CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER 37 :THE SYSTEM IS FEELING GENEROUS: ONE FREE SPIN OF THE LUCKY WHEEL

[APOLOGIES. NO BONUS AVAILABLE. THIS SCENARIO LACKS TRIGGERING CONDITIONS.]

"Exactly what I expected—absolutely nothing."

The system didn’t respond. The screen stayed empty.

He shook his head. "You know, in all those web novels, the system’s always some overpowered, unstoppable badass. If someone wrote a system like you, no one would read past Chapter one."

A pause.

Then—

[TO CELEBRATE YOUR FIRST HOME GAME, THE SYSTEM IS FEELING GENEROUS: ONE FREE SPIN OF THE LUCKY WHEEL.]

[GENERATING...]

[LUCKY WHEEL ACTIVATED]

"A spin?" Ryan perked up.

A holographic interface flickered to life—a massive lucky wheel segmented into twenty-odd slots, each crammed with micro-text.

He didn’t have time to read them all—he was about to check in—but scanned a few at random:

- WESTBROOK SYNC RATE 100% (3-min duration)

-SUPER-DEEP BUZZER BEATER 3:

GUARANTEED MAKE (Based on Apr 10, 2017 OKC vs nuggets)

-HOT HAND: FIRST 6 SHOTS AUTO-GREEN (Based on Mar 23, 2017 OKC VS Sixers)

Ryan snapped his fingers, excited. "Spin!"

The lucky wheel on Ryan’s system interface began spinning. He felt no tension—this was the system being generous, a freebie no matter where it landed. Finally, the wheel stopped:

-A NIGHT OF UNMATCHED DOMINANCE IN REBOUNDING INSTINCT

(Based on Feb 24, 2017 OKC vs. Lakers)

"Rebounding?" Ryan raised an eyebrow.

The wheel vanished from the screen. A line of text hovered in its place:

[A night of pure rebounding instinct — uncanny awareness of trajectory, pinpoint anticipation of where the ball will fall, and explosive desire for every board. (Temporarily restores Westbrook-level 100% bounce.) Based on Feb 24, 2017 OKC vs. Lakers – 17 PTS / 17 AST / 18 REB.]

Ryan grinned. "100% bounce? I’m not just grabbing boards tonight—I’m dunking on everyone."

The buzzer sounded.

The Boulders’ Axton and their two starters had already checked out for a breather.

Now with the ball, the Boulders worked through their half-court set, patiently swinging it around. Finally, they found a sliver of space—a semi-open three.

Ryan knew it was short the moment it left the shooter’s fingertips.

Defensive rebounds are usually easier to grab—everyone’s already in the paint boxing out, while the offense rarely crashes hard. That’s why most players’ rebounding stats are stacked with defensive boards.

And this one? Ryan knew exactly where it would land.

Right under the rim.

And Sloan was already standing there.

Ryan exploded forward. It barely grazed the rim and dropped straight down. Sloan tilted her head up, knees bending, ready to leap.

"Mine." His voice brushed past his ear.

Sloan froze just a fraction of a second—long enough.

Ryan was airborne. He snatched it clean.

Fast break? No. The Boulders had scrambled back too well.

Crossing the timeline, he pulled up near the arc. The defender in front gave him just a sliver of space—not much, but enough.

First shot of the game?

Always gotta test the touch.

He pulled up. Let it fly.

The second it left his fingertips—he knew.

Off. Right rim.

Before anyone even reacted, while others were still craning their necks or half-committing to box outs, Ryan was already gone—sprinting toward the bounce angle.

Clang!

Right rim. Right where he’d called it.

Ryan had already read the bounce perfectly—but the Boulders’ shooting guard just happened to be standing right there.

He dipped his shoulder, gave a subtle hip-check to muscle the guard off the spot, and exploded upward.

Board. Secured. The shooting guard realized it—too late.

Ryan hit the ground running, exploded down the lane, and went up—both hands, vicious slam.

Less than thirty seconds on the floor.

Two boards. Two points.

33–13. Roares up by 20.

With a 75.5% sync rate to Westbrook and 100% of his bounce, Ryan had more than enough to hold his own against Boulder’s second unit during rotation minutes.

By the end of the first quarter, Ryan had tacked on another 4 points and 3 rebounds.

Nothing too flashy—basketball was still a team sport, after all. And tonight, his teammates were firing on all cylinders.

Especially Kamara. The 6’9" small forward shoots threes like an anti-aircraft cannon—hard for defenders to contest effectively. When he’s feeling it, 30+ points are routine. By the end of the first quarter, Kamara led all scorers with 16 points, hitting 4 of 5 from

beyond the arc.

Over on the bench, Crawford scribbled out the second-quarter rotation: Ryan, Darius, Gibson, Sloan, Omar.

No tactical tweaks. No clipboard wizardry. Come on—the team was up big, and everyone was dialed in. Practice sets already lived in muscle memory. No need to over-coach.

