darknovel Chapter 143: Clean Game, Happy Arena
Chapter 143: Clean Game, Happy Arena
April 5th, Saturday, 8:30 p.m. MistBank Arena.
Twenty minutes to tip-off, both teams still warming up on their own halves.
Ryan dribbled out to the top of the arc, about to rise into a three, when something off in the stands caught the corner of his eye.
A few fans in the front rows weren’t watching the warmups at all—they had their phones out, one after another, huddled together, the cold glow of the screens lighting up their faces. One of them glanced up at him, muttered something to the person beside him, and the whole group burst out laughing, their eyes cutting straight toward him.
Like ripples spreading out, more and more of them pulled out their phones. Heads leaning in, then pointing his way, laughing out loud.
Beside Ryan, Darius caught the commotion too and lowered his voice. "...What’s going on? What are they laughing at?"
Sloan leaned in as well, baffled, not sure who the pointing was even aimed at. "No idea. Who’re they laughing at? ...It’s not me, is it?" He gave his jersey a self-conscious tug.
No one had an answer.
Only Ryan—his heart lurched, and all at once, he knew.
The ad. That first run, the one before tip-off. It had aired.
He stiffly turned his face away, pretending to focus on his dribble, half wishing he could bury his head in his collar. He was done for.
——
At the broadcast table tonight were the familiar pair—play-by-play man Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy, and beside him, color commentator Sammy "Quicklip" Lee.
Right now, Mad Dog had a frown on his face.
"Quicklip, you seeing this?" he muttered under his breath. "What’s with the crowd tonight—every last one of ’em glued to their phones, cracking up?"
Quicklip leaned over and scanned the stands. "No kidding—and they’re pointing right over at the Roarers’ side, the whole lot of ’em laughing their heads off. We’re still in warmups and they’re already losing it?"
The two exchanged a glance, neither able to make heads or tails of it.
Whatever. Mad Dog cleared his throat and pulled his focus back to the floor, his voice ringing out: "Good evening, everybody! Welcome to MistBank Arena—tonight, the home-side Mistfoxes take on the visiting Iron City Roarers. Should be a good one, and we’re just about underway!"
——
The noise in the building settled a little.
The Roarers had rested three starters tonight—Kamara, Malik, and Gibson—and sent out a young lineup: Ryan, Darius, Sloan, Omar, and Stanley.
At the center circle, Omar stood across from the seven-foot-four Ender. Tilting his head back, Omar realized only now just how far that tower loomed above him—the sheer presence of the man bearing down on him.
The referee stepped into the circle, ball cradled in his palm.
Up in the booth, Mad Dog’s voice lifted: "Both sides set—here’s the toss, and we’re underway!"
The ball went up. Ender, barely seeming to exert himself, tipped it back easily to his own backcourt.
The game was on.
——
The Mistfoxes ran their usual game: fast. The moment Monroe got the ball, he was a current of electricity skimming along the floor, the whole team kicking into gear behind him. First break—Bayne, a corner three. Second—Monroe knifing into the paint for an and-one.
Omar’s footwork clearly couldn’t keep up with that kind of speed.
One Mistfoxes possession, Monroe brought the ball up the floor and ran straight into Darius, set and waiting.
"Monroe—and there’s Darius waiting on him!" Mad Dog’s voice picked up.
Monroe probed at a drive; Darius sank his hips and stuck to him, giving up nothing. Monroe threw a crossover to shake him, but Darius wouldn’t give an inch—and in the half-beat Monroe hesitated, the ball came loose, and Stanley swatted it out of bounds from the side.
Ball out. Mistfoxes’ possession.
"There’s a little storyline in this one tonight," Mad Dog said. "Darius—back against his old team."
"And then some," Quicklip jumped in. "Especially him and Monroe. Last time these two met, they went at it—both got tossed, and each picked up a one-game suspension."
"So tonight," Mad Dog grinned, "this oughta be good."
——
The Mistfoxes inbounded, swung it around a few times, and the ball found its way back to Monroe.
He pressed forward—and ran right into Darius again.
The instant they met, Monroe didn’t hesitate: he rose up to shoot, right in Darius’s face. Darius reacted in a flash, leaping out to contest—
The two collided hard in midair, both losing their balance, and crashed down to the floor together.
But the ball was already gone.
Swish. Nothing but net.
Monroe got to his feet first, standing over Darius, who was still down on the floor, and looked down at him.
