CHAPTER 100: CHAPTER 100 :LET’S BET ON WHO HITS A LOGO THREE FIRST

The Roarers didn’t board a flight back to Iron City. No sense crisscrossing the country when their next battle was still out east. Fresh off their sixth straight win, a 122-99 thrashing of the Phantoms, the team was buzzing, but the road ahead was no joke. On Thursday, they’d face the Halveth Skyhawks, the eastern conference’s second-ranked squad.

Ryan’s mind drifted to Trey Yates, the Skyhawks’ point guard, a sharpshooter known for his uncanny three-point range.

The guy treated logo threes like free throws.

Ryan could still picture the Rising Star Challenge, the very first play of the game.

Yates, barely across halfcourt, launched a shot without a flicker of doubt.

The ball carved a perfect arc, a meteor slicing the night, and splashed through the net with a whoosh that set the arena ablaze.

Ryan had been on the floor, staring in stunned disbelief.

——

Wednesday night. Halveth City.

The Roarers were staying at a five-star hotel downtown, the kind with polished marble floors and lobby staff who smiled like it was protocol.

Ryan’s room was warm and dimly lit. Kamara lounged on the couch while Sloan stretched out on the carpet, half-watching the late-night sports recap.

A sharp knock broke the vibe. Ryan hopped up, opened the door, and found a lanky kid, maybe 20, clutching two sleek Vantix shoeboxes, their matte black finish catching the dim light.

"Thought Ruiz was dropping these off himself," Ryan said, stepping aside to let the kid in.

The kid grinned, setting the boxes on the table. "Nah, small stuff like this? Ruiz don’t need to roll through. I’m Raymond, by the way."

Ryan cracked open a box, revealing a pair of Bright Crimson Vantix PEs, the leather gleaming like fresh paint on a lowrider. "Got a call from you guys yesterday, said these were ready. Ruiz told me two months minimum."

Raymond leaned against the wall, cool as a breeze. "If you need tweaks after testing, yeah, two months. But Ruiz? He’s cocky about these. Says they’re perfect out the gate. Try ’em."

Kamara and Sloan were already tearing into the second box, each pulling out a shoe, turning it over like kids with a new toy.

The Bright Crimson hue popped, bold and unapologetic, Vantix’s logo etched in silver along the heel.

Sloan’s eyes lit up, but there was a twinge of envy. "Man, I’m jealous. Still waiting on my own custom PEs," he said, tossing the shoe back to Kamara.

Sloan was signed with Vantix too, but his deal hadn’t hit Ryan’s level.

Raymond smirked, lowering his voice like he was spilling a secret. "Between us, Sloan, you’ve been balling out. Company’s greenlit your own PEs. Someone’ll hit you up soon."

Sloan’s jaw dropped, his grin splitting wide. "For real? Yo, that’s what’s up!"

Ryan slipped on the PEs, the fit snug and buttery, like they were molded to his feet. He’d mentioned issues with the last prototype—too stiff in the toe, not enough grip—but these felt like a dream. He stood, bounced lightly, testing the cushion. Flawless. "Ruiz nailed it," he said, glancing at Raymond. "No complaints so far."

Raymond nodded, confident. "Game’s tomorrow. Any problems, call Ruiz direct. But he’s betting you won’t need to."

Ryan chuckled. "I trust him. Hope I don’t jinx it."

Kamara, still holding the other shoe, perked up at Raymond’s next words. "If you’re good after tomorrow, we’re greenlighting production. Limited run, 500 pairs, exclusive to Iron Vault Arena’s shop."

Kamara’s eyes widened, his jaw slacking. "Hold up, limited run? Like, for real?"

Raymond shrugged, casual. "Yup. Ryan’s joining an elite club."

Now it was Kamara’s turn to look jealous. Sure, he had his own player exclusives too, but PE shoes weren’t the same as signature models — and they usually didn’t get limited releases, unless it was a rare exception.

Kamara looked at Ryan and said, "Bro, that’s insane. Only four players in the whole league ever had limited-release PEs. You’re number five."

Ryan chuckled but didn’t say anything. There was more.

Much more.

What Kamara didn’t know—what nobody outside of Vantix HQ knew—was that Ryan’s signature shoe line had already entered design phase. Not just a PE. His own silhouette. His name on the box.

The ultimate milestone for a basketball player.

He wanted to blurt it out. But he knew better.

Vantix hadn’t gone public yet, and Ryan wasn’t about to risk a leak.

So he just smiled. "Yeah... wild, huh?"

The room buzzed with energy, the PEs a spark of hype for tomorrow’s clash. Ryan’s thoughts shifted to the Skyhawks. Yates’ logo three haunted him, that effortless swagger.

