Roarers' ball.
Ryan brought it up over halfcourt, came off a Malik screen, and rose into it—mid-range, nothing but net. 4–8. The roar inside Iron Vault had barely settled for ten-odd seconds before it surged back up.
Paladins inbounded. Herring took it and brought it up the floor.
Ryan dropped low to meet him. The last two times, the rhythm had backed him up a step—this time he wound his focus to the limit, eyes locked on Herring's shoulder. Through the legs, left shoulder dipping—Ryan slid with it, stayed glued. Herring punched the ball down. Ryan didn't bite. Not a step given.
Something flickered in Herring's eyes. Surprise.
He went up.
Ha. Knew it.
Ryan rose with him, hand up to contest—
And Herring's wrist whipped. The ball was gone, past Ryan's ear.
A pass?
Ryan's head snapped around.