"Ooh—Monroe’s standing right over Darius!" Mad Dog’s voice shot up. "Is that a little message right there?"
"Knowing Darius," Quicklip came in, "no way he lets that slide—"
"He’s getting up!" Mad Dog’s pitch climbed higher. "He’s—"
"...He’s jogging back to inbound the ball," Quicklip said.
——
Mad Dog trailed off, deflated.
But that "good one" he kept going on about never came. Darius and Monroe crossed paths again and again, neither sparing the other so much as a glance, calm as two complete strangers. No trash talk, no cheap shots, not even a decent jawing match. And it wasn’t just them—the whole game had a strange flatness to it, back and forth without either side ever catching fire.
To make it worse, both teams had gone ice-cold, shot after shot rattling off the rim, the score barely moving. Six minutes in, the board read just 10 to 12.
"I figured we’d get some fireworks tonight," Mad Dog sighed. "Instead these two are playing it cool as a game of chess."
"Sometimes that’s how it goes," Sammy shrugged. "You don’t get what you came to see—that’s basketball."
Neither coach was in a hurry to call timeout. But little by little, the scales began to tip—the Mistfoxes’ speed came at you from everywhere, wave after wave, and Omar fell further and further behind, half a step late getting back, the paint giving way again and again.
With two minutes left in the first, the lead had stretched to 14-22.
Crawford finally hit the timeout.
"Omar, you’re out. Lin, you’re in." He paused. "We’re going small."
No one was surprised—they’d run this lineup once already in the morning’s shootaround. Five players, the tallest a six-foot-eight Sloan: the smallest lineup the Roarers had put on the floor all season.
The moment it changed, the floor opened up. The spacing stretched, and Ryan’s speed was finally let loose. In just a few possessions, the small lineup ripped off a 7-0 run—a steal-and-go, a three from deep—clawing the gap right back. The Mistfoxes steadied themselves, but the momentum had been rattled.
End of the first quarter, 23-24. The Roarers trailed by just one.
——
Second quarter, and the Mistfoxes changed.
No more all-out sprinting. Monroe brought it past halfcourt and reined in the tempo, dribbling, waiting for the seven-foot-four Ender to catch up from the backcourt and settle into the paint.
And then they fed him. Again and again.
Sloan put his six-foot-eight frame on him and still got backed down inch by inch into the basket. This smallest of Roarers lineups could absolutely disrupt the other team’s fast break—the pressing, the help, the rotations were all sharp—but the moment the Mistfoxes slowed it down and pounded the ball inside, this defense, with no real rim protector, had no answer left.
"Look at that—the Mistfoxes wised up," Mad Dog said. "They quit racing you. Slow it down, hammer it inside, go right at your smallest guy."
"That’s the catch with a small lineup," Sammy followed. "They can run, they can scrap, they can chase down a break—but down there under the rim? They just can’t hold up."
Point by point, the gap was pried back open.
In the end, Crawford called timeout and brought Omar back in. But putting Omar back in just turned the clock back to how it started—a seven-foot-one center holding down the paint, but a step too slow whenever the Mistfoxes wanted to push. The bottom line: with three starters resting tonight, there were only six men to work with; of the three at the end of the bench, one might get subbed in for a minute or two, just to give a starter a breather. A trap to the left, a trap to the right—Crawford simply had no cards left to play.
——
The halftime whistle blew. 47-57.
Ryan walked back to the locker room with a dark look on his face.
Down by ten was galling enough. But what sat heavier on him was something else—he knew that ad was about to get its second airing at the half.
Sure enough.
The broadcast cut to its halftime commercials. Across the vast away arena, fans pulled out their phones one after another, a sea of bowed heads.
Laughter rippled through the stands, wave after wave.
——
When the ad finished and the feed cut back to the studio, up in the booth, Mad Dog and Quicklip finally lost it.
"Ha—well, now it all makes sense," Mad Dog laughed. "That weird vibe before tip-off—now we know what that was about!"
"And for those of you at home," Quicklip picked up smoothly, "you’ve all seen Ryan’s new commercial by now, haven’t you?"
The two traded a look and broke up laughing all over again.
——
The second half got underway, and the players took the floor again.
The moment Ryan stepped out, a fan in the front row hollered at him: "Clean game! Clean box!"
A wave of laughter rolled through the crowd.
Beside him, Darius looked baffled. "What’s all this ’clean’ they’re yelling at you?"
