Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!-Chapter 85 :Both Starting Centers Have Fouled Out

Back to live action. Roarers inbound from the sideline. Ryan handles the ball, Russo glued to him.

Ryan calls Malik up for the screen. Classic setup—forces a switch. Halvorsen gets dragged out.

Ryan had torched this play all game, using screens to barrel into the paint, so Russo and Halvorsen locked eyes on him.

Malik set a bone-crushing screen, pinning Russo perfectly. Ryan exploded right, darting inside the arc in a flash.

Halvorsen slid over, planting himself in Ryan’s path.

But Malik rolled hard, and Ryan zipped a no-look pass to him.

Halvorsen scrambled back, too late—Malik rose and threw down a thunderous two-handed dunk.

Boom!

Iron Vault Arena erupted.

Roarers 93, Tigers 98—just five points back.

On the other end, Shael brings it up. Kamara and Ryan jump him with a trap at halfcourt.

But Shael stays composed—fires a bullet to the corner.

Frye, wide open.

The trap means someone’s left alone.

Frye rises...

Clang.

The miss stung—a momentum-killer at crunch time.

Malik, anchoring the paint, snagged the rebound and fired an outlet to Ryan for the break.

The Tigers’ defense scrambled back fast. Ryan swung the ball to Darius in the corner. Darius’s three rimmed out.

Halvorsen and Malik fight for position, but it’s Gibson who crashes in out of nowhere—snatches the board and slams it back in.

95-98! Just a one-possession game.

Tigers ball. Shael initiates up top, Kamara shadowing him.

Coach Crawford has had Kamara tailing Shael all second half.

At 6’6" and wiry, Shael struggled against Kamara’s 6’9" frame and chiseled strength, visibly gassed.

Spotting Ryan closing for a trap, Shael whipped a pass to Frye at the top of the key.

Frye shakes Gibson with a quick first step and drives. He rises with one hand for a layup—Malik comes flying in for the block!

Get that outta here!

He might not be in his prime, but the former DPOY still has gas in the tank.

Transition.

Roarers push it the other way. Darius in transition, Halvorsen sagging off, Russo chasing hard.

Darius pulls up from midrange—swish.

Roarers 97, Tigers 98—a 6-0 run, now trailing by one.

The Tigers’ coach called timeout, the clock frozen at 4:12.

Both coaches scribbling furiously, plotting their next chess move.

Out of the break, the Tigers push the tempo.

Inbound straight into a fast break.

Shael sees the trap forming and accelerates before it’s set. Kamara is stride-for-stride with him.

At the elbow, Shael’s foot slipped—he leaned hard into Kamara, and just as they made contact, he flailed sideways like he’d been trucked, selling it like an Oscar winner.

But he wasn’t done.

Just before hitting the floor, he pulled off a ridiculous shot—twisting midair and letting it fly.

Shael hit the ground, sliding out of bounds.

The whistle blew as the ball swished through.

And-one. Again.

Unbelievable. The body control, the balance, the timing—it’s otherworldly.

Ryan shot Kamara a wry grin. "This dude’s not human."

Shael stepped to the line, sinking his 15th free throw for his 30th point.

Ryan is fired up now.

Next play, Ryan drives hard again. With one tower down, only Halvorsen’s left patrolling the paint—Ryan’s loving it.

He shook Halvorsen with a crossover, soared high, and—bam—Frye slid in, planting himself under the rim.

Ryan crashed into him but got the shot off. Swish.

Both hit the deck.

Whistle blows.

Both players turned to the ref—

The ref signaled an offensive foul.

Frye smirked, basking in the call.

Ryan shot up, frustration boiling over. "Challenge it!" he yelled, waving to Crawford on the bench.

The Iron Vault crowd booed, pelting the refs with jeers.

Coach Crawford doesn’t rush. He checks with his assistants, eyes locked on the JumboTron replay, weighing the risk of a failed challenge.

Slow-mo showed Frye hadn’t set his feet—and his heel was on the restricted area line.

Confirmation.

Crawford yelled, "Challenge!"

The refs huddled at the monitor, the arena fixated on the Jumbotron looping the play.

The Tigers’ coach grimaced—this one looked bad for them.

After tense deliberation, the head ref donned the headset: "After review... blocking foul."

The crowd exploded.

Challenge successful.

And-one.

Ryan stepped to the line, exhaling deeply, nerves creeping in but focus locked.

He eyed the rim and fired.

Swish. His 11th free throw of 13, pushing him to 25 points.

Roarers 100, Tigers 101. Game on.

The Tigers’ next possession ended in a brick, the ball clanking off the rim.

On the switch, Malik muscled past Halvorsen in the paint, dropping a tough layup.

Roarers 102, Tigers 101—their first lead since the opening quarter.

