CHAPTER 89: CHAPTER 89 :A GAME WITH STREETBALL’S ELITE

K-Vibe pulled up at the arrivals curb. A tall man strode toward the SUV, broad-shouldered and easy to notice.

Ryan squinted through the glare. The guy looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him.

Then Jamal lit up.

"Cameron!"

Now Ryan remembered — the former scoring champ who’d gone one-on-one with him last time, wearing a mask.

The memory hit like a fast break, vivid and electric.

He hadn’t expected K-Vibe to be picking up Cameron because his mind had been stuck on active players — not someone like Cameron, who was currently unsigned and out of the league.

K-Vibe rolled down the window, flashing his trademark grin. "Welcome to Orvara!"

Cameron shot him a mock glare. "More like welcome back."

K-Vibe chuckled, raising his hands. "My bad, my bad. You’re the king of these streets."

Cameron slid into the third row, gave the rest of them a nod. No small talk. Just a silent acknowledgment.

Minutes later, K-Vibe was weaving through traffic, the SUV’s AC humming as they headed for a five-star hotel downtown. Check-in was smooth, with K-Vibe footing the bill like it was nothing.

"Get some rest," K-Vibe said, tossing them keycards. "I’ll swing by at four to take you to Carver Park. We’ll shoot some daytime scenes, then keep rolling after dark for the night shots.

Ryan glanced up. "You got wardrobe for me?"

K-Vibe shook his head. "Nah, just rock a tee or your jersey. Whatever’s you."

With that, he peeled off to handle logistics, leaving Eisenberg behind to finalize Ryan’s contract.

By four, Ryan, Eddie, and Jamal were back in K-Vibe’s ride. Ryan sported a Vantix tank top, matching shorts, and his PE kicks—brand loyalty on lock.

K-Vibe hit the gas.

"Not picking up Cameron?" Ryan asked.

"Nah," K-Vibe said, eyes on the road. "He’s got his own crew around here. He’ll show."

He paused, then added, "Oh, and I brought in a bunch of players from the streetball circuit. Three heavy hitters in the mix—Ankle Reaper, Ballet Bear, and The Guillotine."

Ryan arched a brow. Those names alone told you—they were the real deal.

Back in his old world, he didn’t know much about streetball culture outside of Rucker Park.

But there was one name he remembered—Larry "Bone Collector" Williams.

The guy’s handles were lethal. His sudden crossovers weren’t just fast—they were devastating. The phrase "broke his ankles" wasn’t a metaphor with him.

People actually got injured. One dude even had to be taken to the hospital with a legit ankle fracture. That’s how the Bone Collector got his name.

Ryan pulled out his phone, quickly looked up the trio K-Vibe mentioned—didn’t want to show up clueless on set.

If he couldn’t recognize these streetball legends, it might not go over well.

Ankle Reaper: Jayden Knox.

Ballet Bear: Terry Moore.

The Guillotine: Tyrone Gates.

He memorized their names and faces.

Ballet Bear didn’t need one—he was a 6’9", 330-pound mountain.

That kind of size sparked a memory—Troy "Escalade" Jackson from his old world, a 6’10", 375-pound streetballer who moved like a guard despite his size. Tragically, he’d passed in his sleep before 40, taken by hypertension and heart disease.

They got to Carver Park in no time.

The court looked like any other—nothing fancy, just your standard public setup.

Except for one thing: it had an electronic scoreboard.

Surrounding it were the kind of apartment blocks you didn’t mistake—this was one of Orvara’s roughest, realest neighborhoods.

Carver Park’s legendary streetball tournaments ran June through August, but on off-days, it was open to anyone with a ball and some heart.

The film crew had already set up—cameras, lights, the works.

The bleachers were packed. Word had leaked that a music video was being shot here today. No one knew who the artist was, but rumors flew. Whispers of Ankle Reaper, the current king of the blacktop, had the crowd buzzing.

As K-Vibe’s crew stepped onto the court, a shout rang out. "Yo, it’s K-Vibe!"

The bleachers emptied, fans swarming for selfies and autographs.

Ryan, for once, flew under the radar—not quite a household name in Orvara like he was in Iron City.

But eventually someone recognized him.

"Yo! That’s Ryan!"

Chaos erupted.

K-Vibe raised his hands, shouting, "Yo, chill! Get back to your seats—we’re trying to shoot!"

No one listened. The crowd pressed closer, phones out, voices overlapping.

Suddenly, a group of rough-looking guys shoved through, parting the mob like a blade. "Back off!" one barked.

Someone in the crowd bristled—until they saw who it was.

