CHAPTER 98: CHAPTER 98 :THE DEATH STARE

Tuesday night, the Roarers were in enemy territory, facing the Vellix City Phantoms at the Vellix Civic Center, a packed house buzzing with restless energy.

9:00 PM sharp.

Both teams emerged from the tunnel onto the court, sneakers squeaking, lights blaring, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Warmups began in a flurry of layup lines, chest bumps, and thudding dribbles echoing through the Vellix Civic Center.

Ryan bounced a ball, eyes scanning the Phantoms’ side, quickly locking onto Devin Maddox. Number 10, built like a coiled spring, all lean muscle matching Ryan’s 6’6" frame, with dreads tied back in a messy bun and a scruffy beard framing a cocky grin. Maddox caught Ryan’s gaze, his lips curling into a sleazy smirk before he dragged a finger across his throat in a mock throat-slash.

That’s your move, huh? Ryan thought, unfazed. He turned to Kamara, who was lobbing lazy layups nearby. "Yo, does Maddox ever do the death stare?"

Kamara paused, ball under his arm. "Death stare? What’s that?"

"You know," Ryan said, a grin creeping in, "when you march over to their side and just stare—no blinking, no moving, like you’re about to end them."

Kamara’s brow furrowed, then he laughed. "Nah, never seen him pull that. Who even does that?"

Ryan’s mind flashed to his old world, where Dillon Brooks would stalk across halfcourt, glaring down opponents like a predator sizing up prey. Classic Brooks chaos, he thought, chuckling. "Let’s do it," Ryan said, eyes glinting with mischief. "We’re gonna death-stare Maddox. Rattle his cage."

Kamara hesitated, smirking. "Sounds kinda dumb... but also kinda dope. I’m in."

"Keep it ice-cold," Ryan instructed, already striding toward halfcourt. "No moving, no talking. Just stare like we’re about to bury him."

The two crossed the court, faces hard as stone, eyes locked on Maddox like lasers. The arena’s cameras swung their way, catching the scene.

The lead broadcaster’s voice boomed over the PA: "Whoa, what’s this? Ryan and Kamara storming over with murder in their eyes! That ain’t a handshake vibe!"

The color commentator laughed nervously. "You think they’re about to throw hands?"

They stopped just two steps beyond the arc.

Locked eyes on Maddox.

And froze.

Not a word. Not a smile. Just pure menace.

Maddox had already noticed them approaching.

His first thought:

Shit. I just did a throat slash. They’re not actually gonna jump me, right?

But he stood his ground. Home court. No way they’d risk an ejection.

He squinted at them. "You serious? Y’all wanna fight or something?"

No reply.

Ryan and Kamara just stared.

Maddox tried to keep his cool, but the intensity of it started digging under his skin.

Players from the Phantoms rushed in to defend Maddox.

"Yo!" one of them shouted. "What the hell’s your problem?"

Even the head ref stepped onto the floor, hand raised, ready to intervene.

Kamara was having a blast inside but had no clue how long this stare-down was supposed to last.

Ryan hadn’t budged, so he played along, keeping his face deadly serious.

Maddox’s smirk faltered, his brow creasing. "Say something, man. What’s your problem?"

Ryan was counting in his head—eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

Right on cue, he spun on his heel, wordless, and strode back to the Roarers’ side. Kamara scrambled to follow, barely stifling a laugh.

Maddox exhaled, muttering to his teammates, "Freaking weirdos. Let’s warm up."

From the broadcast booth, one announcer asked, "So... what just happened?"

The other laughed. "Mind games. Just screwing with Maddox’s head."

Back on their side of the court, Darius walked up as Ryan and Kamara returned.

"What was that?"

"Death stare," Ryan said calmly. "Mental warfare."

Darius grinned. "Next time you pull something like that—count me in."

The Vellix City Arena was alive with chaos, the stands a roiling mix of jeers and cheers as fans buzzed about Ryan and Kamara’s pre-game death stare. The stunt had lit up the crowd, whispers rippling through the bleachers like wildfire, but it was just a spark before the real show.

The little stunt didn’t affect the game—the tip-off still happened right on schedule at 9:30 p.m. The referee tossed the bright orange ball into the air under the arena’s harsh lights. Malik, the Roarers’ towering forward, soared above his man and tapped it to Ryan.

Game on.

Ryan caught the ball and brought it up the court with purpose. Across from him, Devin Maddox was already waiting—arms wide, feet low, eyes locked in.

