CHAPTER 54: CHAPTER 54 :["EMOTIONAL SUPPORT MASCOT" MODE!]

Wednesday, 10 a.m. – FenrirTech Arena, home of the Demerra Hounds.

The Roarers were already on the floor, easing into light sets and tactical walkthroughs. Darius had just begun serving his suspension and didn’t travel with the team, so Coach Crawford had Ryan running handoffs with Lin and 1-5 pick-and-rolls with Malik.

The team split into two squads: starters ran as Unit 1, while reserves formed Unit 2. They practiced half-court sets, with Unit 1 executing the offense and Unit 2 providing defensive coverage.

Fifteen minutes in, after a quick water break, Crawford gave his clipboard a tap.

"Switch it up—Sloan, take Ryan’s spot."

Sloan, who’d been running with the second unit, blinked. "Me? At point?"

Stanley looked up too—confused. He usually rotated through 1, 2, and 3. Sloan? Strictly 3, 4, sometimes small-ball 5.

Crawford’s glare silenced questions."Move. I’m not senile enough to mix up names."

So just like that, Sloan was running point for the starters. Ryan shifted to lead the second unit—still at point.

Scrimmage resumed. First possession—Sloan stopped at the arc, held the dribble, eyes searching for cutters. Ryan stepped up, reached out, and picked his pocket clean.

Crawford exploded.

"Protect the damn rock, Sloan! Your grandma could’ve picked you with that lazy handle!"

Next play—pick-and-roll with Malik. As Malik rolled into the lane, Sloan tossed a lob his way... only to have it swatted mid-air by Omar. Yes, big man Omar, of all people.

Crawford again:

"You passing to Malik or testing the wind direction? Throw it like you mean it!"

It didn’t get better.

Handoffs from Lin? Botched.

Drives? Stripped.

Kick-outs? Picked off.

Crawford’s yelling never stopped.

——

1:00 p.m. – Roarers’ Team Hotel.

Lunch wrapped. The players scattered for some downtime.

Kamara grabbed Ryan by the sleeve. "C’mon. Game room. Foosball."

Sloan trailed behind.

The room was tucked near the lounge—low ceilings, arcade lighting. Kamara and Ryan got into it fast, trading goals and shouting over each other.

Sloan leaned against the wall, watching.

"Hey," he finally said during a lull, "what was that point guard experiment this morning? Coach isn’t actually gonna play me there tonight, right?"

Kamara didn’t even look up. "Why not?"

Sloan hesitated. "I just... I’m not a point guard."

"GOAL!" Kamara shouted, pumping a fist.

Ryan waited for the moment to pass, then smiled. "You should be happy."

"Happy?" Sloan frowned. "He’s throwing me into something I don’t do."

Ryan shrugged. "That means he’s investing in you."

Sloan turned, confused. "Investing in me... as a point guard?"

Kamara chimed in, eyes still on the foosball table. "You’re overthinking. It’s just adding wrinkles to the system."

"But I’m not built for that," Sloan muttered.

Kamara shrugged. "Then maybe it becomes a surprise weapon. And if it doesn’t work? Still sharpens your handle, vision, playmaking. That’s growth, man."

Ryan nodded. "Exactly. It’s development—whether it works or not."

Sloan’s eyes lit up. "Seriously?"

Kamara finally looked up, grinning. "Dead serious. Year One: make you a point forward and smoke Banchieri. Year Two: turn you into an all-around forward, take down LaVonte."

Sloan froze. Then Ryan burst out laughing.

Kamara followed.

All three were laughing now.

——

3:00 PM – Team Hotel Conference Room.

The Roarers gathered in a rented meeting room for film study. Tonight’s matchup against the Demerra Hounds tips off at 9:30 PM.

The Hounds weren’t exactly flashy—but they were one of only four teams in the East with a winning record, sitting at fourth with 24–20 (6–4 in their last ten). Coach Crawford ran through the scouting report: tough defense, elite on the boards, but offensively... limp. Bottom-five in scoring. A classic grind-it-out, team-first squad with no real standout star to key in on.

Ryan took quiet notes, soaking it all in.

If the Vipers were chaos incarnate, the Hounds were order—structured, disciplined, defensively-minded. Total opposites.

——

9:00 p.m.

The Roarers stepped out of the FenrirTech Arena Tunnel.

As Ryan warmed up, he peeked at his system.

[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 81.9%]

Not bad. Finally broke 80.

"System," he muttered under his breath, "first career start. Gotta be some kinda bonus in that, right?"

Truth be told, Ryan was feeling a little reflective—Westbrook didn’t get his first start until Game 18 of his rookie year.

This was only Ryan’s eighth.

Sure, it helped that Darius was suspended... but still.

The response flashed instantly:

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

[GENERATING...]

