The press conference wrapped up just as the jersey was unveiled.
Ryan raised the No. 0 jersey with his name printed across the back, flanked by GM Kevin Buth on his left and Coach Crawford on his right.
The flashbulbs exploded like a lightning storm. It was the shot every outlet wanted—tomorrow’s headlines practically wrote themselves: "Roarers Find Their Next Marcus", "The Heir to Marcus Vows Rookie of the Year", and other variations of the same media fantasy.
Ryan slid into the passenger seat of Crawford’s luxury sedan afterward. The old coach stayed silent. The car’s radio, however, had plenty to offer—local sports talk shows were roasting the "cocky rookie" nonstop.
"Turn it off," Ryan reached for the dial.
Crawford slapped his hand away. "Let it play. I want you to remember every damn word."
Back at the Roarers Training Center, Ryan checked the time—still had a window. He changed into his workout gear and headed straight for the gym, determined to finish the strength session he had skipped earlier that morning.
At exactly 2 PM, the door burst open.
Miles leaned in. "Coach says if you’re not out in five, I’m throwing you in a duffel bag and checking you with the luggage."
Ryan laughed, grabbed a quick shower, and joined the rest of the team in the parking lot. Everyone was already gathered. The equipment manager had loaded their gear—uniforms, backup kits, recovery ice tubs—into the luggage bay of the Roarers’ dark blue team bus, the lion logo gleaming in the sun.
Ryan picked a window seat.
Then Darius plopped down beside him.
"Rookie of the Year? Bold." Darius smirked, loud enough for the whole bus to hear.
"Oh?" Ryan smirked. "Didn’t you post a video five years ago claiming you were the GOAT and could cook anyone?"
Laughter erupted across the aisle. Darius scratched the back of his head. "That... was a long time ago," he muttered, before relocating to another seat.
The bus rolled out, bound for Iron City International Airport. The Roarers’ charter jet was already waiting on the tarmac. Players and staff boarded in order, heading to their next stop: Emerald Bay, where tomorrow night’s game would tip off at 9:30 PM.
Ryan caught some sleep on the two-hour flight. When they landed, the heat hit him first—Emerald Bay was a few degrees warmer than Iron City, with heavy sea air that clung to the skin.
A private shuttle took the team to the Royal Palms Hotel, a five-star spot overlooking the harbor. Each player got his own room.
Ryan had barely flopped onto the bed when someone knocked.
He opened the door to find Miles.
"Team dinner’s at 8. You’re free until then, but no leaving the hotel."
At 8 sharp, the hotel banquet hall had been transformed into a temporary dining room. The spread was curated by the team’s nutritionists—grilled chicken breasts, brown rice, steamed vegetables. Clean fuel. After dinner, Coach Crawford called everyone in for a 30-minute strategy session. Tomorrow’s game plan, responsibilities, rotations.
Next morning: 8:30 AM team breakfast.
Afterwards, the team boarded a shuttle to Harbor Crown Center, home of the Lumina. The Roarers were granted a 10–11 AM window for shootaround. Crawford worked with the starters and core rotation guys on set plays. The rookies, including Ryan, stuck to shooting drills.
Back at the hotel for lunch, Ryan slipped into the hotel gym and risked a low-intensity gym session—just 30 minutes.
He opened the system screen.
[WESTBROOK CURRENT SYNC RATE: 72.4%]
"The hell? Decimals?" Two days of grinding for 0.4%? At this rate, full sync would take months.
At 7:30 PM sharp, the Roarers boarded the shuttle bus and rolled toward Harbor Crown Center. The shuttle bus rolled through neon-lit streets, passing clusters of Lumina fans in seafoam-blue jerseys.
By 8:30 PM, the visiting locker room was noticeably more modest than the home side’s. The cramped space smelled of antiseptic and stale sweat. The players changed and began their systematic dynamic stretches while trainers slapped kinesio tape on their joints.
At 9:00 PM, it was time to hit the court for warm-ups.
The arena lights cut to black—then a bass drop hit like thunder.
Spotlights whipped across the stands as the DJ cranked the volume, a pulse-pounding beat shaking the hardwood.
A single white beam locked onto center court, blazing like a stage light.
The tunnel erupted as Ryan and his teammates burst out, swallowed by the roar of 20,000 fans. Lumina’s crowd had clearly heard about Ryan’s "Rookie of the Year" claim — every time he touched the ball during warm-ups, the stands erupted with deliberate boos and jeers.
Darius came up beside Ryan. "They’re way out of line. I’ll crush their team and cook their top dog—Lamar—just for you."
Ryan nodded. "Thanks, man."
The referee’s whistle cut through the noise as the starters—Darius, Malik, Lin, Kamara, and Gibson—walked to midcourt. Ryan sat tight on the bench, his fists clenched without realizing it.
The game clock beeped sharply.
The third-quarter buzzer sounded.
Darius didn’t crush Lumina. He didn’t cook Lamar.
And the Roarers? They got crushed.
Every quarter had been a blowout:
Denver vs. Thunder Game 6 — Go Westbrook!
Hopefully, this won’t be Westbrook’s last game of the season.