Iron Vault Arena buzzed with electricity, fans stomping, the air thick with comeback fever. But the high didn’t last.

The Tigers struck back fast.

Shael, slithering to the rim, drew contact from Malik on a layup attempt.

The shot missed, but the whistle blew—two free throws.

Worse, Malik’s sixth foul sent him to the bench, ejected with 2:55 left. Crawford’s face tightened; Malik’s exit stung, a warrior lost too soon.

Crawford subbed in Sloan.

Now, both starting centers were on the bench with six fouls.

Shael calmly knocked down both free throws. His field goal percentage was so-so tonight, but from the line, he was lethal: 17-of-18 and counting.

102-103. Tigers back up by one.

Ryan wasn’t having it.

You take out Malik? Fine. I’ll take out Halvorsen.

He leaned in toward Sloan. "Let’s team up. Get Halvorsen outta here."

Sloan gave a small nod.

Halvorsen glanced over, uneasy, sensing trouble.

Ryan kept the plan tight, not even looping in Darius—his teammates’ foul-drawing skills were too shaky, liable to botch the play and kill a possession.

Ryan crossed halfcourt, Russo amping up the pressure, sticking to him like glue. Unable to shake him, Ryan worked the ball through crisp passes with his teammates. After a few swings, he got it back at the left elbow, Halvorsen looming large.

Ryan backed Halvorsen down—a move rarely seen from him.

Halvorsen held firm, hands pressing against Ryan’s back.

Ryan slid sideways, bouncing the ball once. Halvorsen mirrored him, stepping back.

In a flash, Ryan chained a quick spin with a pump-fake jumper. Halvorsen bit hard, lunging forward with both arms raised.

But Ryan didn’t fade away—he stepped into him with a fade-ahead jumper.

Yeah, you heard that right. Not fade-away—fade-ahead.

He stole that move from Hardell, the another foul-drawing genius on the Starships.

Hardell had burned him with it twice in their last matchup.

The motion was ugly, but the contact was undeniable, the ball sailing out of bounds.

Whistle. Hand-check foul. Halvorsen’s fifth. He threw up his hands, jawing at the refs. Then he signaled to the Tigers’ bench for a challenge.

Their coach just shook his head. Challenge? Good luck. Hardell’s fade-ahead had fooled refs countless times, and in Roarers’ hostile arena, with tonight’s tight whistles, it was a lost cause.

The call stood, and Halvorsen’s frustration boiled over, his fifth foul a ticking time bomb.

Ryan sank the first free throw to tie it up.

The second clanged off the back iron.

Players on both sides lunged from their lane spots, jostling for position.

Halvorsen had inside leverage, boxing out Sloan perfectly. He bent his knees to jump—

—but suddenly lurched downward.

Sloan had yanked his jersey hard, pulling him out of position.

And with Halvorsen off balance, Sloan soared.

One step, two—then a thunderous put-back slam.

He landed with a roar, turned to Halvorsen, and pounded his chest with his left hand.

"AAAHHH!"

Halvorsen’s face darkened, jaw tight.

Roarers 105, Tigers 103—a fragile two-point lead.

But not for long.

Next possession, Frye calmly drained a mid-range jumper.

Tie game again.

On the Roarers’ next trip, Kamara’s three clanked off the rim.

Under the basket, Sloan and Halvorsen locked horns, shoving for position.

Sloan muscled Halvorsen aside, leaping for the board.

Halvorsen, burning for payback, grabbed Sloan’s jersey in a blatant tug, right in the ref’s line of sight.

Sloan crashed to the floor, clutching his side, howling in pain.

The whistle shrieked. Halvorsen’s foul—his sixth. He was done.

Halvorsen protested, motioning angrily at the ref.

"Sloan pulled my jersey last time—you didn’t call that!"

The referee stared back, stone-faced, and simply pointed toward the bench.

There was nothing more to say.

It wasn’t favoritism—just bad luck.

Sloan had timed it perfectly, using his body to shield the foul from the ref’s line of sight.

No one saw it. Not officially, anyway.

Halvorsen had no choice but to storm off toward the bench, seething.

Ryan jogged over, grinning, to pull Sloan up. "Nice work, man."

Sloan brushed off Ryan’s hand, wincing. "Ain’t acting, bro. That hurt like hell."

Ryan signaled toward the bench, and Crawford quickly called timeout. The refs granted it, and the Roarers huddled as the medical staff rushed over. Sloan was helped to his feet, still wincing, and limped slowly toward the sideline. Crawford motioned for a sub—Sloan was done for now. He took a seat at the end of the bench, a trainer crouching beside him with an ice pack and checking his side.

This chapter is updat𝓮d by fre(e)webnov(l).com