Out of their whole roster, he’s the one to watch."

The screen cut over.

A young guard, putting up shot after shot. Step-back three, splash. Catch off a screen, fire, splash. Sidestep pull-up, splash again. Quick, clean release, the form lifted straight out of a textbook.

Crawford didn’t have to introduce him. A few guys had already recognized the face.

Chris Harrow.

The whole league knew that name. Two months back, at All-Star Weekend, the Three-Point Contest final—his last money ball had dropped at the buzzer, twenty-four to twenty-three, to walk off Yates and take the trophy. That clip had run on every platform for days.

Seated in the middle, Ryan watched the screen, expression even. He’d been at that weekend too—he’d played the Rising Stars game and the Skills Challenge, just not the same event. But after a few days sharing one arena, he remembered Harrow’s face, and that stroke, clearly enough.

Crawford rolled Harrow’s season highlights. Step-backs, pull-ups, turnaround jumpers, a deep one from near the logo... a string of effortless makes that prickled the back of your neck.

In the corner of the film room, Kamara suddenly pulled his feet down off the chair.

He’d been slouched back, lazy—now he sat up, eyes on the young guy on the screen, smooth and sure, and let out a snort through his nose.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen that face.

Two months ago at All-Star Weekend, Harrow’s last money ball had dropped at the buzzer and won him the Three-Point Contest. That could’ve been a single night of glory—except ever since, the kid had seemed to flip a switch. His game caught fire, and almost single-handedly he’d dragged the Talons, a middling seventh seed in the East, all the way up to sixth, clinching a playoff spot early.

The results spoke for themselves, and the kid was young, dressed sharp, photographed well. The media had swarmed in and crowned him the league’s "newest face." Just last week there’d been a piece putting him side by side with Kamara—the whole thing nothing but younger, more marketable, next in line to be the league’s most stylish wing.

That article, Kamara still remembered, word for word.

On what grounds?

Streaky shooting, fine, he’d own that. But this face, this wardrobe, who wore it better—when had Kamara ever come up short? And just because this kid was a few years younger, caught a hot stretch, hoisted a trophy, he got to climb up over him?

"...Three-Point Contest champ." He curled his lip, the sourness impossible to hide. "Come on. That’s just a guy out there shooting wide-open jumpers by himself."

He leaned back into the chair, lifted his chin, and let his eyes drift, almost idle, to the man in the corner.

"Besides—that contest, it’s only that Lin didn’t enter. He goes, no way it ends up in Harrow’s hands."

At that, every head in the room swung toward the corner.

Lin was sitting quietly at the very edge, one hand resting loose on the back of his chair. Caught under all those sudden stares, he barely reacted—just shrank into his seat a fraction, glanced down at his own hands, and gave a faint little smile. He said nothing.

"What’re you dragging Lin into it for." Darius turned back, eyeing Kamara sideways, smirking. "At least the guy’s a lot more accurate than you."

"That’s ’cause I didn’t enter." Kamara stuck his neck out, dead certain. "Day my stroke’s on, I could stand in that corner with my eyes closed and string ’em together—a zone that scares even me. The hell would you know."

"Oh, ’when your stroke’s on.’" Darius grinned, riding it right along. "Then that famous five-spot of yours, what day was that? Zero points, zero boards—"

He didn’t get to finish before he felt it.

That easy grin on Kamara’s face—gone in an instant.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. He stared straight at Darius, jaw tight, eyes gone cold—a look the wisecracking Kamara never wore. Across the film room, the chuckling stalled too.

Everyone knew that was Kamara’s sore spot.

Crack on him all you wanted—too vain about his looks, swapping girlfriends faster than sneakers—and he’d catch it grinning and fire right back. But that one game, the five zeros—zero points, zero boards, zero assists, zero steals, zero blocks, a whole game spent invisible, made into a punchline by the entire league—was the one humiliation he never wanted dredged up. That was the kill spot.

Darius hit that stare and the rest of the sentence jammed in his throat.

He shrugged, smart enough to drop it, and steered the words around those two words instead.

"...Alright, alright, forget that." He waved a hand, though he wasn’t quite willing to let go entirely, cocking an eyebrow with a smirk. "So tomorrow, then? Talk all this tough—you dare actually take that ’stringing ’em together’ stroke of yours, your threes, and put ’em up in that champ’s face?"

Kamara didn’t answer right away.

That flare of anger from getting his sore spot pressed sat jammed in his chest for a few seconds, then slowly eased apart. He knew what kind of guy Darius was—not worth getting worked up over. The heat sank back down. But the sting of being called out to his face didn’t sink with it—it settled lower, and only came clearer for it.

He leaned back into the chair, pulled his eyes off Darius, and put them back on the screen.

On it, Harrow drained another step-back three, nothing but net, the form gorgeous enough to be infuriating.

Kamara stared at that young face, stared a long while.

The usual easy swagger drained out of his eyes, bit by bit, and what was left was a heavy, serious thing he rarely let show.

After a long moment, he forced out a line through his teeth, not loud, but every word bitten down hard:

"Tomorrow, I make more threes than him."

