4:00 PM – Gym Exhaustion
Ryan pushed through the gym doors, sweat dripping off his chin, his shirt soaked through from the two-hour strength block. The cool hallway air hit his skin like a slap.
Coach Crawford was waiting for him in the hallway. "Bring something a little nicer to wear tomorrow. We’ve got a press conference at noon—introducing our newest signing."
Ryan blinked. "Press conference? For me?"
"You’ve gotta be kidding." Ryan wiped his forehead, disbelieving. "I’m just some no-name midseason pickup."
Crawford’s mouth twitched into something that barely qualified as a smile. "This organization respects every player who signs."
The smile didn’t reach his eyes—because it wasn’t true.
30 Minutes Earlier – GM’s Office.
Crawford nearly choked on his coffee. "Who the hell holds a press conference for some streetball nobody? You trying to make us a punchline?"
Kevin Buth, the GM, didn’t even glance up from his laptop. His fingers tapped steadily on the keys. "Owner’s orders."
He paused, then leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes still fixed on the screen. "You know we’re already a bottom-tier team, right? Half-empty arena most nights, no buzz, no headlines. Nobody’s watching."
Crawford folded his arms, unimpressed. "So?"
Buth finally looked up, meeting Crawford’s gaze with a shrug. "So the owner wants us to ride the hype train. Tell the media Ryan’s the next big thing—some streetball phenom you ’discovered’ after Marcus. The next Marcus. He’s going to be the new legend."
Crawford exhaled sharply. "Can I skip the circus?"
Now, Crawford looked at Ryan in front of him, feeling a twinge of guilt. He knew that once the press conference hit, the media would blow up. Ryan would be under immense pressure—and if he didn’t deliver, he’d become a joke.
"Alright then, I’ll go shower," Ryan said, slinging his towel over one shoulder.
Crawford gave a small nod. "Go ahead." He paused. "And pack a bag. We leave for the airport at three tomorrow."
Back home after leaving the Roarers Training Center, Ryan pulled out his phone and quickly checked the latest ABA standings. January 8th. Midseason.
The season at its halfway mark. He clicked over to the Western Conference first.
1. Vega Tigers — 32-6 (Last 10: 9-1)
2. Nova City Starships — 29-9 (Last 10: 8-2)
3. San Merico Paladins — 27-10 (Last 10: 10-0)
4. Emerald Bay Lumina — 27-11 (Last 10: 7-3)
5. Hervi Mistfoxes — 24-13 (Last 10: 4-6)
6. Ceris Shadows — 19-18 (Last 10: 5-5)
7. Koreya Flameguardians — 19-19 (Last 10: 6-4)
8. Zerith City Domes — 12-25 (Last 10: 2-8)
9. Noze Boulders — 10-28 (Last 10: 1-9)
10. Iron City Roarers — 7-31 (Last 10: 0-10)
Ryan leaned back into the worn-out couch in the living room, exhaling through his nose. The Roarers weren’t just bad—they were historically bad. That 0-10 skid in the last ten games? That was the kind of stat that got GMs fired.
The apartment door swung open, and Jamal barged in first, basketball tucked under his arm. He tossed it into the corner, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt with one hand. "So? How was day one?"
Ryan shrugged from the sagging couch. "Survivable." He paused. "Oh—headed to Emerald Bay with the team. First road trip’s the day after tomorrow."
Jamal’s eyes lit up. "No shit! Our boy’s debut!" He punched the air. "I’ll be there screaming your name!"
Kylie, trailing behind with grocery bags, stepped into the apartment. She snorted.
"It’s a thousand miles away. You got plane money? Or are you hopping on that junkyard bike of yours and riding there now?"
Jamal’s grin faltered. "...Next home game," he muttered, rubbing his neck. "Swear I’ll be there. No hard feelings, yeah?"
Ryan laughed. "Doesn’t matter. I probably won’t even play." Then, as if remembering: "Oh, and they’re doing a press conference for me tomorrow. Noon."
"Wait—what?" Kylie blinked. "You’re not exactly a blockbuster signing. Have they lost their minds?"
Jamal jumped in. "Means they believe in the kid—see the potential."
Kylie snorted. "Bullshit. Marcus didn’t get a presser when he signed. "
Ryan spread his hands. "Don’t ask me."
Kylie stalked forward and jabbed a finger into his chest. "What are you wearing?"
"Uh... the tees I bought yesterday?"
"Oh hell no." She yanked him up by the collar. "I’ve seen those pressers. It’s all suits and polished shoes. You are not embarrassing yourself."
Before he could argue, she was marching him back out the door.
Thirty minutes later, Ryan stood trapped in a department store fitting room.
The curtain ripped aside.
Black casual suit set: A tailored wool-blend jacket over a slate-gray henley, cropped trousers exposing just enough ankle, finished with sleek black loafers—polished but not stiff, like he’d grown up in this shit.
Kylie nodded, arms crossed. "Now that is how you show up to a press conference."