"...Malik wins the tip," Mad Dog picked up, "and let’s see what the Roarers do with their first look."

Ryan had the ball. One dribble to settle the rhythm, and he was over halfcourt—a glance to the weak side first. LaVonte was on Darius. Not on him. Good.

Ryan’s eyes came back. Just past the arc, Herring waited.

He jabbed right, testing the lane—Herring slid over to cut it off. The opening Ryan wanted was the one he gave up taking it. The instant Herring’s weight committed, Ryan snapped the ball back across his body and slipped through on the left, a step into the lane before the recovery could come.

Help came sliding off the weak side—LaVonte. Ryan didn’t drive into him. He gathered, pivoted off his hip, and lofted the ball high over the rising arm, soft off his fingertips.

It kissed off the glass and dropped through. Good.

2–0.

Iron Vault erupted. The whole building came up off its seats, roaring for the bucket.

Mason: "There it is—Ryan pries open the first crack!"

Mad Dog: "Past Herring, then around LaVonte’s help—the kid doesn’t waste any time."

In the drift of bodies heading back, LaVonte eased in beside him, his voice dropped just under the roar, meant for Ryan alone:

"Quicker. Cleaner, too. Nice upgrade."

Ryan blinked—the man had actually praised him. He gave a nod. "Thanks." And turned to run back.

He praised me.

The thought floated light in his chest, and his steps loosened half a notch with it.

Paladins’ ball. Locke fed it ahead to Herring climbing through the middle, and Ryan stepped up—took this one himself.

Let’s see it. The league’s top guard. The so-called crossover master. What he’s really got.

Herring dribbled. Low, slow, like he hadn’t switched on yet.

Then he moved.

Ryan didn’t even catch how it happened—the rhythm just snapped in two, and by the time he registered it he’d been left flat, Herring slipping past his shoulder.

Ryan turned and chased.

Herring drove into the lane, met Malik stepping up, and went one step one way, one step the other—euro step, leaving Malik leaning the wrong direction. Kamara lunged off the rim to protect it; Herring flicked his wrist, the ball wrapping behind his back into the other hand, sliding past the outside of Kamara’s reaching arm.

Layup. Nothing but net.

2–2.

Mason: "Herring answers—euro step into a behind-the-back, all in one motion!"

Mad Dog: "You see that? One step each way to lean Malik off balance, then the ball goes behind the back to dodge the help at the rim—two moves stitched together with not a half-beat between them. That’s what elite handle looks like."

Ryan stood there. The light feeling in his chest had gone cold.

Roarers’ ball. It went around the perimeter; Darius took a look—off the mark, clanging off the front rim. Thorne rose high and pulled the board into his chest.

Coming back the other way, Herring again.

This time Ryan dropped his base, eyes nailed to the ball. He remembered that last one—he wasn’t loosening up again.

Herring dribbled with his right hand. The ball hit the floor as his left foot came down with it—ball and foot, one beat. Again, the same: bounce, foot, together. He wasn’t doing anything fancy. He was just letting the ball and that lead foot run on the same beat, like two gears meshed tooth to tooth.

Dribble-step. One of Ryan’s own bread-and-butter weapons.

Ryan watched. Right now Herring held every option in his hand—he could stop, he could change, he could rise straight into a step. Ryan could only stay with that beat, wound tight, one count at a time.

Through the legs. The ball crossed from right hand to left—and the instant it landed, his right foot planted, dead on time. The same beat again.

Through the legs again. Back the other way, the foot catching the rhythm once more.

Twice now. Ryan’s body had memorized the drum: dribble—foot—through; dribble—foot—through. His weight had started to sway with that left-right churn on its own, bracing for the third trip through the legs.

The third—

The ball didn’t go through. Front crossover—Herring shoved it out in front, snapping it across to the other hand.

It cut Ryan’s count in half. He was still braced for the next trip through the legs—and now the ball was gone the other way. He scrambled back, ceding ground to wall off the drive—

But Herring rose. On the spot, beyond the arc, the release without a flicker of hesitation.

Nothing but net.

2–5.

