The Roarers were flying home first this time—straight back to Iron City. Their next game wasn’t until Wednesday, giving them a rare four-day gap.
The Vipers matchup had been a 5:30 PM tip-off, so by the time Ryan made it back to Unit 702, it was just past midnight. Jamal and Kylie were still awake, waiting. They dragged him out for a "40-Piece Triple-Double Celebration Meal."
They didn’t go anywhere fancy—just hit up a 24-hour burger joint a few blocks away. Greasy fries, salty nuggets, milkshakes too thick for the straws. But that wasn’t the point.
It had only been a week since they last saw each other, but it felt longer. Between the travel, the press, the rising buzz around Ryan’s name, he hadn’t had a second to breathe. Sitting there, surrounded by the Miller siblings’ usual banter and sarcasm, he felt something close to normal again. Like family.
Sunday. The team had the day off. Ryan did not.
Ryan was up before 9. By 9:30, Eddie—his agent—was already knocking on the door with a folder full of contracts.
"Seven brand proposals," Eddie said as he sat on the couch, spreading the papers across the coffee table. "Two of them are five-year deals, each worth over a million. All seven want your signature before Friday."
Ryan blinked. "Seven?"
Eddie grinned. "You’re hot right now. Triple-double hot. Rookie Rising Stars hot. Remember those first five deals we rushed into? Those brands are still counting their blessings."
He fanned the papers out like a blackjack dealer—snacks, drinks, supplements, even a crypto ad. Everyone wanted a piece of the rising star.
He wasn’t wrong. Since Ryan’s breakout, his market value had practically doubled. Those early endorsement contracts were starting to look like Wall Street theft—in the brands’ favor.
By noon, they had arrived at Eddie Sports Management. Two representatives from Vantix.
The first, Gavin Whitaker, was all polish—tailored designer suit, patent loafers, and the kind of cologne you notice before you see the man. He was the Head of Marketing & Brand Strategy, with the practiced confidence of someone who’d pitched in boardrooms since business school.
The second, Damon Ruiz, couldn’t have been more different. Hoodie, joggers, and a tablet tucked under his arm—he was Vantix’s Lead Footwear Performance Engineer, the guy responsible for making sure every ounce of foam, thread, and plate did exactly what it was supposed to.
Gavin Whitaker leaned forward, fingers steepled.
"Look, I know we agreed to wait until after the East Coast trip to shoot the Apex campaign. But let’s call it what it is—three games, three wins. One double-double, two triple-doubles. And now, the Rising Stars nod?"
He spread his hands like a magician revealing the finale.
"We’d be crazy not to strike while the iron’s hot. Let’s get the promo shoot done first thing tomorrow."
Eddie’s eyes flicked to Ryan, who shrugged. "Let’s do it." As long as it doesn’t mess with practice or games, he thought. Can’t piss off the money train.
Whitaker snapped his fingers—a sound like a whip crack.
"Perfect. Three o’clock tomorrow. We’ll have the main court at Iron Vault reserved—no events, no conflicts. Once you’re done at the training center, just head over. The setup will be ready."
The man was a pro. Every detail had already been handled.
Whitaker added, "Oh—and we’re bringing Sloan in tomorrow too."
Ryan had almost forgotten—Sloan was also signed with Vantix.
"Just as a secondary piece," Whitaker said casually. "He’s there to complement you, nothing more."
"If he shows up strong," Whitaker went on, "maybe the two of you become Vantix’s twin stars in the Roarers. That’d be ideal."
Ryan gave a small smile. "He’s solid. That day might come."
Then it was Damon Ruiz’s turn. He pulled up a 3D model of the Apex on his tablet.
"You’ve got four games in these already," he said, tapping the screen. "Give it to me straight—traction? Energy return?"
Ryan rotated his ankle, recalling the feel: "Solid overall. But the burst isn’t there. Like I’m pushing through wet sand on first steps."
Ruiz scribbled a quick note on his sketchpad.
"Alright—if we’re chasing explosiveness, we can tweak the angle on the PEX-Lite... uh, that’s the propulsion plate we use under the forefoot. Just a five-degree forward tilt should give you more toe-off burst without messing with stability."
Ruiz flipped a page. "Anything else?"
Ryan paused. "The heel. It’s not painful or anything—it just... feels stiff. Doesn’t contour when I land. Little floaty, like it’s not locking all the way in."
Ruiz’s pen didn’t stop. "Heel lockdown’s tuned for high-performance right now. But for your movement style? I can trim the foam in the back collar, give it a subtle inward slope. We’ll also layer in an LC01 spandex-backed wrap around the Achilles—locks you in, no bulk."
Ryan nodded along, only half understanding the tech jargon. "Sounds good."
Ruiz tapped his pen. "Anything else?"
"Alright," Ruiz said. "Then we’re ready to start work on your custom PE. Should take about two months."
He swiped across the screen, bringing up eight colorways of the Apex line. "These are the standard colorways we’ve got right now—unless you’ve got something custom in mind?"
Ryan hesitated, then the image hit him: a flash of red, bold and loud. Bright Crimson.
That shoe—his WhyNot Zer0.6s—he’d worn them to the Western Conference Semis, Game 1: OKC vs. Denver.
The last night of his past life. He was hit by a car and died.
"Bright Crimson," he said.
Ruiz tapped through the color library, then angled the tablet toward him. "Here—pick the exact shade you want."
He paused, eyes still on the screen. "What I really want is to build your signature—Vantix’s first in the ABA."
He’d been tracking it closely. Four games since the contract was signed, and already, six performance clauses were in play.
One triple-double—check.
One 40-point game—check.
Twenty-minute average floor time? Already at 25 and climbing, especially with Darius about to get suspended. That one was basically guaranteed.
Three down. Just two more to go.