The final buzzer. 111–110.
The Iron Vault was still shaking. Kamara was buried in the middle of a mob of teammates—getting pounded on the back, hollered at, his head rubbed raw.
He wrestled half his body free, spotted Darius coming over, and yelled across the scrum:
"Yo—listen, listen. Threes: I hit ten, that kid hit nine." He held up his fingers, beaming. "One more than him! I counted every single one—dead on!"
Darius blinked.
One more. And this guy had tracked it, make for make, the whole night.
Ryan was laughing beside them, about to say something—when he caught it out of the corner of his eye: the reporters and the camera guys were already sweeping in, lenses up.
He raised a hand and waved everyone off. "Alright, alright, back to the locker room." He nodded toward Kamara. "Quit clogging the floor—they're waiting to interview the man of the night."
The team jeered and shoved their way back toward the tunnel.
In the locker room, the high still hadn't worn off.
