CHAPTER 68: CHAPTER 68 :3 BILLION FOR ROARRES

Ryan slipped back to his seat in the upper bowl as the slam dunk contest awards wrapped, the Zentron Celestial Arena still vibrating with the crowd’s energy. Confetti drifted like neon snow, and Colter Frye’s triumphant grin lit up the jumbotron as he hoisted the trophy.

Ryan glanced at Eddie, sprawled in the seat next to Jamal. "Ready to bounce?"

Before Eddie could answer, the arena’s lights dimmed again, plunging the court into a dramatic glow.

Ryan frowned. "Another event?"

"Shouldn’t be," Jamal muttered, pulling out his phone with one hand and squinting at the tiny schedule booklet they’d all been handed at the gate.

The arena lights were dim, making it hard to read, but he tilted the page toward the screen glow. "Lemme check... I thought we were done."

The emcee’s voice boomed again across the darkened arena: "Ladies and gentlemen..."

Jamal squinted at the booklet. "Oh. Here it is. Introduction of the four new teams."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "New teams?"

The emcee’s voice boomed, cutting through the buzz. "Hold onto your seats! We’ve got a special treat—let’s welcome the mascots of our FOUR new ABA teams for next season!"

The crowd erupted as spotlights swept the court, landing on four larger-than-life mascots bounding from the tunnel.

A silver wolf in a sleek jersey howled for the Western Plains Lupines.

A crimson dragon spewed fake flames for the Ashreach Drakes.

An armored knight clanged a sword for the Stonegate Sentinels.

And a neon-blue orca leaped, splashing the front row with confetti for the Seacrest Breakers.

The arena’s eighteen thousand fans roared, phones flashing like a lightning storm.

Ryan leaned toward Jamal, eyebrows raised. "New teams? What’s the deal?"

Jamal grinned, pocketing his phone. "Expansion, man. League’s adding two teams per conference next season—been in the works for two years. You didn’t know?"

Ryan gave a sheepish shrug. "You know I barely keep up with that side of things."

He glanced out at the mascots, imagining the implications. Twelve teams per conference now.

"That means tougher playoff odds," Ryan muttered.

"Anything else I’m missing for next season?" Ryan asked, nudging Jamal.

Jamal scratched his head. "Uh... not sure, honestly."

Eddie leaned in from the other side. "Team rosters expanded to fifteen, but only thirteen active on game nights."

Ryan nodded. "That’s actually good. More flexibility. More schemes."

Eddie smirked. "Good for most teams. Not so great for Roarres’ owner. The guy barely funds a twelve-man roster. And now he’s expected to pay for three more contracts?"

——

In a sleek private club high above Iron City, Roarres’ owner Victor Crane sneezed mid-sip of his bourbon, the amber liquid sloshing in his glass.

The Obsidian Lounge was a fortress of opulence—black marble floors, velvet drapes framing floor-to-ceiling windows, and a crystal chandelier casting prisms over leather booths.

Inside one of the private rooms, tucked in a secluded corner booth, soft jazz played from hidden speakers.

A massive screen streamed the All-Star Weekend live, but Crane’s eyes were fixed on the man across from him: Steven Palmer, Iron City’s richest man, his blue checkered button-down shirt as crisp as his smile.

Crane dabbed his nose with a napkin, muttering, "Weird... my ears are burning. Someone’s talking about me."

Palmer’s lips twitched, amused.

The two sat at a corner booth, a bottle of top-shelf bourbon between them, papers strewn across the table—projections, valuations, and a draft contract for the Roarres’ sale. They had nearly finalized the deal months ago at a price of two billion, with signatures nearly on the page—until Ryan’s arrival shifted everything. Since then, Crane had begun dragging his feet.

Palmer had been circling the team for months, and tonight, with the All-Star buzz as a backdrop, they were hashing out the final numbers.

Palmer leaned back, swirling his drink. "Three billion, Victor? That’s a steep jump from our last talk. Not exactly playing fair."

Crane’s eyes narrowed, his voice gruff. "Fair? The Roarres aren’t the same team they were last year. We’ve got Ryan now. Playoff contender this season, maybe even a deep run."

Palmer scoffed, setting his glass down with a clink. "Playoffs? Sure. First-round exit, maybe. Ryan’s a spark, but one guy doesn’t make a champion. You think this roster’s got title DNA?"

Crane’s face darkened, his jaw tight.

Palmer pressed on, voice smooth but cutting. "Let’s be real—without a championship-caliber team around him, how long do you think Ryan’s going to stay? He’s probably on a rookie deal—one year, maybe two? What then? You really think peanuts will keep him around for the next contract? Are you ready to pay what he’s actually worth?"

Crane scowled. "I know how this works. Maybe I can keep him. The Roarres are a different beast now—fans are back, tickets are selling, jerseys moving too. That’s worth something. That’s why I raised the price."

Palmer raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Same thing I’ve been saying—if you don’t build a title-worthy roster around Ryan, you’re not keeping him. And when he walks, everything resets to zero."

He took a slow sip, then set his glass down.

"I’ll go 2.2 billion. That’s generous, Victor. One Ryan doesn’t boost your franchise by ten billion overnight."

The negotiation stretched on, numbers volleyed like a tense rally.

