From the shadows backstage, Ryan peered through the narrow gap between the curtains.
The press room was packed, a rare sight even for playoff teams—rows of media seats filled with reporters from major sports networks, national newspapers, niche basketball channels, and even a few business outlets. Cameras pointed at the empty center stage like it was a bankruptcy announcement, not a welcome party.
This level of attention didn't make sense.
All the Roarers' front office had done was put out a vague press release—"Major Announcement"—and schedule the event at Iron Vault instead of the Roarers Training Center, so everyone showed up because they actually believed it was something big.
In this city, when the Roarers used the word major, it only ever pointed to three possibilities:
1. The team was finally being sold off after five straight seasons of losing money — Iron City Daily had leaked potential buyers last month.
2. GM Kevin Buth had been fired — The "Five-Year Rebuild" resulted in the team finishing dead last for five straight seasons.
3. Head coach Crawford had resigned—he had publicly expressed his dissatisfaction several times with the front office's player acquisitions.
So when a Iron City Daily reporter whispered from the back row, "How many zeroes you think the Roarers are selling for?" nobody flinched.
Backstage, Ryan stood frozen. His fingers kept worrying the cuff of his suit jacket, creasing the fabric. He swallowed hard, but his throat felt stuffed with cotton.
A heavy hand clapped his shoulder, making him flinch. Coach Crawford leaned in. "Relax," he muttered. "Pretend it's just a casual chat with old pals."
"I don't even know what I'm supposed to say," Ryan croaked.
Crawford tugged at his collar. "Keep it humble. Say you'll work hard. Thank the team. Just—"
"—Don't listen to this guy."
Kevin Buth's voice cut in like a slap. The GM stepped up, adjusting the peacock-blue pocket square stuffed in his blazer. "Say whatever the hell you want. Be bold. Say something wild. You're young—be loud about it."
Crawford shot him a glare.
Buth flashed his canines. "Owner's orders." A glance at his watch. "Showtime."
Buth and Crawford walked out first. Cameras locked onto their faces like guided missiles. Reporters scanned their expressions, hunting for tension, panic—anything.
But Buth was beaming like he'd just hit the lottery. Even Crawford looked relaxed—not like someone ready to quit.
Definitely not bad news.
Flashbulbs exploded. The two men sat down at the long table—one seat on the left, one on the right, and a conspicuously empty chair in the middle.
Buth pulled the mic closer. "We're here today to announce the signing of a new player."
A ripple of confusion swept through the room. Just that? All this for a new signing? Who the hell was joining this wreck of a team—some fallen All-Star?
It wasn't the Q&A portion yet—just a rising tide of side-whispers.
Buth let it hang a moment, then said, "A rookie."
Now the room was fully buzzing. Reporters looked around—which blue-chip prospect had they missed?
"Ryan Carter."
Silence. Not the respectful kind. The dead kind.
A staffer nudged Ryan forward. He stumbled a bit—his footwork almost collapsing under him. The stage lights hit like a furnace on the back of his neck. Each step felt clumsy and floaty, like walking on pillows. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears.
Every eye in the room locked onto him with the same unspoken question scrawled across their faces:
Who the hell is this guy?
Ryan walked to the center seat like a robot on a bad signal—every movement stiff, unsure, mechanical.
Buth didn't miss a beat. "Ryan Carter. Twenty-two."
A murmur rolled through the room.
"Bit old for a rookie?" someone whispered, just loud enough.
Buth flashed his trademark grin. "Never played college ball. Hell, never even played high school."
The room erupted.
Buth let the noise swell, then raised a hand, letting it drop with deliberate calm. "Coach Crawford found him on a blacktop. Raw talent. Just like…" he paused, milking it, "fifteen years ago, when he discovered Marcus Bryant."
The press corps lost it.
Gasps.
Clicks.
A pen dropped and rolled across the floor.
Buth turned, deadpan, to Crawford. "Coach? Anything you'd like to add?"
Crawford shook his head. Nothing he said now would matter—the real trial was coming.
Q&A Firestorm.
Hands shot up like a minefield detonating. Buth pointed at a grizzled beat reporter first—the man didn't disappoint:
"Coach Crawford, are we really looking at the next Marcus Bryant? The next ABA legend?"
Buth shifted his mic closer, ready to speak,
but Crawford cut in first with his own microphone.
