The elevator chimed as the doors slid open onto the third floor of the Iron City Roarers Training Center. Ryan stepped out, his sneakers quiet against the plush carpet. Beside him, assistant coach Miles kept stealing glances, like he was escorting a stray dog that might pee on the rug at any moment.
The hallway was painted a sober steel-blue, the walls lined with framed photographs—legends mid-air, throwing down dunks, screaming in victory, and lifting golden trophies high above their heads.
Miles gave a soft knock on the heavy office door.
"Come in."
Ryan stepped inside.
Robert "Bobby" Crawford’s office smelled like cigar smoke and old victories. The coach sat behind a desk littered with scouting reports, his gnarled fingers forming a steeple. The man’s gaze could strip paint.
Up close, Bobby finally saw what he hadn’t from the court. The kid had the bones of a player—six-five without shoes—but his frame carried the gauntness of a POW. His hair was matted, and his clothes reeked of alley grime and cheap liquor.
"I’m Robert Crawford," Bobby said evenly. "Head coach of the Roarers." A beat. "You are...?"
"Ryan Carter. Twenty-two."
Bobby gave a slow nod. "I saw you out there earlier. Not bad. What college did you play for?"
Ryan’s tongue darted over cracked lips. "I... didn’t go to college."
"High school?"
Ryan looked the coach dead in the eye. "Never went to school. Never played organized ball."
The room went quiet, heavy. For a second, it felt like the air stopped moving.
Bobby’s frown deepened. "You joking?"
"I’m not."
Bobby’s pupils flicked, a sign he was recalculating everything. In his years coaching, he’d seen plenty of kids with rough backgrounds—but this? A street rat with ABA-level footwork claiming zero formal training?
"So where’d you learn those crossovers, those drives, that dunk?" Bobby asked, suspicion cutting through his voice like a blade.
Ryan hesitated, Adam’s apple bobbing.
He caught sight of a photo on the wall. It was an old snapshot: Bobby standing at center court, one hand resting on the shoulder of a towering player. The man wore a Roarers jersey, his muscles chiseled like stone, a faint smile on his lips, and eyes that radiated the undeniable aura of a king.
Ryan recognized him instantly. Marcus Bryant—an ABA legend, the undisputed king of the Roarers.
Inspiration flashed through his mind like lightning.
"I’m a Marcus Bryant fan. I was... imitating him."
A lie. Flimsy as the sleeves hanging off his narrow shoulders.
"Bullshit," Bobby muttered.
No one just imitates moves like that. What Ryan had shown out there—those handles, those dunks—you don’t pull that off without years of grinding. No way.
Ryan’s body went taut, like a wire pulled too tight.
Bobby didn’t press further. Instead, he turned to Myles. "Take him for an evaluation."
Myles nodded, motioning for Ryan to follow.
"Wait." Bobby raised a hand, sniffed the air, and grimaced. "Shower first. Get him some real clothes. This is a basketball facility, not a shelter."
Ryan’s stomach chose that moment to growl loud enough to rattle the championship trophies in their cases. "Can I eat first? It’s been over a day since I had anything."
He wasn’t lying. The body’s previous owner had gone a full day without food, then downed a bottle of rotgut on an empty stomach—and died of alcohol poisoning.
Bobby looked at him for a long beat, then let out a slow breath. "Fine. Feed him something decent. Testing’s in an hour."
————
Ryan stood barefoot on the cold tile of the locker room, overhead lights casting a clinical glare that seemed determined to expose every trace of the life he’d just left behind. He peeled off the reeking T-shirt—something between mildew and booze—and tossed it into the laundry bin with a dull slap.
The shower roared to life. Hot water hit him like a freight train, steaming over his shoulders, his chest, his face. For a moment, it felt like it might wash away someone else entirely.
He caught his reflection in the fogged-up mirror across the room. At first, just a blur. Then he wiped it clean and looked—really looked—for the first time.
The face staring back had sharp cheekbones, a blade-straight nose, and the faintest shadow of stubble. Not bad-looking at all—if you ignored the prison-camp thinness.
He tilted his head, smirked a little.
"Not bad," he muttered. "Little bit of a Steph Curry vibe."
He changed into standard Roarers training gear: crisp white T-shirt, slate-blue shorts, and a fresh pair of sneakers that still smelled like the factory floor.
Outside, Miles leaned against the hallway wall, checking his watch. When he looked up and saw Ryan, his eyebrows lifted.
"Well, now you actually look like a basketball player," he said. "Come on. Time to eat."
They walked into the player cafeteria on the second floor of the training center. Bright, open space.
"Give him a base plate," Miles called to the kitchen staff. Then, eyeing Ryan’s lanky frame, added, "Double carbs, but keep the portion sane. Don’t need him keeling over."
A few minutes later, the food arrived: grilled chicken breast, quinoa, roasted vegetables, and a small cup of protein shake.
"Don’t expect a five-star meal," Miles said.
Ryan didn’t care. He was starving. The kind of hunger that makes anything taste amazing. He devoured everything in minutes, licking the protein shake off the rim of the cup like it was dessert.
Miles let him eat in peace, arms folded, watching silently.
When Ryan finally leaned back, stomach full for the first time in a while, Myles clapped him on the shoulder.
"Twenty minutes. Rest. Then we hit the eval room."
Twenty minutes later, he checked his watch again and stood.
"Let’s go. Time to see what you’re made of."