CHAPTER 44: CHAPTER 44 :I WANNA SEE YOU ON THE HIGHLIGHTS FOR ONCE

Postgame Press Conference - Titancore Center.

The lights were hot, the room buzzing.

Reporters bombarded LaVonte with questions — "Was it personal?" "Did Ryan say something to provoke you?" "Was there trash talk involved?"

It wasn’t just the dominant performance that raised eyebrows — it was the tone of it.

LaVonte had always played with edge, sure. And if someone dared chirp at him, he’d respond the way stars do — maybe a chase-down block, maybe a poster dunk, but nothing beyond that. He’d keep it moving.

But tonight?

He hunted Ryan Carter across four quarters like a man on a mission.

The whole arena could feel it — this wasn’t basketball beef, it was something else.

Naturally, the media wanted the scoop.

But LaVonte just smirked, leaned back in his chair, and gave vague, half-playful answers. "Nah, man, it’s all love. Just competing,"

He wasn’t giving them anything real.

Only Ryan understood the truth: the words didn’t matter. That system-given trash-talk bonus could’ve made "Nice shoes" sound like a declaration of war.

Once the bonus hit, it didn’t matter how loud or mild the trash talk was — the reaction would always be the same: rage, dominance, and destruction.

——

Monday Noon — Millvoque City.

The Roares had already touched down in the Eastern powerhouse’s backyard.

Ryan had gone through a light session at Veltox Forum — the Millvoque Bullets’ notoriously hostile home arena. Just shooting drills, footwork work, nothing heavy.

Then it was back to the hotel. The afternoon was wide open — team off, no meetings, no obligations. Just hours to kill before game day tension started to settle in.

Ryan lay on his hotel bed, thumb scrolling through yet another hot take about his 9-point disaster. Two days since the Paladins humiliation, but the takes kept coming.

Same shit, different universe.

Westbrook had loudmouth pundits like Skip Bayless calling him "Westbrick." Ryan now had his own chorus of keyboard coaches. Some things transcended dimensions—bad games always bred hot takes, and hot takes bred clicks.

Ryan was reading a scathing article about himself written by notorious sports troll Trent Rawlings.

"The Ryan Carter Hype Train Needs to Stop"

By Trent Rawlings.

"Let me be clear: I don’t deny that Ryan Carter has raw talent and real potential. The kid can hoop. No question. But the media’s obsession with inflating his "accomplishments"? That’s where we need a reality check.

Take those gaudy numbers everyone keeps drooling over:

- 35 points in a quarter?

- 22 rebounds in a quarter?

Here’s the real context: Fourth quarter. Garbage time. Against end-of-bench traffic cones.

Let’s not pretend these are meaningful records. Any elite player could’ve put up those numbers if they stooped to stat-padding. LaVonte? Kambon? Please. Hell, even fellow rookie Colter Frye could’ve feasted in those conditions. (Colter Frye, reading this part, winced: "Seriously? Why drag me into this? I couldn’t even put up numbers like that in a single college quarter.")

And what happened when Ryan faced real defense? Paladins exposed him. Nine points on 4-of-12 shooting. Five turnovers. A masterclass in regression to the mean.

Vantix’s 25 million gamble on him?

That’s not a contract — that’s a charity donation. A massive overpay.

This isn’t just my take—it’s basic math."

Ryan didn’t look upset. No dramatic slump of the shoulders, no heavy sigh of defeat—just a flicker of cold determination in his eyes.

"I’ll prove you wrong," he murmured to himself. It wasn’t anger—it was a promise.

He tapped open the ABA app and scrolled to the Eastern Conference standings. Until tonight, he’d been West-focused. But it was time to look East.

Eastern Conference Standings (Updated):

1. Millvoque Bullets — 32‑9 (Last 10: 9‑1)

2. Halveth Skyhawks — 28‑13 (Last 10: 7‑3)

3. Orvara Eclipse — 26‑15 (Last 10: 6‑4)

4. Demerra Hounds — 22‑19 (Last 10: 6‑4)

5. Solvayn Spectres — 20‑21 (Last 10: 5‑5)

6. Yurev Crows — 15‑26 (Last 10: 4‑6)

7. Drayport Talons — 14‑27 (Last 10: 5‑5)

8. Vellix City Phantoms — 10‑31 (Last 10: 3‑7)

9. Brontic Bay Krakens — 8‑33 (Last 10: 2‑8)

10. Eastmoor Vipers — 7‑34 (Last 10: 0‑10)

The East looked a step below the West overall. Only four teams had a .500 record or better.

Five of Roares’ eight wins had come against Eastern teams.

