Ryan's soaring alley-oop had trimmed the deficit to 93–85, igniting a flicker of hope for Iron City.
But across from them stood Hardell.
And tonight, he wasn't the same man they'd faced in their last meeting.
Back in Iron City, Hardell had stumbled through the second half with heavy legs, weighed down by a late night out. The nightclub shadows had clung to his jumper, every shot short, every step half a beat behind. He looked mortal. Vulnerable.
Not tonight.
For this rematch, with Ryan looming as his foil, Hardell had sworn off the nightlife. No champagne, no velvet ropes, no distractions. He had locked himself in, sharpening his rhythm, saving every ounce of fuel for this game. The result was terrifying: a flamethrower in human form, an uncontainable monster with the ball in his hands.
The Roarers' traps couldn't cage him.
