CHAPTER 61: CHAPTER 61 :I’M TAKING THAT MVP

The game pressed on.

Vega City’s faithful, drenched in sweat and decked out in Vega Tigers jerseys, erupted with chants of "Frye! Frye! MVP! MVP!" rallying behind their hometown rookie darling.

Ryan Carter snagged the inbound pass.

He advanced, sneakers screeching against the polished hardwood, with Frye right in his face.

He called for a screen, and Zeke set one like a goddamn oak.

Frye fought through it, but Ryan was already gone—a blur to the left—rising up at the 15-foot mark.

His wrists snapped. The ball arced like a missile.

Swish.

34 to 30.

Team Nealson fans erupted, their cheers crashing through the arena, pushing back against Vega’s home-court wave.

"Ryan’s got twelve!" Mason shouted from the booth.

Frye, stone-faced, took the ball and stared down Amin—renowned for his defense, and never an easy man to beat.

No screens. No tricks. Just a head-on duel.

He gave a subtle fake, stepped back to the wing, and let the three fly.

Swish. 34 to 33.

The arena trembled.

Then the chant came, rolling down from the rafters:

"Frye! Frye! MVP! MVP!"

"Frye’s got Vega’s soul!" Wilson roared.

Ryan’s chest burned, lips curling into a savage grin: Let’s dance.

He surged upcourt, ball a heartbeat, and whipped a pass to Bo Carrick in the corner. Carrick faked, sent a defender stumbling, and glided baseline, his layup kissing glass. 36-33.

Vess’s Derrick Langley answered with a battle of the giants in the paint—a 7’1" beast bullying the 7’4" Zeke Ender, spinning into a hook shot that knocked Zeke’s arm aside. 36-35.

The crowd was electric, every bucket lighting a fuse.

Team Nealson pushed forward on the next possession. Zeke’s floater clanged off the rim, and Derrick came down with the rebound.

Derrick kicked it out to Yates,

who brought the ball past halfcourt and swung it to Frye.

Frye took over, waving off his squad to iso Ryan.

The arena detonated, "MVP!" chants deafening.

Frye’s rhythm-flow was a dance of death—hips swaying, shoulders dipping, a streetball symphony. He faked left, tricked Ryan’s balance, then stepped hard, slamming his chest into Ryan’s to block his slide. Ryan stumbled, legs scrambling. Frye charged the paint, rising like a missile, and slammed a one-handed dunk that shook the rim.

"Frye carves up Ryan!" Wilson bellowed.

The Zentron Celestial Arena was a roaring furnace, Vega City’s faithful screaming "MVP! MVP!" as Team Vess clung to a 37-36 lead over Team Nealson.

The court was a battlefield, sweat-soaked jerseys clinging to heaving chests, every possession a knife fight.

Frye, Vega’s golden boy in white No. 3, jogged past Ryan on his way back down the court, a cold smirk curling on his lips. He didn’t even look fully at him, just muttered with a mocking lilt, "I’m taking that MVP."

The words hit like a jab to the gut.

Ryan felt his blood boil.

His sneakers gripped the hardwood, sweat dripping off his chin, spattering the floor. Before tonight, he’d been loose—no burning need to chase the MVP, just here to soak up the Rising Stars Challenge, to feel the game’s pulse.

But Frye’s taunt lit a fuse.

Enjoy the game? Screw that.

His eyes narrowed, locking onto Frye’s retreating figure.

I’m winning this, and you’re eating that MVP talk.

Nealson’s next possession was his. He took the inbound pass and let the ball bounce slow, head up, scanning. Frye met him at the arc—no help, no screen, just them.

One-on-one.

The crowd felt it too. The chants faded into silence, replaced by a kind of collective inhale.

He waved off his teammates—McCale, Zeke, Bo Carrick—clearing the left wing. "Iso!" he barked, voice raw.

Frye stepped up, face hard as granite, crouching low, arms spread like a predator’s claws.

The crowd smelled blood, screams peaking. At the broadcast booth, Richard Mason’s voice boomed: "Ryan’s calling out Vega’s golden boy!"

David Wilson leaned in: "Frye’s a demon tonight, but Ryan’s eyes are burning!"

Ryan stood beyond the arc, the ball a heartbeat in his hands.

Frye’s stare was ice, his body a coiled spring, daring him to move.

Think you own this court? Ryan’s mind roared.

Frye pressed up, closing the gap, his breath hot.

Ryan’s left hand snapped the ball behind his back, a lightning-fast pull, chaining into a left spin move, his body twisting like a tornado. His sneakers screeched, and the crowd gasped, stunned by the audacity. "Oh, that’s filthy!" Mason roared.

Ryan burst past Frye, slicing inside the arc, hitting the free-throw line with fury.Frye, relentless, spun and chased, his long legs pumping, refusing to be shaken.

Ryan took a step, gripping the ball, his eyes locked on the rim.

Frye didn’t bite, staying grounded, lunging forward with a massive stride to mirror Ryan’s path. The first step didn’t fool him—Frye’s discipline was steel.

But Ryan didn’t care. His second step was a violent cut, a wide-angle shift, speed matching the first, a blur of motion.

Frye, explosive as he was, read the move but lagged a half-beat, his pivot a fraction slow.

Ryan leaped left of the rim, his body angled, and floated a soft layup off the glass.

Swish. The ball kissed the net. 38-37, Nealson up.

The arena froze, Vega’s "MVP!" chants stuttering as Nealson’s fans erupted.

Ryan landed, chest heaving, and shot Frye a glare of cold fire.

Take that MVP now.

Frye’s jaw clenched, eyes blazing, silent.

Mason screamed, "Ryan just broke Frye’s ankles! That layup was pure ice!"

Wilson growled, "Vega’s golden boy got schooled—Ryan’s got this crowd reeling!"

Amin charged over, smacking Ryan’s shoulder. "That’s my dawg!" he yelled, voice cracking.

Ryan leaned in toward Amin and muttered quickly, "Next play, you take Frye. If he calls for me, fight through the screen fast."

He wasn’t about to let pride get in the way of winning. With an 80-plus percent sync rate with Westbrook, Ryan had defensive instincts, sure, but Amin Thomas? Amin was a lockdown specialist. Everyone knew it. Frye could torch most guys one-on-one—but not Amin. Ryan wasn’t dumb enough to make this about ego.

Amin gave a short nod. "Leave it to me."