Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!
Chapter 78 :First Time in OT

Chapter 78: Chapter 78 :First Time in OT

The second quarter begins, but the Roarers don’t take the lead as expected.

The reason was simple—Ryan was on the bench catching his breath.

The Roarers’ starting five is fairly solid on both ends—they can hold their own on offense and defense.

But their Achilles’ heel is a razor-thin bench.

All season, they’ve leaned on a punishing seven-man rotation, barely enough to keep the engine running.

Ryan’s arrival stretched it to eight, a small lifeline, but with Darius sidelined by a suspension today, they’re back to scraping by with seven.

The Mistfoxes’ breakneck pace is a relentless meat grinder, chewing through stamina like it’s nothing. Even Malik, the team’s ironclad warhorse, is starting to fray—his steps heavy, his eyes betraying exhaustion.

Coach Crawford, jaw tight, has no choice but to throw Omar into the fire—just hoping he can eat up a few minutes and give Malik a fleeting chance to recover.

Ryan had barely been on the bench for three minutes when the Mistfoxes extended their lead again—47–39.

Crawford doesn’t hesitate, yanking him off the bench and back into the fray.

Bayne, meanwhile, had just checked out to rest. His replacement, a lanky backup forward, was tasked with guarding Ryan.

Big mistake. The guy’s defense is shaky at best, and Ryan makes him pay, shaking him off with a quick jab step and slicing to the rim for a slick layup off the glass.

But the Mistfoxes don’t blink. They fire back with a lightning-fast transition bucket.

Next possession, the backup forward plants himself wide, arms spread, legs splayed, ready to die on that hill.

Ryan sinks low, ball pounding the hardwood. He feints right, planting his foot hard.

The defender bites, lunging to his left.

Gotcha. Ryan snaps his foot back, steps out beyond the arc, and rises in one fluid motion.

The forward, cursing under his breath—"Fuck!"—scrambles to contest, but it’s too late.

A split-second window is all Ryan needs.The ball sails, a perfect parabola.

The Roarers’ bench leaps to its feet.

Every fan in MistBank Arena holds their breath, eyes locked on the leather.

Swish.

The net barely moves. The forward, overcommitted, crashes into Ryan, sending him sprawling.

The whistle shrieks—defensive foul. Three-plus-one.

Ryan struts to the line, cool as ice, and drains the free throw.

Mistfoxes 49, Roarers 46.

Bayne returned the next possession. And he wasted no time—driving hard into the paint, collapsing the defense, then whipping a laser to West in the corner.

Wide open.

Splash.

52–46.

Ryan, unfazed, calls for Malik’s screen against Bayne’s smothering defense.

The pick lands like a brick wall, and Ryan darts left. No drive this time—he pulls up from deep.

Swish.

Another triple. 52-49.

The Mistfoxes call timeout, the arena buzzing.

Up in the booth, the commentary duo couldn’t contain themselves.

Jim "The Voice" Callahan (Play-by-Play):

"Wow! That’s Ryan’s fourth three-pointer tonight. He’s feeling it."

Duke "Ice" Patterson (Color Commentary):

"He’s 4-for-5 from deep! This might be the best shooting night of his career."

Callahan pulled up the stats.

"Not quite. Remember his debut? Four-for-four. You and I called that one too."

Patterson chuckled.

"Right. Damn, I forgot that one."

Timeout ends, and the Mistfoxes come out swinging. Monroe blazes downcourt, soaring for a trademark tomahawk dunk over Kamara that rattles the rim and ignites the crowd.

Replays rolled over and over, poor Kamara caught in every one of them.

The Roarers’ next possession starts ugly. Ryan’s barely past halfcourt when two defenders collapse on him—a premeditated trap from the Mistfoxes’ timeout huddle. Double-teamed, he can’t even dream of a clean pass, let alone a drive.

He pounds the ball, dancing to keep space, until Lin darts up to get free and takes the pass. The possession ends with Kamara’s floater clanking off the rim.

From there, it’s a nightmare. Every time Ryan touches the ball, the double-team is right there.

The system had blessed Ryan with the "Night of the Three" bonus.

But this wasn’t a video game.

It didn’t mean automatic buckets. It meant rhythm, confidence, clean looks—none of which existed under constant pressure.

Ryan only found daylight twice more before the half—one for a driving layup, and another trip to the line after drawing a foul.

Halftime.

Mistfoxes 66, Roarers 60.

Ryan had dropped 27 points, but the scoreboard was still tilted.

In the locker room, Crawford focused on half-court offense.

Handling doubles? That’s not a quick pep talk.

It’s footwork, vision, passing, and teammates moving in sync—a tall order.

Third quarter starts, and the Mistfoxes’ trap doesn’t let up.

Ryan’s hounded, dribbling endlessly, weaving through traffic for a sliver of daylight.