"Kevin was being dramatic," he said dryly. "What I see is potential. And yeah, he's got some of that same spark Marcus had. But whether he can reach those heights…" He looked at Ryan, pausing just long enough to make it sting, "that's on him. How hard he works. How bad he wants it."
The reporters didn't care about nuance. Buth had lit the fuse; now they wanted the explosion. More hands. More questions. Crawford, the veteran, deflected each one like a seasoned politician.
Eventually, they turned to Ryan.
The first few were softballs.
"How does it feel to join the Roarers?"
Ryan white-knuckled the mic. "It's a great team. The atmosphere's good. Hardworking guys. I'll contribute where I can."
Textbook.
A few more. All manageable.
"I'll work hard, be ready when the team needs me. I'll make the most of any minutes I get."
"I just want to help the team make the playoffs."
No one took it seriously — the Roarers were bottom of the league, but everyone knew it was just lip service.
Then came the dagger:
"Personal goals? Stats? "
Ryan froze for half a second.
He glanced left—
Crawford's stare was sharp enough to draw blood. Say too much and I'll bury you.
Then right—
Buth raised his eyebrows, daring him. Go on. Make it interesting.
He swallowed. Then, louder than intended:
"Gonna snag Rookie of the Year. Averaging a tri—"
He caught himself, "Double-double."
Silence.
Then the room lost its damn mind.
It wasn't just the press room that exploded—every living room, locker room, and training center tuned into the live feed felt it.
————
In the living room of Unit 702, Jamal and a few guys Ryan had cooked in one-on-one two days ago were huddled around the TV.
"Our boy's gunning for Rookie of the Year!" Jamal whooped, spilling beer on the couch.
Someone else snorted. "Winning it's one thing. But he's hot now, no question."
————
Emerald Bay Lumina's cafeteria froze mid-bite. Players stared at the wall-mounted TV.
One player muttered around a mouthful of rice, "Well damn, tomorrow's opponent got themselves an interesting dude."
Lamar Dixon elbowed the 7'1" giant next to him. "Derrick, looks like you've got one more ROY competitor."
Derrick Langley—A defensive monster with soft hands in the paint—already a front-runner for Rookie of the Year.
He licked barbecue sauce off his fingers. "If I match up with him tomorrow, he's getting cooked."
————
Meanwhile, in the western conference, at San Merico Paladins practice court, a player leaned against the wall, eyes on his phone.
"Another kid using Marcus's name to get clicks," he muttered.
LaVonte Jackson. Nine years, three rings, three MVPs. Once hailed as Marcus Bryant's heir—now good enough to make the debate flip: Marcus or LaVonte—who's greater?
————
On the East Coast, inside the locker room of the Millvoque Bullets, a hulking forward crammed a chocolate sandwich cookie into his mouth while watching the stream.
"This kid's got a mouth. I like it," he said through a mouthful of crumbs.
John Adebayo-Kambon. Last year's ABA MVP, Finals MVP, and champion—all in one clean sweep.
————
Back at the press conference, the reporters had stopped asking questions. Instead, they were hissing at each other:
"Wait, can you even win Rookie of the Year if you join midseason?"
"Can qualify, but he has to play at least 50% of the games."
"How many games have the Roarers played?"
"Thirty-eight games—exactly half. Tomorrow against Lumina will be the 39th."
Like a school of piranhas smelling blood, the reporters surged again—hands raised everywhere.
Crawford looked like he'd bite someone. Buth, of course, was beaming.
He pointed to a reporter.
"Coach Crawford, so if Ryan's gunning for Rookie of the Year, does that mean he'll be playing every game from now on?"
Crawford's jaw clenched. "He doesn't know the rules. He plays when—and only when—he meets my standards."
————
In a gaudy Iron City mansion, the Roarers' owner chuckled at his 85-inch screen.
"I like this kid," he said, tapping a cigar against the edge of a crystal ashtray. He turned to his assistant. "Call Bobby. Tell him Ryan's playing every damn game from now on."
A pause. "Wait—rookie eligibility—what's the minute requirement again?"
"No official rule," the assistant said, flipping through her tablet. "But... fifteen minutes per game on average is the unofficial benchmark."
"Then make it 15. Minimum. Every game."
The assistant hesitated. "I'll pass it along to Coach Crawford but…"
"But what?"
She gave him a look. "I think he'll call bullshit and ignore you."
The owner's face twitched—like he'd just been force-fed a sock soaked in lemon juice.