Kendrick set up at the top of the arc across from Ryan, the ball in both hands.
"Check." Kendrick zipped it over. Ryan caught it clean and fired it right back. "Play."
The moment it settled back into Kendrick's hands—live.
Ryan watched him, in no rush. He'd spent the whole game on the sideline sizing this kid up; he had a read on him already.
Kendrick made his move.
Between the legs, in front, then a sharp jab step—the ball flicking through his hands quick and flashy, a whole string of fakes thrown out to shake Ryan loose.
Ryan didn't bite.
He stayed right on him, moving with him step for step, not buying a single fake. Those moves crawled by like slow-motion replay in Ryan's eyes—wherever Kendrick went, Ryan was already there.
Three fakes, and not a step of daylight.
Kendrick gave it up, stepped back, and rose into the shot—
A three.
The ball had barely left his fingers.
Ryan exploded up, arm stretched to its limit—
SLAP.
