CHAPTER 43: CHAPTER 43 :JUST WAIT,I’LL SETTLE TONIGHT’S DEBT

Ryan slumped onto the bench as assistants murmured around him.

"What’s up with LaVonte? Feels like he’s targeting Ryan."

"Maybe it’s the buzz around Ryan lately. Wouldn’t be the first time LaVonte gave a rookie the welcome committee treatment."

Ryan stayed silent, towel draped over his head.

Crawford rattled off second-quarter assignments—Ryan, Darius, Sloan, Stanley, Omar.

As the group stood, a ripple of disbelief spread through the Roares’ bench. LaVonte was checking back in.

"LaVonte’s staying in? After playing the whole first?"

"For what? It’s a regular season game and they’re up 19."

Kamara, towel draped over his head, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed, locking onto Ryan.

Ryan’s face had gone pale. Of course he knew why. LaVonte wasn’t staying in for the team. He was staying in for him.

For a star of LaVonte’s caliber, playing time was a suggestion, not a rule. If he wanted to stay in, he stayed in. If he wanted to run his own play, the clipboard might as well be blank.

Hell, look at LeBron back in 2015. Eastern Conference Semifinals, Game 4 — Cavaliers vs. Bulls. Clock ticking down, 1.5 seconds left. Cavs coach David Blatt draws up a play with LeBron inbounding the ball. LeBron takes one look, shakes his head, wipes the board clean and says: "Give me the ball and get out of the way." Then drains the game-winner. Cold.

Ryan muttered under his breath, "System, you’ve really screwed me this time."

The system, as usual, stayed silent.

Second quarter started just like the first. LaVonte still wasn’t hunting shots. He was hunting Ryan.

Back on the bench, more murmurs from the assistants.

"Is LaVonte losing it? He’s practically glued to the kid."

Kamara cut through the chatter. "Only one explanation—kid talked trash."

A beat of silence.

"...Then he deserves it."

Someone turned to Crawford. "Want to pull Ryan?"

Crawford glanced at the scoreboard—Paladins 47, Roares 33.

"Why? This is working."

And he wasn’t wrong. Roares were on a quiet run—12–7 so far in the quarter. LaVonte’s vendetta might have come at a cost. Paladins’ offense was stalling.

"Guess Ryan’s the sacrifice," someone sighed.

Yeah. Sacrifice was the right word. He hadn’t gotten a clean look all quarter. Still zero on the stat sheet.

On the floor, Ryan had the ball in the post. He backed LaVonte down, then hit him with a fake spin into a floater. LaVonte bit—just enough.

Bounce pass.

Darius caught it on the pop-out, toes behind the arc. Pull-up three—splash.

47–36.

Paladins coach instantly called timeout. 8:24 left in the second.

Crawford didn’t change much—no need to, not with the momentum swinging their way. The only adjustment he made was subbing Kamara back in for Omar. The big man had soaked up some minutes, but leave him out there too long and he starts springing leaks.

On the Paladins’ side, LaVonte finally took a seat after playing an exhausting fifteen and a half straight. He wasn’t thrilled about it—actually tried to stay in—but the coach shut that down fast.

With his shadow gone, Ryan finally broke through. A slick handoff with Darius freed him for a driving layup—his first points of the night.

It wasn’t that the rest of the Paladins were slouches—they just didn’t guard like LaVonte. The man hounded Ryan like a dog with a bone. With him gone, Ryan had breathing room.

And that growing chemistry between Ryan and Darius? It was starting to show. Crawford had been drawing up more and more sets for the two of them in practice. It was clear—he saw something in Ryan and Darius as a backcourt duo. Something worth building around.

The Roares clawed and scrapped, but the score just wouldn’t budge. Down by double digits, every good play they made was answered. And when Ryan took flight—a sudden explosion off a backdoor cut, rising past two Paladins to cram down a two-handed dunk—they thought the tide might finally turn.

Instead, the Paladins called timeout. 3:32 left in the second. 59–50.

Then Ryan’s nightmare returned.

LaVonte.

He was back.

The smirk he shot Ryan’s way said everything: Break’s over, rookie.

And just like that, the temperature dropped.

For the next three minutes, LaVonte made the court feel ten feet smaller. Ryan couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. A pass became a gamble. A dribble, a trap. His mind raced two steps ahead just to stay one step even.

Halftime: Paladins 68, Roares 53.

Locker room lights hummed overhead. Most of the Roares sat slumped, sweat-soaked and quiet. The only sound was ice sloshing in buckets, velcro being ripped, and the rhythmic thump of Kamara’s foot against a metal bench leg.

Ryan sat with his back against the locker, staring at his shoes. Crawford spoke, but the words floated past him. He heard bits and pieces: "spacing... turnovers... focus... pick-and-roll coverage..."

But what he really heard was LaVonte. In his head. In his lungs.

