The Roarers scored again—Ryan with another bucket, a layup in, and the board jumped to 94–84. The lead was into double digits now, out in the open.
The whole arena erupted—home fans up on their feet as one, the roar nearly lifting the roof off.
Stith stared dead at the scoreboard, face gone iron-gray.
He was the one who'd short-circuited hardest of anyone. First half, his hands were on fire—five of eight from the field, four of seven from deep, fourteen points without breaking a sweat. But the whole third quarter, he'd gotten exactly two looks, and both clanged off the front of the rim and away. His scoring had frozen solid at fourteen, hadn't ticked up a single point since.
Kamara, jogging back on defense, drifted over meaning to "talk" to him again—Stith whipped around, eyes red and frightening, glaring at him with a heat that looked ready to boil over.
