CHAPTER 41: CHAPTER 41 :HOLY SHIT! THIS WORLD’S LEBRON

There was no team practice the next morning for the Roares—just a film session. The team was scheduled to fly out to San Merico the following day.

Coach Crawford stood in front of the screen, arms crossed.

"Two days from now, we play the Paladins," he began. "Gibson will sit this one out."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. Malik was already sidelined with an injury, and now Gibson was getting load management? Were the coaches just throwing this game away?

Fortunately, Vantix’s director was already at Eddie’s office, working out the details. If everything went smoothly, the endorsement deal would be locked in by noon.

Because if they got blown out by the Paladins, that big contract might go up in smoke.

Crawford rattled off the starters: Darius, Lin, Kamara, Omar, Stanley.

Ryan wasn’t in the starting five—no surprise there. With both Darius and Lin at guard, there was no slot left. No hard feelings—it was what it was.

Omar didn’t look particularly thrilled either. He’d been destroyed last game after a decent start. And with a title contender like the San Merico Paladins up next, chances were he’d get a short leash again.

The film started rolling—clips of the Paladins’ recent games.

"Kyran Herring’s questionable," Crawford said. "Probably sitting."

Kamara, seated beside Ryan, leaned in slightly.

"Starting PG. One of their two ball-dominant engines. Playing us? Perfect night for a rest."

Ryan gave a small nod.

"Doesn’t matter," Crawford continued. "They’ve still got Matteo Bellanova."

"Backup PG. Sixth Man frontrunner," Kamara translated.

Ryan nodded again.

"None of that matters," Crawford snapped. "Because LaVonte’s playing."

Kamara opened his mouth—

"I know him," Ryan said, finally speaking up. "Three-time MVP. Best player in the ABA. Leading the ABA in scoring this season—30.8 a game. Heavy MVP favorite."

Kamara blinked. "That’s my bit. You’re just supposed to nod."

Ryan had done his homework. LaVonte Jackson, 30. Athleticism, playmaking, Vision, IQ—all peak tier. Reads the floor like a seasoned chess grandmaster. His first thought upon seeing the clips? Holy shit! This world’s LeBron. And not just any LeBron—the prime LeBron.

Crawford sighed. "No scheme fully stops him. Our two matchups this season—"

"Blowouts," Kamara supplied.

Ryan nodded vigorously.

"—we tried 2-3 zones, traps, everything. But—"

"Still got wrecked," Kamara added.

"Shut your damn mouth!" Crawford’s pointer snapped against the screen.

Kamara straightened in his seat, lips sealed.

"The problem," Crawford continued, "is that when we overload on him, he just finds everyone else. The whole team gets going. So this time? We’re trying something else—straight up man-to-man. Contain him one-on-one. Lock everyone else down. Take away his passing lanes."

Ryan stared at the screen. You’re telling me zone didn’t work, and now we’re just going to go iso against the best player in the league?

He raised his hand like a kid in class.

Crawford gave a nod. "Go ahead."

"So we’re just... letting him drop over 50 points on us?"

"I’ll take a 10-point loss where he goes nuclear," Crawford said, "over a 40-point blowout where he gets 20 and elevates the whole damn team."

Kamara couldn’t resist. "Last time, we lost by 46 on the road, then 33 at home—"

"I SAID SHUT IT!"

——

1:07 PM | Roares Training Center Gym.

Ryan was mid-cool down when Eddie’s call came through.

"Get over here to sign. Sending Jamal to pick you up."

Ryan toweled off sweat. "How much?"

"Five years. Twenty-five mil."

Ryan inhaled sharply, almost a hiss through his teeth.

The dumbbell rack blurred for a second. Thirty minutes later, Ryan stepped into the yellow-lit stairwell of Eddie Sports Management. Upstairs, he pushed into Eddie’s office to find three suits waiting:

1. Reggie Vaughn – Vantix’s Director of Basketball Sports Marketing (mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair)

2. Lena Cho – Assistant to the Director (late-20s, sharp-eyed, held three tablets simultaneously)

3. David Fischer – Corporate Counsel (looked like he billed by the second)

Ryan shook hands all around, then dropped into the seat in front of the thick stack of papers on the table—still warm from the printer. The kind of warmth that meant this had been finalized minutes ago.

Eddie flipped open the contract and started walking him through the key sections, clause by clause.

SIGNATURE SHOE CLAUSE.

This was what mattered. This was the real prize.

The terms were clear. After signing, the next ten games would determine everything.

