The arena was a pressure cooker, the air thick with the smell of floor wax and the frantic energy of five thousand screaming fans. Ten seconds remained on the clock. The score was 102–103.
He spun back toward the top of the key. Miller tripped, his sneakers squeaking desperately as he tried to recover. Elias saw the window—a sliver of space between the defender's outstretched hand and the rim. clutch-game
Elias rose. Everything else faded. The roar of the crowd became a distant hum, like wind through trees. He released the ball at the apex of his jump, his fingers flickering in the follow-through. The arena was a pressure cooker, the air
The defender, a wall of muscle named Miller, pressed tight. Elias could hear Miller’s heavy breathing, feel the heat radiating off him. Miller sneered, "Not today, rookie." He spun back toward the top of the key
The ball hit the back of the rim, danced on the edge of the iron for what felt like an eternity, and then vanished through the net.