si-mexico Chapter 136: When His Number’s Called
Chapter 136: When His Number’s Called
April first. Tuesday. Iron Vault Arena.
The opponent: the Brontic Bay Krakens—dead last in the East, one of the weakest teams in the league this season.
Courtside in the VIP section, Chloe was back in her No. 0 jersey. Beside her sat her father, Steven Palmer—late sixties, balding, in that same blue checkered button-down. The paperwork was still grinding along, but the owner-in-waiting hadn’t tucked himself away in a suite like last time. He’d planted himself right back in the front row at floor level.
"This is better," Palmer said, rubbing his hands together, watching the players warm up, talking at his daughter. "Close up. You can actually see it. That suite—pane of glass in front of you, might as well be watching it on TV."
Chloe smiled and said nothing. Her old man had the exact same affliction as that No. 0 down on the floor.
9:30. Tip-off.
Roarers’ starting five: Ryan, Darius, Kamara, Sloan, Omar.
Malik and Gibson were both sitting—against a team like the Krakens, no sense burning the two veterans. The frontcourt went to two young guys, Omar and Sloan.
Omar’s palms were damp when he stepped into the jump circle.
It wasn’t that he’d never started. He’d filled in for a few games when Malik went down—but back then he’d been thrown to the wolves, scrambling, terrified of being the weak link. This was different. This was his second crack at it since the Crows game, a chance he’d earned with the last few weeks of work, alone in the gym. He had something to prove.
The whistle. The ball went up. Omar lost the tip to their center—didn’t matter. First possession, the Krakens fed it inside, and their center spun to back Omar down—
The page of notes from yesterday’s film session flipped open in his head. This guy always turns over his left shoulder.
Omar had already planted his feet to the left. The center spun straight into his chest, and Omar swatted the ball loose. Darius scooped it up and took it coast-to-coast.
2–0.
On the sideline, Crawford gave a small, even nod.
The late nights hadn’t been for nothing.
That one play seemed to cut Omar loose. From there he only got better—sealing position, crashing the glass, rolling to the rim to finish Ryan’s feeds. And Ryan was happy to feed him, putting the ball in his hands again and again.
Ryan wasn’t thinking about scoring tonight.
He played like a true facilitator, keeping the ball alive, dishing it out plate by plate: to Omar, to Kamara, to Darius—even Sloan got a pair of feeds cutting backdoor. Drive-and-kick, pick-and-pop lobs, he tore the Krakens’ loose defense to ribbons.
First quarter, 32–22. Second quarter the Roarers pulled away further, up 62–48 at the half.
Third quarter, another push. Midway through, the lead had stretched past twenty, and the result was no longer in any doubt.
Crawford waved Ryan over. "Alright. Come on out."
Ryan jogged to the sideline and slapped hands with Lin, who was checking in for him. Twenty-five minutes tonight, easy work—sixteen points and ten assists, an unflashy double-double. He’d barely had to exert himself; the dimes had just rolled off his hands.
The coach’s eyes moved off him—but didn’t land on Darius.
Darius sat at twenty-five and eight right now, in a real groove. Two assists short of a double-double of his own. Crawford, more likely than not, wanted to let him round it out, so he left him on the floor.
Ryan walked to the bench. Before he pulled on his warmups, he glanced up at the VIP section. Chloe was watching him, smiling, and gave him the little clenched fist. Ryan returned it—a small shake against his hip. The signal only the two of them understood.
He sat down, grabbed a bottle of Zero9, twisted it open, tipped his head back for a pull, and let his eyes drift back to the floor.
Out there, Darius was still harvesting. A drive-and-kick, a step-back three, another dime to the corner. By the time he’d finally played out the full third quarter and ambled off the floor, his line had climbed to a team-high thirty-two points and ten assists.
Tonight’s postgame mics, naturally enough, belonged to him.
The fourth quarter wasn’t his, either.
To open the fourth, Crawford rolled out a brand-new unit.
Lin, and the four of them.
Deshawn, Omar, Brent, Jalen.
The Roarers’ Garbage-Time Big Four.
