Evil MC's NTR Harem

Then Ross stopped.

Not dramatically—just a small pause, a tightening of his jaw.

His eyes, cold and unreadable, finally flicked toward Colton. Just for a second. But it was enough.

Colton's heart skipped.

And in that moment, he felt it. The temperature dropped.

The noise of the crowd faded into the background. Ross didn't say a word.

He just smiled—slowly, cruelly. It wasn't the smile of someone angry.

It was worse. It was the smile of someone who had just decided something.

And Colton knew.

He'd crossed the line.

He'd gotten Ross's attention.

But instead of relief, Colton felt something else crawl up his spine. Dread.

The kind of dread you feel when you realize the bear saw you first—and you made eye contact.

This wasn't going to end in a scuffle.

There would be no technical foul, no ejection, no referee whistle to save him.

Ross was going to play.

And he was going to ruin him.

But what happened next wasn't what Colton had expected.

Not even close.

Ross didn't scowl. He didn't explode in anger or shove him.

He just smiled.

A dark, slow, knowing smile that spread across his face like a storm cloud.

Colton's bravado faltered.

Something about that smile made him feel like he'd just opened the wrong door in a horror movie.

A dumb wrong turn from out of the blue.

"Good attempt, kid," Ross said smoothly, his voice like velvet lined with steel. "You've got guts. I'll give you that."

He took a deliberate step closer, close enough for Colton to see the quiet fury hiding behind his eyes.

"I trust my wives," Ross said, calm and dangerous. "Can you say the same about yours?"

Colton froze.

"I heard she's been cozying up to an older gentleman lately. Real classy type. Drives a Benz, owns property in the hills. Still got hair, too. Women love a man who doesn't age like a used tire."

Ross smirked as the color drained from Colton's face.

"She say anything to you about that business trip last weekend? The one she 'had to take alone'? Funny. Because rumor has it, she wasn't alone."

And with that, Ross turned and walked away, not waiting for a reaction.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The ball bounced again. The play resumed.

Colton, still rattled, tried to recover his footing—mentally and physically—but Ross was already setting him up.

With a flash, Ross came at him with a deadly crossover, sliding the ball to the left, then whipping it back to the right in one lightning-fast motion.

Colton tried to react, but his tired legs moved a beat too slow.

Then came the hesitation—Ross stopped mid-drive, looked Colton dead in the eye, and grinned again.

Colton braced for a shot.

But Ross wasn't done playing.

With a sudden lurch forward, Ross feinted, stepped back, then lunged ahead again with a sharp burst of speed that left Colton's center of gravity in shambles.

Colton's ankle rolled.

His knees buckled.

And down he went.

Flat on his backside. In front of a packed arena. On national television.

The crowd gasped, and then the roar started.

But Ross wasn't finished.

Two defenders rotated in, hoping to stop what they knew was coming—but Ross took flight.

He exploded off the hardwood like he had rockets strapped to his sneakers, soaring through both of them like they weren't even there.

BOOM.

A seismic slam dunk rattled the rim. The backboard vibrated. The arena erupted.

Fans were on their feet. Grown men were screaming like kids.

Cameras flashed in rapid bursts as the moment was instantly etched into highlight reel history.

"MVP!"

MVP! MVP! MVP!

The chant started in one corner of the stadium and spread like wildfire.

Thousands of voices became one, shaking the walls with the sheer force of their worship.

The arena was vibrating with energy, with awe, with fear of the man who had just torn reality in half with a single play.

Ross landed with calm precision, barely out of breath. He didn't shout. He didn't gloat.

He didn't even look back at Colton—who was still sitting on the floor, staring up in stunned silence, his ears ringing and his ego shattered.

Ross simply walked away. Like it was just another bucket. Just another broken defender in a long, long line of them.

Colton felt the weight of thousands of eyes on him. His teammates looked away.

The coach put a hand over his face. Somewhere in the nosebleeds, a kid probably deleted his footage out of secondhand embarrassment.

Colton slowly picked himself up.

But deep down, he knew—he'd already been buried.

He tried to play mind games with a man who was the game.

And now, all he could do was hope the next highlight wouldn't be worse.

***

The game had ended long before the final buzzer rang.

In truth, it was over from the moment Ross Oakley touched the ball in Game One.

The remaining minutes? Formalities. The rest of the series?

A slow, inevitable execution.

Each game only confirmed what everyone already knew: there was no stopping Ross.

And the same story unfolded again and again over the next three games—Parkland Knights sweeping the finals with ruthless precision.

It wasn't just victory. It was domination. Four games. Four humiliations.

Four reminders to the world that Ross Oakley didn't just play basketball—he owned it.

As the final buzzer sounded in Game Four, the arena erupted with an earth-shaking roar.

Fans leapt to their feet, confetti rained down like a blizzard of celebration, and camera flashes bathed the court in white light.

"And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers.

"Ross Oakley and his Parkland Knights are once again at the top of the basketball world! Congratulations to your NBA champions—for the tenth consecutive season! Ross Oakley has done it again!"

Ross stood at center court, draped in a championship banner, holding the Finals MVP trophy for the tenth straight year.

He looked utterly untouched—like a man who hadn't even broken a sweat.

While teammates wept with joy and confetti clung to their jerseys, Ross just smiled calmly, soaking in the roar of a hundred thousand screaming fans chanting his name.

"MVP! MVP! MVP!"