He paused, eyes never leaving that face on the screen.

"Watch me shoot the Talons dead."

When the meeting broke up, Ryan walked out alongside Kamara.

"Alright, ease off." Ryan glanced at him, half joking. "He’s just a guard on a mid-tier team. Keep it loose—the more you’re set on beating him, the colder that hand of yours gets. You know that better than anyone."

"Me, cold?" Kamara snorted, the easy swagger sliding back onto his face, and slung an arm over Ryan’s shoulder. "Watch and learn, brother. Tomorrow I’ll teach that kid exactly what the best-shooting pretty boy in this league’s name is."

Right then his phone buzzed again, a name flashing on the screen. Kamara glanced at it, killed the call like second nature, tucked it back in his pocket, and strolled off toward the parking lot, not a care in the world.

Ryan stood there, watching him go, and shook his head with a smile.

The guys who play it off the hardest are usually the ones who take it the deepest.

He knew exactly what kind of shooter Kamara was. When the stroke was on, catching at the left corner with his eyes shut and stringing them together—a blade. When it left him, it was that line the whole team needled him over: the five zeros, a whole game spent like a ghost, never finding himself out there. Hot, he was a god; cold, he vanished. Streaky enough that even he couldn’t get a read on it.

That breath he was holding for tomorrow—would it push him onto the godlike side of it—

or drive him to want it so badly his fingers went tight, and he iced over into another zero nobody wanted to mention?

Who knew.

That night.

Kamara turned down a date.

The girl on the other end of the line wanted him out at that new bar; he said, for once, "another time," and hung up. He went out alone, to a high-end restaurant he knew well in the city, and took a seat toward the back.

Crystal glasses, white linen, a waiter quietly topping off his water. He ordered, but had no appetite, fingers tapping idly against the side of his glass.

In the end he couldn’t help himself—he pulled that old article back up. Harrow’s face, all flush with triumph, set side by side with his own. He stared at it a moment, then flipped the phone face-down on the table, irritated.

A few minutes later, a figure came over quick-stepped.

"Oh my god—you’re Kamara, right?!"

A stylishly dressed young woman stood at the table, eyes shining, excitement she couldn’t hide all over her face. "I’m such a huge fan! I catch just about every Roarers home game—your fits, every single time, they’re killer." She pressed a hand to her chest like she was steadying herself. "I’m Vanessa, I model. Could I—could I get an autograph?"

The irritation on Kamara’s face was replaced, in an instant, by a familiar, well-practiced ease.

"Of course."

The girl dug through her bag a while, then looked up, chagrined. "Ah... I didn’t bring a pen." Her eyes flicked, her voice going sweeter. "Then... how about a photo instead?"

"Sure."

She gave a little cheer and leaned in beside him, lifting her phone. In the frame, she edged in closer without seeming to, a bare shoulder against his arm, one fine-featured profile pressing right up against his cheek. Click.

Kamara laughed to himself.

This routine—he knew it. Knew it cold.

Autograph falls through, switch to a photo; photo’s not close enough, press up cheek to cheek. What came next, he could’ve counted off with his eyes shut—

And there it was.

"So, I’m heading out for a couple of drinks later," the girl said, tucking her phone away, tilting her head at him, reluctant to let it end, her voice dropping lower, lashes lifting just so. "Drinking alone’s no fun... you want to come along?" She paused, her gaze tracing slowly over his face, the tail of her words soft and clinging. "And after the drinks... doesn’t have to be straight home for everybody, you know."

Those eyes curved up at him—nothing said outright, but the meaning was a long way past "one drink."

On a normal night, this was a script Kamara could run with his eyes closed. A thing handed to him on a plate—he never gave himself a hard time over it.

But this time, glass in hand, looking at that pretty face across from him, he stopped, against all reason.

What turned over in his head, of all things, was that young guy on the screen holding the trophy, and that line—next in line to be the league’s most stylish wing.

"Didn’t you just say you catch all my home games?" Kamara set his glass down, looking at her with a half-smile.

The girl blinked. "Ah... yeah."

"Then you’d know I’ve got a game to play tomorrow." He gave her a wink. "Gotta get home and rest up. Oh—that game tomorrow, you grab a ticket?"

That stumped her clean out of words. The smile froze on her face; she gave a small, awkward "oh," left a number behind, and walked off, a little put out.

Kamara sat there a beat, caught off guard himself.

That line—

he could barely remember the last time it had come out of his mouth.

He looked down, gave a small laugh, shook his head, settled the check, and got up to go.

The night air hit him, and he turned up his collar, his steps a little quicker than on the way in.

Halfway down the empty sidewalk, he stopped.

He stood there a second, then raised his hand to the streetlights overhead, cocked his wrist, and let an imaginary shot go—fingers rolling off the top, his eyes following an arc only he could see as it dropped, clean, through a net that wasn’t there.

Then he lowered his hand, the corner of his mouth tugging up, and walked on into the dark.

Tomorrow, that kid named Harrow was going to find out exactly what the best-shooting pretty boy in this league was called.