In the end, Crane held firm at 2.5 billion, citing Ryan’s star power and the team’s renewed buzz.

Palmer countered at 2.25, pointing out the Roarres’ thin depth chart and Crane’s long-standing stinginess.

The bourbon dwindled as the All-Star broadcast continued to play, ignored, in the background.

Palmer leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial.

"You saw Ryan and Chloe out there tonight, right? The Skills Challenge, the chemistry, her rocking his number-zero jersey. Chloe signed him as Zero9’s brand face, and he’s been pushing their ads hard—dropping mentions even in postgame interviews. And just now? He lifted her up and let her finish the dunk..."

Crane frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Palmer gave a thin smile. "I’m saying... with 2.5 billion, I could just buy another bottom-feeder franchise. And with the kind of connection Chloe has with Ryan..."

He let the sentence dangle in the air, unfinished—just long enough.

Crane froze, his mind spinning. Palmer had a point—Chloe and Ryan might actually have something going on. And if Palmer did scoop up another team... and Chloe whispered in Ryan’s ear—

Crane forced a laugh, masking his unease. "You sly bastard. You’ve been setting this up with Chloe all along, haven’t you? Hell of a strategy. No wonder you’re Iron City’s richest man."

Palmer shrugged.

"Final offer. Two-point-three billion."

Crane stared out the window, then finally said, "I need time. Let me enjoy the wins, the coverage, the hope. Marcus’ death hit this team hard. We haven’t had a season like this in years. Let me breathe."

Palmer raised his glass. "But don’t take too long. Momentum’s a currency of its own."

Crane didn’t reply. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the city pulsed with light.

Back at the arena, Ryan slouched in his seat, oblivious to the high-stakes deal unfolding in Iron City.

The mascots danced off the court, and the emcee hyped the crowd for the night’s final moments.

Jamal flipped through the schedule booklet again. "That’s it, man. Just the wrap-up now."

Ryan nodded, but his mind lingered on the new teams, the expanded rosters, and the looming playoff grind. The ABA was changing, and he’d need to step up to keep pace.

——

The morning after the All-Star Saturday Night, Ryan, Jamal, and Eddie hadn’t yet headed back to Iron City.

The main event—the All-Star Game—was still to come that evening, and the trio was killing time in Vega City.

Breakfast was a quick affair at a diner near their hotel: greasy eggs, bacon, and coffee strong enough to wake a coma patient. Now, they strolled the sunbaked streets, Ryan keeping a low profile with a ball cap pulled low, a black mask over his mouth, and oversized sunglasses hiding half his face.

The last thing he needed was a mob of fans before noon.

They passed a streetball court tucked between a vape shop and a neon-lit pawn store, the chain-link fence rattling with the energy of a pickup game.

Two teams were going at it, sneakers squeaking on cracked asphalt, the ball thumping with every dribble.

The All-Star Weekend had whipped Vega City into a basketball frenzy, and a crowd of maybe forty locals and tourists packed the sidelines, cheering and heckling.

Ryan couldn’t help himself—he slowed, then stopped, drawn to the raw, unpolished chaos of streetball. No refs, no shot clock, just buckets and bravado.

A sharp-eyed kid in a knockoff jersey spotted him, squinting through the disguise. "Yo, that’s Ryan Carter!"

The crowd turned like a flock of vultures. Screams erupted, phones shot up, and bodies surged forward, clamoring for selfies.

Ryan gave a wry smile, trapped.

No running now.

He tugged off the mask and sunglasses, the Vega City’s sun hitting his face as he posed for photos, signing caps and jerseys with a practiced grin.

It took a solid ten minutes to satisfy the mob, his hand cramping by the end.

One of the players, a lanky guy with a faded headband, jogged over, spinning the ball on his finger. "Yo, Ryan, you wanna show us something?"

Ryan glanced at Eddie, who’d been filming the whole scene on his phone, a smirk on his face.

"Gotta capture the man-of-the-people moment," Eddie said, tilting his head toward the court. "Post it. Fans’ll eat it up."

Ryan chuckled, nodding. "Alright, let’s do it."

He stepped onto the court, casually joining one of the teams mid-game as the crowd buzzed louder.

The ball came his way, and he didn’t hesitate—two quick dribbles, a crossover that sent his defender stumbling, and a explosive drive to the rim. He launched, hammering a one-handed dunk that shook the rusty hoop.

The crowd lost it, screams echoing off the surrounding buildings.

"Clear out! Everybody back!"A new voice cut through the noise, low and commanding.

The crowd parted, a group of about a dozen men pushed their way through the onlookers. They looked rough—like they weren’t here for autographs.

Leading them was a massive figure, easily 6’8", built like a linebacker. He wore a cap pulled low and a mask covering the bottom half of his face. Even with most of him hidden, he radiated a kind of quiet threat.

Jamal stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between Ryan and the approaching group. His body tensed, all bravado gone.

Eddie lowered his phone, brow furrowed as he eyed the group. His gaze locked onto the leader—he squinted, studied him for a beat... then his expression eased. A slow grin crept across his face.

One of the crew members picked up the ball and handed it directly to the leader.

The towering man accepted it without a word, then stepped onto the court, stopping just a few feet from Ryan.

He bounced the ball once. Then again.

"You and me," he said, voice muffled but cold. "One-on-one."