CHAPTER 53: CHAPTER 53 :WHO THE HELL IS RODMAN?

The next morning — Roarers Training Center.

The Roarers’ training session was light—only eleven players on the court. Darius was missing. The league’s disciplinary report had dropped overnight: suspended five games, not the feared eight. A small mercy, considering the punch wasn’t that vicious and Marović hadn’t been seriously hurt.

Even though suspended players could still train, Darius needed a couple of days to clear his head.

Coach Crawford didn’t waste time. "Next game’s against the Demerra Hounds. Ryan, you’re starting."

No surprise. With Darius out, the starting point guard spot was his by default.

Off to the side, Stanley exhaled through his nose—just barely—but Ryan caught it. In the past, when Darius sat out, Stanley was always the one bumped to starter. Not this time.

Practice ended at 1 PM. Ryan hit the gym straight after—squeezed in a full ninety-minute session before Eddie picked him up for the shoot at Iron Vault Arena.

"You’ve got the cash now," Eddie said as they turned onto the road to the arena, "buy a damn car."

"I will," Ryan said. "Might use that pre-All-Star break to test a few."

When they arrived, the Vantix team was already there—crew on standby, lighting rigged, cameras stationed. Sloan was waiting too. He stood near the baseline, giving Ryan a nod as he walked in.

A staffer handed them both fresh Apex pairs—navy blue for Sloan, and for Ryan...

Neon orange.

He stared at them. The exact shade he’d worn the night LaVonte torched him—he hadn’t touched neon orange since.

"Can I switch?" he asked, holding them up. "I’d rather wear the blue pair."

The assistant hesitated. The neon ones were prepped for the main focus—meant to pop under the lights. Ryan was the feature today, not Sloan. Still, the assistant didn’t have the authority to change wardrobe.

Whitaker walked over, having noticed the pause. Ryan held up the shoes. "I’d rather not wear these. That color’s... not it."

Ryan explained the reason. After a pause, Whitaker nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "We’ll courier a red pair over now—give us twenty."

Soon after, another box arrived—deep crimson.

Then came the rest of the wardrobe: a Vantix-branded heather gray training top and slim-fit black joggers—clean, minimalist, and sharp.

Ryan glanced down at his Roarers jersey. "Thought we’d shoot in team gear."

Whitaker smirked, tapping the Arvos logo on Ryan’s chest. "You want us to give them free promo?"

The shoot kicked off just after 4.

They started with stills—clean, hard shots for the media kit. The setup was classic: white backdrop, blown-out strobes, branded flooring underfoot. A photographer barked directions from behind the lens.

"Ryan, dominant stance. Ball at your hip. Eyes through the lens—own it."

He rotated through a series of poses: standing tall, crouching slightly, arms crossed, one hand palming the ball. Every frame framed him as the focus.

Sloan joined later for paired shots. In every frame, Ryan stood centered. Sloan flanked him, half a step behind on the right. The camera didn’t lie—this was Ryan’s campaign.

Then came the motion clips.

The crew moved with quiet precision. Cameras slid along rails. Slow zooms caught their faces, tight shots followed sneakers in motion. One camera tracked the ball through Ryan’s crossover, cutting low as his sole gripped, pivoted, squeaked. Every sound was mic’d—the soft thud of a bounce pass, the clean snap of a spin move, the quick friction of rubber on hardwood. Crisp. Cinematic.

A featured sequence: staged 1-on-1. Sloan guarded tight. Two fakes, a jab step. He bit. Ryan drove left, exploded upward.

Bang.

A clean, one-handed dunk that shook the rim.

They reset the play twice, filming it from three angles—sideline handheld, floor cam under the basket, and a boom shot that captured the full arc of his takeoff. The red Apex sneakers caught the light as he landed, steady.

Whitaker watched from behind the monitor, arms crossed.

"Gold," he muttered.

By the time the shoot wrapped and Ryan had changed out of his gear, it was pushing 7 p.m.

Eddie was ready to drive him home—but before they could leave, Sloan stepped up and suggested grabbing dinner together.

At the Roarers, outside of Kamara, Ryan hadn’t spent much time with most of his teammates. This felt like a chance to change that—and he wasn’t about to say no.

So he got into Sloan’s car.

They found a quiet spot near the arena—a low-key restaurant, nothing fancy. Once they sat down, Sloan leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.

"Man, I gotta say—I’m jealous of you. I’ve been in the ABA three years now, still haven’t made a name for myself. Still coming off the bench."

Ryan gave a small smile. "You’ve got the tools. Just keep grinding—it’ll come."

Sloan shook his head. "I’m not like you. My shot’s broken. Always has been."

"Get it to league average. That’s all you need." Ryan leaned forward. "Your boards are solid. Better than half the starters in this league."

He paused, a line surfacing—etched in memory from Slam Dunk, that classic Japanese basketball anime from his previous life.

"The one who controls the rebound, controls the game," he said, almost without thinking.

Sloan froze for a split second, then his eyes lit up with sudden understanding. "Damn. That’s kinda fire."

Ryan chuckled. "It is. And hey—there’s even a rebounding title in this league, isn’t there? Something to aim for."

Sloan took a sip of water, then gave a bitter smirk.

"Let’s be real. People remember MVPs, scoring leaders. Nobody talks about who led the league in boards. And me? I’m just a rebound guy who barely cracks ten points a night. That’s not star material."

"You’ve got it wrong," Ryan said. "Rodman became one of the greatest, a legend—because of rebounding. Career average? Barely ten points a game. But he pulled down double-digit boards, every night. Seven straight rebounding titles. Crazy stat lines like 10 points, 34 rebounds... even zero points, 28 rebounds..."

"Wait," Sloan cut in, frowning. "That does sound legendary, but... who the hell is Rodman?"

Ryan froze.

Shit.

Got too carried away—forgot this wasn’t his original world.

"Uh..." His mind raced. "Just some protagonist from a basketball web novel I read."

Sloan perked up, pulling out his phone. "What’s it called?"

"Forgot," Ryan said too quickly.

Sloan eyed him. "And that fire-ass quote you dropped earlier? From the same story?"

Ryan nodded. "Yep. Same one."

Fair enough. Hanamichi Sakuragi from Slam Dunk was based on Dennis Rodman anyway.

"I’ll try looking it up..." Sloan muttered, tapping at his screen.

He typed in "Rodman." Nothing relevant.

Then he searched the quote.

Still nothing.

"No matches."

"Maybe... the author thought it sucked and took it down," Ryan offered, a weak smile.

Sloan pocketed his phone. "Probably. Zero points with 28 boards? Sounds like bullshit anyway."

But the words kept echoing in his head:

"The one who controls the rebound, controls the game."

Seven-time rebounding champ?

Something ignited in his chest—like he’d just found a north star.