Performance Clause – Signature Shoe Eligibility

The Player must meet any five (5) of the following six (6) performance criteria within the first ten (10) regular season games following the execution of this Agreement in order to activate the Signature Shoe Provision:

1. Average at least 20.0 points per game

2. Record a minimum average of 20.0 minutes played per game

3. Achieve 30 or more points in a minimum of three (3) games

4. Record at least one (1) game with 40 or more points

5. Record at least four (4) double-doubles

6. Record at least one (1) triple-double

Upon meeting any five (5) of the above six (6) benchmarks, the Signature Shoe Provision shall be deemed activated immediately.

Even if the player fails to meet the criteria within the first ten games, a fallback clause applies: if, at any point thereafter, the player satisfies all six benchmarks, the Signature Shoe Provision shall be retroactively activated.

And then came the wildcards.

25+ PPG or a double-double average in the regular season? Triggered.

20+ PPG or a double-double average in the playoffs? Triggered.

Rookie of the Year? All-Star? Scoring title? MVP? Championship?

Each one? Instant trigger.

"Those aren’t easy benchmarks," Vaughn said, leaning forward with his elbows on the polished mahogany desk. "But they’re not designed to screw you either. Truth is, we’re praying you hit them fast."

Ryan turned the pen between his fingers, feeling the weight of it—the weight of what it meant. The numbers flashed in his head: Twenty a night. Thirty-point explosions. Forty. Triple-doubles. A mountain to climb, but at least the path was clear.

"I get it," he said finally, meeting Vaughn’s gaze. "If I can’t clear that bar? Then I don’t deserve a signature shoe. And nobody would buy it anyway."

A beat of silence. The air in the room tightened.

Then Ryan smiled—sharp, hungry.

"Give me ten games."

Ryan scanned the contract one final time, then signed with a decisive stroke.

Eddie called Jamal into the office. Lena Cho and Jamal immediately got to work snapping handshake shots for the record—flash, adjust, reshoot. Corporate theater at its finest.

The handshake photoshoot wrapped up.

Vaughn gestured toward two shoeboxes sitting neatly on the edge of the desk. "This is our flagship team model—the Vantix Apex."

Ryan lifted the lids. One pair red, one blue. Sleek, aggressive lines. Not bad.

"Effective immediately," Vaughn said, "no more wearing competitors’ kicks in public."

Ryan turned to Jamal. "My Marcus #1s are yours."

They were Arvos—and Jamal happened to wear the exact same size.

Jamal beamed. "Man, that’s sick."

He fist-bumped Ryan, practically bouncing with surprise and pure hype.

"We’ll have three pairs of player exclusives ready for you," Vaughn continued. "Your name’s going to be laser-etched on the tongue and heel. We’re rushing production so you’ll have them in time for the Paladins game."

Ryan was still turning the shoes over in his hands, inspecting every detail.

"Once you’ve worn them," Vaughn went on, "give us notes. We’ll tweak the build—nothing drastic, just fine-tuning—to start developing your custom PE. But that’ll take time. We’re talking two months, minimum."

Ryan gave a short nod.

No time for elaborate fittings, not with the road trip looming.

"Marketing shoots can wait," Vaughn said, reading his mind. "Just survive this hellish stretch first."

Ryan nodded again. Starting tomorrow, he’d be flying nonstop—no time for photo shoots or promos anyway.

Before leaving, Vaughn pulled him aside for one last shot—Vaughn handing off the shoes, Ryan gripping them like trophies. The kind of staged moment that would flood social media by dusk.

Ryan’s signing with Vantix sent shockwaves through the league faster than a LeBron chase-down block. The brand strategically leaked the figures—twenty-five million over five years, making it the richest rookie endorsement deal of the year. Only golden boy prodigy Colter Frye’s forty million Arvos contract topped it.

——

By 9:38 PM that Saturday, Vantix had already delivered on their first promise. There Ryan sat on the Roares’ bench at the Titancore Center, home of the San Merico Paladins, laced up in his first-ever PEs—neon orange with his name laser-etched along the heels, glowing like runway lights. The shoes screamed louder than the Paladins’ mascot.

But Ryan wasn’t admiring the kicks. His eyes were locked on the carnage unfolding on court.

The situation was grim.

LaVonte Jackson was dismantling them.

Every drive was a physics lesson—mass x acceleration = shattered defense. The man moved like he had a cheat code for gravity.

He was playing at his absolute peak, unstoppable and ruthless.

The crowd roared with each of his devastating plays, a tidal wave of energy sweeping through the arena.

Ryan’s jaw tightened. Strong. Terrifyingly strong.