It wasn’t just defense. It was personal.

The third quarter began with a gut punch. A 9–0 run. Just like that, it was 77–53.

But then they slowed it down, like a lion toying with prey. The lead hovered between 20 and 25 points.

Roares fought. Got a few stops. A couple buckets.

Didn’t matter.

By the time the third ticked under two minutes, it was 90–69.

On the bench, assistants exchanged glances.

"Are they just toying with us now?"

Kamara, newly subbed out, wiped his face with a towel. "Nah," he muttered, eyes fixed on the court. "They don’t wanna hit garbage time too early—’cause then Ryan might start dropping points on the bench crew."

"That your guess?"

He shrugged. "Feels real, doesn’t it?"

They fell quiet. Because it did.

End of three: Paladins 94, Roares 73.

Ryan had played four minutes that quarter. Zero points.

Still stuck at four.

Fourth quarter. The pace slowed to a crawl. The Paladins weren’t pushing the gas, but every time the Roares scored, they answered right back. No room for hope. No oxygen.

Ryan struggled to find rhythm—every pass forced, every drive met a wall.

With five minutes left, the scoreboard read 112–86. Crawford signaled timeout.

Across the court, the Roares’ assistants exchanged unspoken acceptance—this was over.

Ryan had scraped out two more points. Six total.

Crawford waved the white flag—subbing in the "Garbage-Time Big Four"—DeShawn, Jalen, Brent, Omar.

And Ryan.

Then—a surprise. On the other side, LaVonte jogged out with four deep-bench reserves. The crowd buzzed.

Ryan blinked. Was this a joke?

LaVonte walked over, smirked. "I’ll play with you two more minutes."

Paladins ball. LaVonte took it himself. No cuts. No screens. Just raw intent.

Ryan squared up—he had to. On this lineup, he was their best defender. But it didn’t matter.

Boom.

Tank drive. Layup.

Next possession? Ryan crossed halfcourt—LaVonte didn’t guard him this time. Instead, two defenders swarmed him like it was the playoffs. Then came a box-and-one. Then a 2–2 zone. They threw everything at him.

And Ryan was almost certain—this wasn’t the coach’s call. This was LaVonte’s.

The announcers were stunned.

"Is this garbage time or the final seconds of the championship game?"

Ryan tried. He really did. One decent look rimmed out. Another got swatted. Two straight possessions ended in turnovers.

Meanwhile, LaVonte torched the clock: a pull-up three, a post fade, and then a cocky dunk on Omar—plus the foul. He sank the free throw. Eight points in two minutes, 45 total.

At 2:55—dead ball.

The Paladins subbed LaVonte out. As he walked past Ryan, he leaned in. "Regret pissing me off yet?"

Ryan clenched his fists, silent fury. His cheeks burned, pride stung—but beneath it all, resolve was kindling.

This will be remembered. Just wait—once I hit 100% sync with Westbrook, I’ll settle tonight’s debt. You’ll regret this.

The game resumed.

Ryan thought things would ease once LaVonte sat down.

But the intensity never faded.

Paladins’ deep bench—arguably ABA’s best. These weren’t Boulders-level scrubs; their "reserves" could start on most teams. Ryan managed just 2 points against the constant doubles.

Then came the last play.

15 seconds left.

Ryan drove. Got past the first defender. Elevated.

Slam?

Nope. Hacked. Hard.

He crashed to the floor.

Whistle.

Free throws.

He stepped to the line, first free throw swished. Nine points.

He closed his eyes.

One more. Just get to double digits. Please.

Deep breath. Release.

Clang.

The rim’s rejection echoed louder. The Paladins’ backup center grabbed the rebound and held the ball as the clock ran out.

Moments later, the buzzer sounded. Game over.

124–93. The Paladins triumphed.

Ryan walked off with nine points—bruised, hollow, but unbroken.

Back in the locker room, Ryan slumped onto the bench and wrenched open his locker. He grabbed his Zero9 bottle from the duffel, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. The electrolyte drink’s neon green liquid sloshed violently—no postgame press conference spotlight for it tonight.

The league PR team had already tapped Darius for media duties. 28 points. Team-high. Spectacular buckets during their scrappy comeback attempts. Meanwhile, Ryan’s signature shoe activation clauses glared at him from his mental checklist—only the 25-minute playing time requirement checked off.

The reality hit like a LaVonte shoulder check: the gap between him and the ABA’s elite wasn’t a gap. It was a goddamn canyon.

And it was about to get worse.

Tuesday. First game of the Eastern road trip. Against the conference-leading Millvoque Bullets. Defending champs.

Which meant facing another apex predator John Adebayo-Kambon. A 6-foot-11 power forward at age 27.

Last season’s MVP. Finals MVP. A clean sweep.

Ryan’s fingers dented the plastic bottle. The carbonation hissed like a warning.