The buzzer wailed, a jagged sound that tore through the silence.

Elias wiped sweat from his brow, his jersey sticking to his skin like a second layer. He wasn’t supposed to be the hero tonight. He was the bench warmer, the defensive specialist brought in for a single stop. But when the star point guard went down with a twisted ankle, the ball found its way into Elias’s hands at mid-court. "Eight," the crowd chanted.

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.

How would you like to the story—perhaps by focusing on the aftermath of the win or a flashback to how Elias earned his spot?