The nickname had been hung on them a while back—four young guys who’d barely sniffed real minutes, only getting on the floor once a game was buried and garbage time rolled around.
A full quarter of garbage time was nothing new to them—they’d played an entire one back in Ryan’s debut. Only that time, they’d been the side down by twenty. This time, they stood on the side that was up by it.
Out there with them was Lin.
But the Krakens weren’t about to roll over.
Last place or not, the guys the Krakens had on the floor had at least kicked around the league for a few years. The second they saw five green kids check in across from them, something woke up.
The one leading it was a guard named Eddins, a dozen years in the league, well past his prime, but that old-dog craft was still there. He didn’t try to beat you with speed—he used experience. A pump fake sent Brent flying past, and he calmly buried a mid-ranger. Next trip down, he read Jalen a half-step slow on the help and slipped a bounce pass inside for the assist.
The Big Four started to panic.
Experience is something bought with real, hard time—you can’t make it up on raw enthusiasm. Brent lunged for a steal and got blown by. Jalen rotated over and left his own man open. In the space of two minutes the Krakens ripped off a 7–2 run and clawed the lead down to thirteen, 100–87.
Crawford shot up off the bench, voice tearing across the floor. "Defense! Move your feet! Brent—stay with your man!"
It was teetering on the edge of falling apart.
Lin clapped his hands and called for the ball.
He didn’t say a single word. He just put the thing back in its place, almost offhandedly.
A pick—he came off Omar’s screen with a light probe, and Eddins’ feet couldn’t begin to keep up. From beyond the arc, he rose and fired. Nothing but net. Next trip he skipped the screen entirely, two dribbles, a clean step-back—another three, splash. The one after, he read the double coming and whipped a no-look pass to Deshawn waiting open in the corner.
The smug look on Eddins’ face didn’t last long.
That was the gap in class. The Krakens’ little run had been built on picking on Brent and Jalen, a couple of rookies. But the moment Lin decided to lock in, the role-players across from him simply weren’t on the same plane. The Rookie of the Year from eight years ago still had it all in there—the shot, the floor command, the read on a defense. In a low-stakes game flowing his way like this, Lin was good enough to make you forget how he’d ever ended up drifting from team to team.
In two minutes flat, all by himself—three threes and two assists—he pushed the lead back out past twenty, 110–89.
With about six minutes left, the Krakens’ head coach finally waved it off.
A last-place team didn’t have much fight in it to begin with. Seeing the game out of reach, why grind down what few playable bodies he had left? He emptied his bench.
The Krakens’ reserves.
A last-place team’s reserves.
Now, at last, the level was even.
Lin’s mouth twitched, and he pushed the ball ahead.
It was the Big Four’s time.
The first to set the building off was Deshawn. Brent drove and kicked, Deshawn caught it on the right wing and let fly without a thought—that buzzer-beating touch from the Crows game was still in his hands, and the ball dropped clean. Three. He spread his arms wide and grinned at the bench.
Omar was next. Lin lofted one in to the post, Omar sealed his man solidly, turned, and dropped a soft little hook. Smooth. The bucket rounded his night into a tidy double-double—as a starter: fifteen points, twelve rebounds. A career high, and the first double-double of his career.
Brent and Jalen didn’t sit it out either. Brent caught the reserves loafing on defense and finished a clean drive at the rim; Jalen, on the other end, chased down a fast break and pinned the shot with a thunderous block that brought the whole arena up roaring.
Four young guys, back and forth, turning those last six minutes into a stage of their own.
On the bench, Ryan watched, and smiled.
The final buzzer.
Roarers 124, Krakens 101. A comfortable home win.
In the locker room, the four young guys huddled together, faces flushed with excitement. Deshawn was up and dancing again. Omar carefully folded the box score with his double-double on it and tucked it into his bag.
Lin worked the wraps off his wrists at his stall, no expression on his face.
He knew what he was on this team. His name wasn’t in the starting rotation, and the spotlight was never going to swing his way. That was fine. When his number got called, he checked in, ran the offense, steadied the lead, got these young guys going—that was his role.
And that role, he could play.
Jersey slung over his shoulder, Lin was the first one out of the locker room.