Mason: "Ryan brought his focus this time..."

Mad Dog: "Didn’t matter. Herring had him backing up on a drive that never came."

Ryan wiped a palm down his shorts, jaw tight. He’d had it read—the rhythm, the count, all of it. And it hadn’t mattered. The man just broke the beat and Ryan’s own feet had carried him backward, guarding a drive that never came. Next one. He told himself that, jogging back. Next one I’ve got.

Roarers’ ball. Darius walked it up, in no hurry, eyes scanning.

Across the floor, before the ball had even found its way over, Stith had already picked up Kamara—and slid in with a grin, easy, like they’d run into each other at a cookout. "Kamaraaa. Long time."

Kamara didn’t look at him. "Yeah."

Do I know you like that?

Mad Dog: "Ha—look at Pridy P, picking up Kamara and saying hello in the middle of it all."

Mason: "And Kamara’s not giving him a thing back."

Darius brought it across, swung it to Gibson on the wing. Gibson gave it right back to Malik up top.

Mason: "Gibson touches it, kicks it right back out—"

Mad Dog: "Ha—he’s just never gonna pull the trigger."

Malik to Darius, Darius across to Kamara—Stith crowding him now, the easy grin gone, all hands and hips. Kamara gave it up before it could turn into anything, swinging it on to Ryan at the top.

And there was LaVonte, switched out onto him.

Ryan jabbed, tested a step—nothing. The lane was a closed door. He pulled it back out to Gibson.

Mason: "Ryan tries LaVonte, can’t find a crease—back out to Gibson—"

Mad Dog: "Locke steps up, Gibson gives it right back. Paladins not giving them a thing clean. Clock’s past the half now."

Back to Malik, the whole thing circling.

Mason: "All the way around—and back to Malik."

Mad Dog: "And they’re running out of time to find a good one."

It swung to Kamara on the wing, a screen freeing him for half a beat. He stole a glance at the shot clock—three seconds, no time left to think. He caught it on the rise, Stith closing fast, and let it go right over the contest.

Mason: "Kamara—forced, for three—"

Off the rim. Malik went up for the board—but offensive boards are the hard ones to get; Thorne walled him off and brought it down.

Mad Dog: "—no good. And Thorne boxes out Malik, secures it."

Outlet to Herring. He came.

Ryan was already waiting beyond the arc. He’d promised himself this one. He set his feet, low and ready.

Herring dribbled in place. First bounce, right hand, left foot stepping out with it—ball and foot, the same beat. Ryan stayed with it, his body braced for that familiar drum, ready for the next step to land on rhythm.

But the next step changed.

Herring’s feet switched order without a sound—the foot that should have pushed forward slid back instead, the other stealing to the front. The same handle, but the rhythm skipped a stair. That half-beat of misalignment—Ryan’s body didn’t catch it, still loaded on the old rhythm.

And on that off-beat—

his right hand slammed the ball down. Low and dead—the way a drive loads up out of.

Ryan gave ground. A step back to wall off the drive that was coming.

Drag stop.

Only nothing was coming. Herring hadn’t gone anywhere—he’d never left the arc. The punch was the bluff, and Ryan had just backed himself clean out of his airspace.

By the time he read it, Herring was already up.

Pull-up three. Untouched.

Nothing but net.

2–8.

Mad Dog: "Mason—you catch that? The switch Herring just pulled—stutter dribble-step..."

Mason: "Pure silk. Nobody in this league moves like that. Nobody."

The ball dropped through. Ryan watched it settle, then watched Herring—no flicker on his face—turn and jog back on defense.

This guy. He’s that good.

Twice. Twice now. Not a drive, not even half a step taken—just standing there, in front of him, dropping threes like it cost nothing.

The king of handles, the one everyone just agreed on. Ryan was feeling it now, first-hand, in his own body.

And someone this good... had never once won MVP?

The thought was still turning over when LaVonte brushed past him, unhurried, heading back on D.

Ryan’s eyes followed him a beat, that easy, unbothered stride.

And him... three of them.

And he hasn’t even turned it on yet.