Next up: the shooting test — six events in total.
First Event: Free Throws test — 10 attempts.
Ryan stepped to the free throw line. A training assistant arranged ten balls neatly at his feet—five to each side. He took a breath, picked up the first one, and raised it into position.
The form was textbook—Russell Westbrook’s signature high-set shot prep.
And that was exactly the problem.
"Goddammit..." he cursed inwardly.
Westbrook’s shooting was never reliable—even at his peak, he hovered just below league average. Now, with only 61% fusion, Ryan had the mechanics down cold... but not the body.
Longer arms. Broader shoulders. Different hand size. Muscle memory that didn’t match.
This wasn’t a matter of "adjusting." This was a matter of being fundamentally "misaligned."
- Elbow flare (15 degrees)
- Low release (forehead height)
- Guide hand slipping early
The ball sailed in a flat line.
The gym went dead silent. Even Darius froze, his mouth half-open.
Malik, the team’s center, cleared his throat.
"Actually, missing a shot because of nerves at the start is pretty normal, right?"
Lin nodded. "When I did the test, I missed the rim twice. My hands shook so badly, I thought I’d drop the ball."
Ryan heard their attempts to lighten the mood. He knew they meant well, but it only made the sting worse.
This wasn’t nerves. Sure, he was nervous—but worse, he knew this wasn’t just "off night" bad.
These movements weren’t his. They were someone else’s skin stretched over his bones, warping everything.
His arm jerked like a puppet on tangled strings—Westbrook’s kinetic chain fighting against his new frame’s proportions.
The ball hammered the backboard, ricocheting into the scorer’s table.
Darius finally snapped out of his shock, grinning. "Yo, Lin, congrats, your spot’s safe. This dude shoots like a T-Rex with Parkinson’s."
Ryan tried to adjust. His muscles locked up like corrupted code.
The ball hit the backboard again.
A few snickers leaked from the sidelines.
Finally—an actual arc.
Front rim. The sound made teeth ache.
BANG! CLANK! BANG! CLANK!
Then—miraculously—SWISH.
The tenth and final shot.
The tech table reported: "Free throws—10 attempts, 1 made."
Darius whistled. "This guy can’t shoot. Is he here to be the comic relief?"
Ryan’s face was pale, but Coach Crawford’s was downright ashen. He hadn’t anticipated just how disastrous Ryan’s shooting would be.
"Next drill—Off-the-Dribble Shooting!" Crawford barked, voice echoing through the gym.
The test was broken into three segments:
2. Pull-up Jumper After Cross-over
They were starting with the pull-up jumper. Five reps. Players had to drive from beyond the arc or mid-range, stop on a dime, and rise up into a shot. It was a test of explosiveness, body control, shooting balance, and rhythm.
Ryan stood at the three-point line, ball in hand, jaw clenched.
"Go!" Crawford roared.
Ryan took off with a hard right-handed dribble, driving toward the elbow, and locked his eyes on the rim.
"Violation. Time expired," the tech official said flatly.
Crawford exploded. "What the hell are you staring at?! Two seconds to pull-up and shoot! That’s the drill!"
Darius broke into laughter, slapping the hardwood. "This dude’s a walking joke!"
Ryan’s face twitched, lips pressed into a line. He said nothing.
Ryan gritted his teeth and took off—hard dribble, shoulder dipped, quick burst to the elbow. Stop. Gather.
The motion was textbook Westbrook: left foot plant, both legs snapping straight like a piston, body shooting up vertical with the ball held high above his head.
The arc looked clean.
But the ball sailed right past the rim. Airball.
Darius lost it, doubling over. "Lin! You see that? Looked like one of those hopping zombie from your kung fu movies." He mimicked a hopping zombie, arms rigid.
Lin kept quiet. Ryan’s fists clenched around the ball, fury flaring in his eyes—only to be smothered a second later by something heavier.
Ryan’s third attempt—BANG!—the ball slammed against the side of the backboard.
Fourth try—CLANK! The sound of iron rang through the gym like a gunshot.
His face was stone. Without a word, he walked beneath the hoop, scooped up the ball, and turned to head back behind the arc for his final rep. He took one step.
Coach Crawford’s voice cut through the air—low, tight, barely holding back.
"Testing’s over for today."
Then Darius chuckled, loud and obnoxious.
"Congrats, man—first guy in franchise history to get his tryout shut down mid-drill!"
His head came up slowly. His grip tightened on the ball. One step back—
And then he exploded upward.
A two-handed reverse dunk that shook the entire backboard. Ryan hung from the rim,
veins bulging, eyes locked on Darius like a predator zeroed in. His throat let loose a guttural roar.
The entire gym froze in shock.
Ryan finally dropped down from the rim, landing with the finality of a guillotine.
Then he started walking toward Darius—slow, heavy steps that echoed like drumbeats.
"Fight me," he spat, his voice full of rage.
Darius shot to his feet, his teammates scrambling to their feet in a hurry, stumbling as they stood.
"Chill, man, come on—" Darius stammered, hands raised.
"I’m done with your shit." Ryan charged.
Then Malik—seven feet tall and built like a wall—stepped in, arms out, locking Ryan in a bear hug before he could lunge.
"Easy, bro. Not ," Malik said through gritted teeth.
Darius had already slipped back, far out of reach. The smirk was gone.
The metal side door burst open.
A staffer in an official tracksuit strode in, holding a tablet.
Coach Crawford looked up. His eyes shifted to Ryan, who was still fuming, his chest rising with every breath.
"Your medical evaluation just came in," Crawford said, voice cold.