"Clean game..." Ryan echoed, none too pleased, then glanced sideways at Darius. "They’re talking to you, man—try not to get tossed again tonight."
Darius blinked, then cracked up. "Ha—relax. I’m not pulling a stunt like that twice."
Ryan didn’t laugh. His face hardened; he said nothing, just gripped the ball a little tighter.
Half a season of grinding had earned him a reputation as someone you didn’t mess with—and he wasn’t about to let a cat and a box of litter wipe it all away.
He was going to remind every last one of them exactly who he was.
——
The possession started, and Ryan called for the ball.
Bayne dropped low and clamped onto him—the man the Mistfoxes had assigned to hound him all night. Ryan was in no hurry: between the legs, behind the back, two quick crossovers probing for Bayne’s weight to shift—then he detonated, exploding through the seam he’d cracked open at Bayne’s side, driving straight to the rim.
The seven-foot-four Ender slid over in time, both arms raised high, a moving wall planted in front of the basket.
Ryan didn’t pull back.
He soared in front of that wall, body airborne, cocking his wrist back—and slammed it down with both hands.
A thunderous CLANG—the whole rim shuddered, Ryan’s hands still clutching the iron, his body hanging there, chest heaving.
The arena erupted, a roar surging up like a tide.
But woven into that roar was a thread of laughter that just wouldn’t quit—up in the stands, plenty of people had barely finished cheering that ferocious dunk before their minds flashed back to the Ryan from that ad, cradling a cat and cooing softly.
A snarling beast hanging off the rim, and a tender cat-dad with a kitten in his arms.
The contrast was just too absurd.
Ryan landed, heard the laughter laced through the cheers, and his face darkened another shade.
——
That dunk lit a fire under Ryan.
For the rest of the half, he was a different man. Driving, pulling up, fighting through contact, throwing it down—again and again he went at the toughest part of the defense, as if to drive that cat-cradling softie from the ad straight out of everyone’s heads.
"Whoa, Ryan’s really going for it tonight," Mad Dog said, a little surprised. "Didn’t see this kind of fire the last couple games."
"Right, he played it low-key those two," Sammy nodded. "Makes sense—three starters resting tonight; if he doesn’t step up, who does? Somebody’s got to keep that five-game win streak alive."
And step up he did. But basketball is a five-man game. However hard he tore it up out there, the short-handed lineup around him just couldn’t close the gulf between them and a team running at full strength.
The final buzzer sounded. The board froze—106 to 110. The Roarers fell on the road.
In Ryan’s stat line sat a glaring set of numbers: 37 points, 4 rebounds, 11 assists. One man, carrying a depleted roster, playing the entire second half.
They’d lost—but no one could say a word against him.
——
In the locker room, Ryan showered and changed out of his soaked jersey.
He pulled open his locker and fished out his phone—one unread message, from Chloe.
He opened it, took one glance, and his mouth twitched—the whole screen was her teasing, typed out so giddily you could practically see her shaking with laughter, all of it boiling down to one thing: she’d seen the ad, she’d lost it, and he was in for it when he got home.
Ryan didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. His thumb hovered over the call button—he wanted to just ring her—but in the end he held off. If he heard her voice now, let her get a couple more digs in, how was he supposed to keep a straight face for the reporters?
He fired off a quick "Heading into the presser—talk later," tucked the phone away, drew a deep breath, and headed for the press room.
——
The press room was a wall of flashing lights.
Sure enough, the first few questions all went straight for the ad.
"Ryan, can you talk about that cat-litter commercial? Looked like the whole arena was watching it tonight."
Ryan tugged at the corner of his mouth, trying to play it breezy. "...A fun little collaboration. I hope folks, uh, give the product itself some attention too."
A wave of good-natured laughter rolled through the room.
Once he’d handled those, the questions eased back to business—the rest, the young lineup, his own performance. Ryan answered each one, steady and composed.
Then, at the very end, one reporter raised a hand and asked the heaviest question of the night:
"Ryan, in three days you’re back home against the Paladins. Last time you met, the Roarers lost by thirty-one—and with LaVonte hounding you all night, you put up the lowest-scoring game of your career. How do you feel about the rematch?"
The room went quiet for a beat.
Ryan didn’t answer right away. He lifted his eyes, his gaze settling into something heavy, every trace of the earlier ease and joking wiped clean away.
"That game," he said, one word at a time, "I’ve been waiting a long time for it."