——

Thursday Night – Skydome Arena, Halveth – 9:00 PM.

The arena was already buzzing with anticipation, Halveth’s loyal fans filling the Skydome with a low, restless hum. Bright lights glared off the polished court as both teams emerged from the tunnels, players peeling off to either shoot around or exchange greetings.

Ryan jogged toward midcourt, scanning the familiar figures. His eyes locked onto Trey Yates—point guard for the Skyhawks, a player known for his calm poise and deadly shooting range. Yates saw him and grinned, extending a hand.

"Last time at the Rising Stars game," Yates said, laughing, "I let you and Frye take the spotlight. Didn’t want to steal your moment. But tonight? This is my stage. Get ready—I’m gonna light you up."

He wasn’t lying. At the Rising Stars Challenge, Yates had dropped a logo three within seconds of tipoff and then coasted through the rest of the game, letting the rookies shine. It was tradition, after all—second-year players often gave the new class space to show out. Yates, alongside Dario Banchieri, had already made his statement the year before.

Ryan chuckled. There was no tension in the words. This wasn’t the kind of baiting he’d heard from Maddox in the last game. This was just friendly fire.

"Maybe I’ll be the one lighting you up tonight," Ryan replied with a smirk.

Yates raised an eyebrow. "How about we make it interesting? Loser buys dinner?"

Ryan hesitated for half a second. "We betting on three-point shots? Forget it—I’m not touching that one."

Everyone knew Ryan wasn’t known for his long-range shooting. Going up against Yates in a three-point contest would be career suicide.

Yates laughed. "Nah, I’m not that cruel. Let’s bet who scores more tonight. Straight-up."

Ryan nodded. "Deal."

It was friendly, harmless. No money involved—just a post-game meal and a little pride. Yates was averaging a little over 20 points per game this season, just under Ryan, who had been on a tear recently. But Yates brought more to the table than scoring—he was the ABA’s assist leader, dishing out an eye-popping 11.4 assists per night. A strong candidate for the assist title.

As Ryan jogged back toward his team’s half, he muttered under his breath, "System, what’s my Westbrook sync rate at?"

The system responded instantly.

[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 88.3%]

Still crawling. Progress, but painfully slow.

Ryan exhaled, then said, "System, it’s been a while since we spun the wheel."

[REASON?]

He glanced down at his feet, admiring the gleaming Bright Crimson custom PEs. This was his first time wearing a pair made exclusively for him.

Ryan grinned. "First time stepping onto the court in custom PEs."

There was a brief pause.

[TO COMMEMORATE YOUR FIRST GAME IN CUSTOM PEs, THE SYSTEM IS FEELING GENEROUS: ONE FREE SPIN OF THE LUCKY WHEEL.]

[GENERATING...]

[LUCKY WHEEL ACTIVATED.]

The familiar glowing wheel materialized in Ryan’s vision. He knew most of the prizes were fluff, small boosts or flashy but impractical rewards. But free was free.

"Spin it."

The wheel began to whirl, colors flashing rapidly until it finally slowed... and clicked to a halt.

[ONE LOGO THREE — 100% ACCURACY]

Ryan blinked. Well, now that was interesting.

He glanced back toward the Skyhawks’ half, where Yates was casually draining three after three, rhythm smooth, release textbook. Ryan strolled over again.

Yates looked up, eyebrows raised. "What’s up? Getting cold feet? Calling off the bet?"

Ryan smiled. "Actually, the opposite. Let’s add a little side bet. First one to sink a logo three wins. Loser adds another dinner."

Yates tilted his head. Ryan wasn’t exactly famous for logo range. Had he even made one in a real game? Maybe once. Meanwhile, Yates had hit nearly ten this season alone.

Still, he grinned. "Trying to buy me an extra meal, huh? I’m not complaining."

They bumped fists and walked back to their sides of the court.

Ryan’s fingers curled around the seams of the ball as he stepped behind the midcourt line during warmups. The glow of the arena lights bounced off his sneakers—his Bright Crimson war boots. Tonight, he wasn’t just here to compete. He was here to make a statement.

The Roarers’ bench was a buzz of pre-game hype, Darius shadowboxing, Malik lacing up, Gibson stretching his massive frame. Crawford stood at the edge, clipboard in hand, his stoic gaze scanning the court. Ryan’s PEs felt like rocket fuel, every bounce amplifying his edge. Across the floor, Yates kept shooting, each swish a taunt, but Ryan’s mind was locked in. The system’s gift was a secret weapon, and he was ready to unleash it.