This week’s slate was brutal: Millvoque Bullets tomorrow, back-to-back against Yurev Crows, then Eastmoor Vipers to close out the week.

This morning, Crawford called a team meeting—John Adebayo-Kambon will be out tomorrow night.

Ryan exhaled in relief. No need to face another LaVonte-level monster.

Still, you didn’t take the defending champs lightly—especially not with their second star, Keith Milton, aka "The Mid-Range Maestro."

The nickname said it all.

——

Ryan stepped out of the hotel gym, rolling his shoulders as the post-workout burn radiated through his body. Two solid hours of deadlifts, bench presses, and weighted pull-ups—his standard routine these days.

Three weeks. That’s all it had taken. Three weeks of brutal, systematic training and obsessive macro counting. The scale didn’t lie: +3 kg of lean mass. His reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors confirmed it—the gaunt, malnourished frame he’d woken up with in this world was gone. In its place: defined delts, thicker arms, and the beginnings of real chest development.

Ryan pushed through the café doors into muted lighting and the low hum of espresso machines. The place was all back-to-back booths—the kind with dividers so high you couldn’t tell if the next seat over held a CEO or a serial killer.

He made for the farthest corner, only to freeze mid-step.

"Stalking me now?" Kamara muttered from the shadows, swirling a cup of what smelled like tar-black coffee.

"I just—" Ryan started.

"Sit down before you loom like a damn parking meter."

Ryan slid into the opposing bench.

Ryan had just gotten his drink when the café door swung open.

Both he and Kamara glanced up instinctively.

Gibson walked in, one hand resting gently on the shoulder of a boy—twelve, maybe thirteen. The resemblance was unmistakable.

Kamara leaned across the table. "His son."

Ryan’s brows lifted. "Flew in to watch him play?"

"Nah," Kamara shook his head. "Kid lives here. With Gibson’s ex."

Gibson, too caught up in conversation with the boy, didn’t notice them.

They slid into the booth directly behind Kamara—back-to-back seats.

The café was empty, save for the two booths, the kind of quiet where every word carried.

Ryan and Kamara could hear everything.

They weren’t listening—until you overhear something like this.

Gibson: "Why did you fight that kid at school?"

Ryan’s gaze locked onto the boy’s injuries—the purple-black crescent beneath his left eye, the angry swelling above his brow.

"Michael said you... that you’re a lo—" The kid swallowed hard. "That you’re just coasting on a trash team. That Roares would be better off without you."

The words hung in the air like the metallic scent of blood after a nosebleed.

Ryan and Kamara both tugged their hoodie hoods up, heads ducking—not to eavesdrop, but to avoid being spotted by Gibson. No need for awkward reunions.

Gibson froze. Of all the reasons he’d imagined for his son’s fight, this had never crossed his mind. The lecture he’d prepared—about responsibility and controlling his temper—dissolved on his tongue.

He was 37 now. Sure, a few stars his age were still hanging on—freaks of nature with perfect genetics and a team of trainers. But he wasn’t that guy, never had been.

Even at his peak, he was just a serviceable bench guy. Now, with age slowing his reactions, he wouldn’t even crack the rotation on most teams—maybe mop up minutes in garbage time, if that.

Still, he had a year left on his deal. If Roares offered another, he’d take it in a heartbeat. You don’t walk away from money. Not when it means a better future for your kids.

But now, it seemed that future came with a cost—his son being mocked at school because of him.

"Dad?" His son’s voice snapped him back. "Mom’s taking me to your game tomorrow. I just..." A shaky breath. "I wanna see you on the highlights for once. It’s hard finding your plays online now."

The kid wiped his nose on his sleeve, defiant.

"I wanna tell everyone Tariq Gibson’s my dad. That you matter to the Roares."

Gibson cupped his son’s face, thumbs brushing the edges of that ugly bruise. "Tomorrow night, I play for you. No disappointments."

The boy searched his eyes. "Promise?"

A beat. Then Gibson knocked their foreheads together gently. "With everything I’ve got."

They didn’t stay long.

As they stood to leave, Ryan and Kamara sank deeper into their hoodies. Only when the café door clicked shut did they exhale.

Kamara swirled his now-cold coffee.

"Gibson’s from Millvoque, you know. Started his ABA career with the Bullets , played two seasons here before bouncing around."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Think he goes off tomorrow?"

"Unless he found the Fountain of Youth in that espresso," Kamara snorted. "Dude’s career high is 21 points—eight damn years ago. You’d have better odds betting on me scoring 40."

Ryan stared into his coffee. "Hope you do. Either way—we can’t lose tomorrow. Me and Gibson... we’ve both got something to prove."