On defense, he’s sprinting to counter the Mistfoxes’ relentless breaks.

Five minutes in, he’s gassed—sweat pouring, legs like lead.

He scrapes together just two points. Crawford burns a timeout at 6:57, the scoreboard glaring: 78-68, Mistfoxes.

The Roarers are staring down another double-digit hole.

Crawford pulls Ryan for a breather, sending

Stanley in his place. Stanley’s a defensive bulldog, but his offense and playmaking are pedestrian at best.

Out of the timeout, the Roarers still couldn’t flip the switch. They were just barely hanging on.

Third quarter ends: 91–78.

Ryan glances at the scoreboard—13 points down. Not a death sentence. He’s rested enough to go full throttle in the fourth.

Before checking in, Ryan huddles with his teammates. "I’ll draw the double-team. Be ready to cut or pop for threes. If you’re open, the ball’s coming."

Against a double, if you survive the pressure or slip the pass, you’ve got a numbers advantage. Simple math.

The fourth quarter begins with a nervous hum hanging over the arena. Everyone knows what’s coming—traps, pressure, desperation.

Roarers start the fourth with possession.

Sure enough, Ryan barely makes it past the arc when the trap comes—two defenders right in his face. He doesn’t panic. He dances, fakes, spins. Keeps them moving in circles. Off the ball, his teammates cut like clockwork, pulling the Mistfoxes’ defense apart.

Lin darts to the corner, wide open.

Ryan fires a laser.

Lin catches. Shoots.

Swish.

Three points. 91–81.

Ten-point game.

Monroe answers with a quick layup.

Malik inbounds to Ryan, who flips it to Lin.

"You run it," he says, sprinting upcourt.

With no ball in hand, Ryan isn’t trapped early.

Lin, not being a threat off the bounce, doesn’t draw pressure either.

He dribbles a few times, then Ryan suddenly shakes free, looping back for a quick handoff.

Ryan catches and fires, leaving two lunging defenders grasping air.

The shot’s flat, fierce, carrying his hunger to win.

Swish!

A missile to the hoop. 93-84.

Single digits.

The crowd lets out a collective gasp, half awe, half fear. Some stand. Some cover their mouths. Ryan doesn’t celebrate. He just backpedals, eyes burning. We’re not chasing anymore, they say. We’re coming.

The game turns into a slugfest, both teams trading blows.

With three minutes left, coaches burn timeouts, chess moves flying.

At 16 seconds, it’s 115-110, Mistfoxes. Roarers’ ball.

Lin’s corner three clanks off the rim.

The bench groans, despair creeping in. But as Ender reaches for the board, Sloan explodes through, snatching the offensive rebound.

He spots Ryan at the arc and whips it to him. Bayne lunges, but Ryan rises through the contact—his seventh three-point attempt tonight, five already in.

The ball arcs perfectly.

Swish!

Seventh triple. 115-113.

No timeouts left for the Roarers.

Mistfoxes inbound.

Crawford screams from the sideline: "Foul! Foul now!"

Thirteen seconds remain—without a foul, the game’s over.

Kamara pounces, wrapping up Monroe in a flash.

One second burned.

Whistle blows.

Monroe steps to the line, 81.3% career free-throw shooter.

The Roarers’ bench is a prayer circle, Omar’s hands clasped tight.

Two makes, and it’s curtains.

First shot—clean.

116-113.

Second shot?

It kisses the front rim, pops high, grazes the back iron, and... bounces out.

Destiny’s cruel joke.

Sloan snags the board.

Mistfoxes have no timeouts either.Their coach bellows: "No threes!"

Ryan pushes the ball, home fans on their feet, hearts pounding.

Two steps past halfcourt, the double-team hits. Bayne and another defender smother him, cutting off passes and shots.

Five seconds left. Ryan grits his teeth, spins, and backtracks to midcourt, right on the Mistfoxes’ fox-head logo.

Bayne hesitates—a fatal flinch.

But he recovers fast and bolts after Ryan, desperate to close the space.

Callahan’s voice breaks through the silence in the broadcast booth.

"What’s he doing?! Ryan’s going the wrong way—"

Patterson cuts in, breathless.

"No... he’s setting up something big."

Callahan squints.

"Wait. He’s on the logo. He’s really gonna pull from there?"

Patterson almost whispers,

"He’s lining it up... a logo three for the tie?"

Ryan pivots, space opening.

The hoop’s a mile away, but the "Night of the Three" bonus makes it feel like a free throw.

He launches with everything he’s got.

The arena holds its breath as the ball soars, a long, graceful arc.

Ryan knows it’s money the second it leaves his hand.

Buzzer.

Swish.

Tie game. 116-116. Overtime.

Ryan flashes a wild grin. "First time in OT," he laughs, pulse racing.