Real street enforcers. Gang guys. You mess with them, you disappear. Their glares silenced the crowd, cold and absolute.

Within seconds, the crowd backed off like a receding tide.

Just then, Cameron rolled in, flanked by a few tough-looking guys.

The fans lost it.

"Cameron!"

"Cam’s back!"

"We missed you, man!"

He was their old streetball king, Orvara’s pride. But the crowd stayed put, hollering from their seats, not daring to rush the court. Their cheers carried weight, a tribute to a legend.

Cameron waved, soaking it in, then raised his voice. "Y’all sit tight, don’t mess with the shoot, and keep it quiet when we start rolling, aight?"

"Bet!"

"Got you, Cam!"

Ryan watched the whole thing play out, then leaned over to Jamal.

"Man’s got pull."

K-Vibe overheard, grinning. "Orvara’s wild, but Cameron calls the shots. That’s half the reason I brought him in."

Suddenly, a wave of screams erupted from the crowd. Eight of the streetball circuit’s elite had just rolled in—with Ankle Reaper drawing the loudest roars.

K-Vibe and Cameron moved forward to dap them up, sharing hugs and handshakes like old brothers-in-arms.

Ryan greeted them with a polite nod and a few quiet words, trying not to intrude.

Off to the side, Jamal was practically vibrating with excitement.

His eyes gleamed, soaking in the moment like a kid at his first pro game.

Ryan leaned in to ask K-Vibe, "Hey—my guy over there, Jamal? He plays street too. Think he can be part of the shoot?"

K-Vibe looked Jamal up and down. He was rocking a vintage Roarers #1 Marcus jersey, loose athletic pants, and a look of hopeful determination.

"No problem," K-Vibe said with a shrug. "He’ll blend in fine. We’re filming background scenes anyway. One more body won’t hurt."

Jamal turned to Ryan, grinning ear to ear. "Yo, man—thank you. For real."

The shoot kicked off, cameras capturing K-Vibe and the other stars draining jumpers, throwing down dunks, and going one-on-one.

They staged a loose, scrappy pickup game while K-Vibe performed "Remember the Name", lip-syncing to the track for post-production sync. It was fast, smooth, and full of swagger.

The vibe was electric, and within an hour, they’d nailed all the daytime shots.

K-Vibe gathered everyone. "Alright—we’re coming back at 8:00. Night shoot. This time, real game. No acting. Real fire. Real contact. I want the camera to capture truth."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. Coach Crawford had called it—he’d come to Orvara and ended up in a game.

Still... the thought of going head-to-head with top-tier street legends sparked something in him. A quiet thrill.

K-Vibe did a quick headcount. Eight from the streetball scene. Add himself, Ryan, Cameron—that made eleven.

Ryan clapped Jamal on the shoulder. "Let him sub in when we rotate."

"Cool," K-Vibe nodded. "My team’s me, Cameron, Ryan, and Jamal. You guys,"—he turned to the eight ballers—"just pick two of yours to roll with us."

After a quick huddle, the streetballers sent over a dude with a wild afro and a lanky 6’11" center.

Teams were set. K-Vibe clapped his hands. "Alright, everyone bounce. Be back by 8:00 sharp."

The group split. K-Vibe glanced at Ryan, Eddie, and Jamal. "Y’all want a ride back to the hotel or what?"

Eddie waved him off. "How ’bout you hook us up with a car? We’ll cruise around ourselves."

K-Vibe scratched the back of his neck. "Uh... lemme think who I could ask—"

Cameron, still lingering, smirked. "Easy fix." He nodded to one of his guys, who tossed Ryan a set of keys, rattling off the car’s location and plate number.

Ryan pocketed the keys. "Thanks, bro." To Cameron: "Appreciate you."

Cameron shrugged. "No sweat."

They took off—Eddie behind the wheel. He’d been in and out of Orvara more times than he could count, knew the streets. They drove, they wandered, they grabbed dinner.

Time slipped fast. Before they knew it, the clock ticked past 7:45.

As they rolled up to Carver Park, they were stunned—the place was a zoo.

The bleachers were packed to the brim, and fans spilled onto the surrounding asphalt, word of the pickup game having spread like wildfire.

On the court, a wiry older guy gripped a mic, hyping the crowd with wild gestures and booming energy.

Eddie leaned in. "That’s the Carver Park announcer. Been hosting games here for over a decade. Every big match, he’s the voice."

Ryan nodded, flashing back to his old world’s Rucker Park and its legendary announcer, Duke Tango, who’d held court for over twenty years.

Every great court had its own voice.