"I’m gonna make you regret that little stunt," Maddox said, gritting through his teeth.

Ryan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The glare he shot Maddox said enough—ice-cold, locked-in, lethal. Maddox flinched just slightly but held his stance.

Ryan dribbled, probing. A hesitation move. Cross left. Then right again. But Maddox stuck like glue—tight on the hips, perfect footwork, reading every shift.

Okay. Let’s test the jumper.

Ryan jabbed once, rose up for the mid-range pull-up.

Clang.

Back iron.

The ball bounced long, Phantoms rebound.

They pushed. The ball swung quickly to the baseline, then zipped into the paint—Maddox again. He caught the lob on the move, two feet up, and hammered it down with authority.

BOOM.

As he landed, Maddox turned mid-stride, his voice echoing through the gym. "AHHHH!"

Veins popped from his neck. He flexed, snarled, and glared toward Ryan.

Second possession.

Ryan got the ball again. He wasn’t rattled. He worked to his spot at the elbow. One dribble. Rise.

Clang.

Same result. Still cold.

He exhaled sharply and shook out his hands as he jogged back.

Maddox, meanwhile, was heating up.

This time he backed down Darius in the low post. Taller by a couple of inches, heavier by at least ten pounds, he took one hard dribble, spun baseline, and lofted in a soft right-handed floater.

Swish.

Then he turned again—this time not yelling, but raising both arms like a prizefighter, flexing biceps as he strutted back on defense.

Ryan saw it and smirked faintly.

You’re loud now. Let’s see how long that lasts.

Up at the broadcast table, the announcers were already weighing in.

"Looks like Maddox came out swinging tonight," one said.

"Meanwhile, Ryan’s 0-for-2 from midrange," the other noted. "Not his usual rhythm."

Roarers ball again.

Ryan got the call and brought it up once more, staring Maddox down. A flurry of dribbles, between the legs, spin, scissor step. He broke free for a step, bolted toward the paint—

"Travel!" Maddox yelled, pointing mid-sprint.

It wasn’t called, but Ryan missed the layup anyway.

He landed, eyebrows pinched. No foul, no bucket. He could feel it—shots rolling off his fingers the wrong way, the ball not quite obeying his will tonight.

By the next two possessions, Ryan had adjusted. He stopped shooting.

Instead, he drove hard to collapse the defense and kicked it out to shooters—Darius, Lin, even Kamara—who made the Phantoms pay. He fed Malik twice on pick-and-roll slips, drew fouls, set screens, and reset the offense with patience. But when he finally got an open lane again, a simple right-hand layup—it rimmed out.

0-for-4.

Crawford made the call immediately.

"Lin, you’re in. Ryan, catch your breath."

Ryan jogged off and sat down, towel over his shoulders, water bottle in hand. Sweat clung to his neck, but not frustration.

Crawford crouched next to him. "What’s up? Maddox get in your head?"

Ryan shook his head. "Nah. He’s just noise. I’m just cold tonight. It’ll come back."

He said it with such casual conviction that Crawford didn’t feel the need to respond. He just nodded once, stood, and turned back to the court.

Every player has a cold stretch. Even the best. Even Curry has those nights where the rim shrinks and the ball turns traitor. It’s how you carry yourself through it that separates the real pros from the rest.

On the bench, Ryan watched his team grind.

And to his relief, the Roarers were holding it down.

Darius was a sniper, draining two straight threes, his swagger matching the Iron City fans’ chants. Lin, the sparkplug sub, darted through the paint, hitting a floater. But the Roarers’ interior game was shaky. Kamara, Malik, even Gibson—they all shied away from backing down Maddox in the post. Kamara’s face said it all: Not dealing with that sleazy junk again. Maddox’s hip-checks and sneaky grabs had them spooked, their reluctance costing easy buckets.

Still, the Roarers’ hustle kept them ahead. Malik swatted a Phantoms layup into the third row, firing up the bench. Kamara cleaned up a miss with a putback, and Darius stole a pass, racing for a fast-break dunk.

The first quarter ended with the Roarers up 28-26, a gritty edge despite Ryan’s struggles.

Maddox, though, was the Phantoms’ pulse, going 5-for-7 for a game-high 10 points, his every move a taunt.

Maddox might be best known for his tenacious defense, but his offense isn’t anything to scoff at either. He’s not on the level of the league’s elite scorers, but he still serves as one of the Phantoms’ primary offensive weapons.