[LUCKY WHEEL ACTIVATED.]

The familiar oversized wheel materialized, cluttered with the usual suspects—

+3 seconds to buffs, +1% shooting accuracy, a pile of tiny stat tweaks...

and of course, a truckload of THANKS FOR PLAYING!

Figures. Classic system.

Ryan sighed. Just don’t land on Trash Talk Bonus again.

"Spin."

The wheel whirred to life, neon lights blurring until...

[CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE WON: "EMOTIONAL SUPPORT MASCOT" MODE!]

[Effect: For the duration of this game, as long as you’re on the court, your teammates will unconsciously pat your head after every made basket or standout defensive play like you’re a golden retriever puppy.

Each head pat grants them +5% Confidence and +1% Shooting Accuracy.]

Ryan’s eye twitched. Goddammit.

9:30 p.m.

Tip-off, right on schedule.

The Roarers opened with Ryan, Lin, Kamara, Gibson, and Malik on the floor.

Malik won the jump ball cleanly, tapping it to Ryan. Ryan brought it up, crossing half court with the ball in hand. As he approached the arc, he tested his defender with a quick jab and step—tight coverage. No lazy closeouts here—this wasn’t the Vipers’ matador defense. The Hounds’ guard stuck to him like glue, mirroring every step.

No clean look. Ryan reset, dribbling back out before signaling for Malik’s screen.

A hard left fake—the defender bit—then a quick dish to Malik rolling free.

Malik caught it clean, but the help defense crashed immediately. He went for a soft floater—clanked off the back iron.

Hounds secured the board.

No fast break. Just methodical, half-court execution—their bread and butter.

They swung the ball side to side, patient, methodical. Then—bang—their shooting guard slipped backdoor and drove hard. Malik rotated, got a fingertip on the layup—just enough to change its path. It hit glass, bounced off.

Only for their center to outmuscle Gibson for the offensive rebound and putback.

2-0, Hounds.

As Lin inbounded the ball, Malik jogged upcourt—and casually ruffled Ryan’s hair as he passed.

Ryan blinked. Wait. What?

You tipped the shot, sure, but they still got the bucket. That’s not a highlight stop, bro. Why the hell are you patting my head?

Just like that, Ryan endured an endless stream of inexplicable head pats—right up until Crawford finally called timeout with 3:45 left.

Score: Roarers 21, Hounds 17.

Ryan and Gibson subbed out for Sloan and Stanley. As Crawford diagrammed plays, Sloan’s face twitched when he saw himself slotted at point guard.

No one questioned the coach—but the experiment went about as well as a screen door on a submarine.

Turnovers. Missed reads. Wide-open teammates waving in vain.

Bit by bit, the Hounds clawed their way back into it.

On the Roarers’ bench, the assistant coaches huddled quietly around Crawford.

"Yeah... Sloan’s not a point guard," one of them muttered.

"We’ll need more time to know for sure," Crawford said, almost to himself.

The truth was, he had a reason for the bold experiment.

Since Darius joined the team this season, the Roarers’ starting lineup hadn’t been terrible. The real issue was depth—aside from Sloan and Stanley, no one else on the bench was rotation material.

Whenever Darius sat for rest, Stanley would typically slide in at point.

Stanley didn’t blow things up, but he didn’t ignite much either. A defense-first wing with limited scoring and average playmaking, he offered little in terms of offensive structure.

Time and again, the Roarers would stall during those in-between stretches. Leads would vanish—or tight games would slowly tilt the other way.

The losses piled up. The playoffs slipped away. Crawford had been ready to hand in his resignation—until Ryan showed up.

Now? Three straight wins. A flicker of postseason hope. But now Darius was suspended, and that momentum was in jeopardy.

So Crawford rolled the dice.

If Sloan—at six-foot-eight—could even halfway function as a point guard, his size alone could force mismatches.

And with those mismatches? The second unit could finally unlock more tactical options during those in-between stretches—something they’d desperately lacked all season.

High risk? Absolutely.

But with the season on the line? Worth a shot.

By the end of the first quarter, they’d flipped the score: Hounds 29, Roarers 27.

Crawford didn’t erupt—game time wasn’t for tirades. Just a quiet adjustment.

Second quarter lineup: Ryan, Gibson, Sloan, Stanley, Omar.

Sloan slid back into his usual forward spot.

"Malik and Kamara are sitting," Crawford told him. "You’re our rim protector now."

No choice. Gibson wasn’t much of a rim protector, and Omar was just out there to buy Malik a few minutes of rest.

Sloan nodded sharply.

Early in the second, Sloan snatched a defensive board, outlet-passed, then—as he sprinted upcourt—reached over and ruffled Ryan’s hair mid-stride.

Ryan sighed. Whatever. Lost count of these damn head pats anyway.