Stith's feet had barely touched down when Kamara's hand was already darting in to strip it—Stith torqued his core, stepped laterally out of reach, and dribbled the ball out past the paint. Darius, the closest man to him, chased over and stuck to him tight.
Ryan's heart sank. The reward? Nothing? I shouted it for nothing?
At the edge of his vision, a figure had already drifted quietly to the top of the arc—wide, wide open. LaVonte!
Not good!
He threw everything into a lateral sprint at the arc—only to catch, out of the corner of his eye, Stith already breaking out past the three-point line on the weak-side wing.
Four seconds left in the game!
LaVonte planted, hands up at his chest, palms out—calling for it, plain as day.
Won't make it!
Despair clamped down on Ryan's chest: the second that pass went across, LaVonte would have a wide-open look at the game-winner.
But Stith broke past the arc—and didn't send it to LaVonte.
Three seconds!
He drove straight past LaVonte instead.