The bench vibe? Loose. Real loose.

Ryan glanced up at the scoreboard.

46 to 21.

He leaned toward Kamara. "What’s the biggest margin Roares ever won by?"

Kamara—walking ABA encyclopedia—didn’t blink. "Fifty-five. Thirteen years ago. Marcus went nuclear for 35 in a quarter."

Ryan smirked. "Same as me. Thirty-five."

Kamara laughed. "Nah, not the same. You put yours up during garbage time. He made the garbage time. Dropped it in the third—blew the whole thing wide open."

"Damn."

Kamara added, "That quarter? Team scored 58. Still the ABA single-quarter record."

Ryan’s eyebrows climbed.

Although his team scored 53 points in the fourth quarter during his debut against Lumina, the ABA’s lack of a balancing system meant the talent gaps were extreme. Scoring over 50 points in a single quarter wasn’t as rare as it is in the NBA.

So, the postgame coverage mainly focused on him becoming the sixth player to score 30+ points in a single quarter, while the team’s 53-point quarter received only a brief mention, barely missing the top ten—ranking eleventh all-time.

They were chatting away when the buzzer sounded. Time for the second quarter.

Axton was back on the floor too.

Roares’ set: Sloan and Gibson planted in opposite corners. Sloan’s 27% three-ball was more decoration than threat, so Ryan swung it to Gibson.

Gibson hesitated. The closeout came fast. A pump-fake, a dribble, then a risky bounce pass to Omar under the rim.

Omar went up—but Axton smothered him mid-air. The ball pinballed off Omar’s leg and rolled out of bounds.

Boulders’ ball.

As they backpedaled, Ryan clapped Gibson’s shoulder. "Next time, just shoot. I’ll clean the glass."

After saying that, Ryan peeled off to pick up the Boulders’ point guard.

Gibson watched him lock in on defense, and for a second, it was like watching Marcus again.

Years ago, Marcus had said the same thing to him.

And Marcus wasn’t bluffing. In eight seasons, he’d averaged a double-double in six.

The Boulders’ point guard ran a pick-and-roll with Axton. Yes, this time he didn’t call for the ball in the high post to back down Omar. Instead, he ran a quick 1-5 pick-and-roll, rolled hard to the basket, caught the pass, and floated it in before Omar could recover.

A step too slow.

Nothing Omar could do but watch it drop through the net.

But Roares answered immediately with a three—Ryan drove into the paint, drew the defense, and kicked it out to Gibson in the corner. Gibson caught and fired.

Swish.

Ryan smirked wryly. Offensive boards were hard enough to grab, and now his teammates couldn’t seem to miss.

Over the next two Boulders possessions, Axton didn’t post up once.

Just smart cuts, screen-and-rolls, and clean finishes.

He scored on both possessions, adding another four points—six straight in total.

His rhythm was back, and Omar had no answers. Axton’s talent and experience were on a whole different level—something a deep-bench rookie like Omar just couldn’t match.

If four extra nights of reps with Ryan were enough for Omar to shut down Axton, then Mo Bamba would win DPOY after a week of drills.

49–27.

10:26 on the clock.

Boulders had only trimmed three points off the lead, but Crawford had seen enough.

Timeout.

Omar’s weaknesses were now fully exposed.

He wasn’t helping on either end—in fact, he was dragging them down. If they didn’t adjust, the Boulders would keep targeting him. Momentum was shifting, and with Axton heating up, this lead could evaporate fast.

"Omar, out. Stanley, you’re in."

Omar took a seat, towel over his head, clearly discouraged.

Ryan walked past and said quietly,

"You’ve done really well."

Crawford was already drawing up the play. Ryan gave Omar’s shoulder a quick squeeze before joining the huddle.

"Next play," Crawford barked, "We have to score. Shut their momentum down—now."

Ryan cut in. "What if I just... y’know... dunk on Axton’s head?"

Every eye in the huddle snapped from the playbook to him.

Crawford didn’t even blink. "If you can pull it off—just do it."

A beat.

"Gibson, you’re playing the five. Box-and-one. Stanley, you’re on Axton."

Ryan glanced over at the 6’5" Stanley.

Crawford nodded at Stanley. "Stick to him like duct tape. Make it physical. Let’s see how tight the refs are calling it tonight."

Stanley cracked his knuckles. "Oh, I’ll get under his skin."

The whistle blew. Game on.

Darius brought the ball up, swung it to Ryan on a dribble handoff, then set a solid screen.

Ryan exploded left, slicing into the paint. Axton stood waiting—last line of defense.

Ryan’s lip curled.

It’s just another poster on Axton. I did it last game—and now I’ve got Russ’s bounce at 100%.

He took off. Glided.

Axton didn’t expect the launch from so far out. By the time he jumped, it was too late.

BANG!

A one-handed hammer, right on Axton’s head.

Not a no-touch rim dunk this time—this was violent. Clean. Unavoidable.

Axton just stood there, posterized again.