Coach Crawford snatched the tablet from the staffer, scanning the data as he stalked toward Ryan. Malik had let go, but stayed close, just in case. Ryan stood still, breathing steady now.
Crawford stopped in front of him, brows furrowed as he flicked through the report. Line after line passed—until something made him freeze.
"Blood alcohol content, point four percent?" His head snapped up, eyes sharp.
"You take a damn bath in whiskey last night?"
Ryan didn’t flinch. "Had a few too many. That’s all."
"A few?" Crawford shoved the tablet at him. "This reading could drop a fucking grizzly!" His eyes narrowed to surgical precision.
Ryan shook his head instantly. "No."
It was the truth—the guy who used to live in this body loved his booze, just not enough to call it an addiction.
Just found a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey last night and, in a moment of brilliance, decided to down the whole thing.
Coach Crawford locked eyes with Ryan, his stare sharp and unrelenting—like a human lie detector. It was a skill he’d honed over more than twenty years of coaching, one that had already exposed three drug-users on his teams.
Ryan didn’t blink. His gaze was flat, steady—like crosshairs on a target.
"Alright," Crawford said at last. "I’ll take your word for it."
Then he narrowed his eyes. "Wait a second... So that garbage fire of a shot earlier—that was from your hands shaking after booze poisoning?"
(A gift-wrapped excuse!)
Ryan hadn’t had the shakes, not even close. But if alcohol could take the fall, he wasn’t about to stop it."Yeah... still got the shakes," he said, layering just enough frustration into his voice. "I don’t usually shoot like that."
Crawford snapped his fingers at Miles.
"Get him to med. IV him—saline and glucose."
He turned back to Ryan, shaking his head. "Fucking miracle you’re alive with that blood alcohol level."
Ryan gave a faint smile. No miracle there—
The original owner had died.
Miles led Ryan out of the main practice court toward the med room.
"Keep running drills!" Crawford barked at the rest of the players, then left the court and headed upstairs.
Third floor. He barged into the GM’s office without knocking—twenty years of tenure meant he didn’t need to.
"Sig this kid," Crawford said, slamming the tablet onto GM Kevin Buth’s mahogany desk.
"Six-four height, six-eleven wingspan... weight’s seventy-nine kilos?" Buth squinted as he swiped through the tablet. "That’s way too light."
"Malnourished," Crawford shrugged. "Two months of our meal plan and some serious gym time, and he’ll bulk up fast."
Buth scrolled further in silence. "Vertical’s decent... speed’s average." His finger froze at the shooting stats. "What the hell is this trash percentage? And it’s incomplete?"
"I called it off," Crawford lifted his chin. "Shot was terrible. No point in finishing."
"And you still want to sign him?"
"Alcohol poisoning. Hands were shaking—just a bad night, not a drinking problem."
Buth pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Which college did he play for? Any past stats?"
"Street kid. No school. Never played organized ball."
The GM’s chair creaked as he leaned back, forehead creasing like a relief map. "You’ve lost your damn mind."
Crawford suddenly leaned in, his hands pressing down on the desk, casting a shadow over Buth. "Same shit you said when I wanted to sign Marcus Bryant."
The name hung in the air like championship banner. Marcus Bryant—the legend who’d come from the slums, won three championships in eight years, and changed the team’s history.
Buth was silent for a long while, then finally spoke. "You think... he could be the next Marcus?"
"I don’t know," Crawford replied bluntly. "But I see a little bit of Marcus in him."
Buth gave a tired smile. "You know what’s going on with this team. You want me to bet on some no-name street kid?"
Crawford slammed his fist on the desk, the coffee cup jumping as he shouted. "Then tell me this—what the hell have you been signing these past few years? It’s been getting worse every season! And those four rookies you just signed? They’re all benchwarmers from college! You think they can play in the ABA? They’re only good for handing out towels on the sidelines!"
Buth rubbed his forehead, a frustrated sigh escaping. "What can we do? No good players are joining us. And the owner’s made it clear—no more big money spent..."
"I’m just asking for a rookie minimum contract!" Crawford snapped, spit flecking the tablet screen.
"Or do I need to remind you who found Marcus while you were jerking off to combine metrics?"
Buth raised both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright... you win. You’ve got it your way."
Ryan slumped back in the med bay recliner, eyes locked on the label of the IV bag: Thiamine (B1) – Administer slowly.
It had been a few hours since he woke up in this world, and already another IV session. Still, his body felt far better than when he arrived.
"System," he muttered under his breath. "What’s my current sync rate?"
A holographic screen flickered to life in his vision:
[WESTBROOK CURRENT SYNC RATE: 65%]
Miles’ phone buzzed. He listened for a few seconds, then turned to Ryan. "Let’s go. Coach Crawford wants you to sign."
Ryan felt a flicker of excitement—he’d done it.
The medic disconnected the IV, and Ryan followed Miles up to the third floor. At the GM’s office door, Miles knocked twice, then stepped aside with a nod.
Inside, two pairs of eyes turned to him. Ryan walked in, calm as nightfall, his gaze steady.
"Have a seat," the GM said, sliding a contract across the desk. "One-year rookie deal. Non-guaranteed. Consider it a trial run. If you stick, we’ll talk again next season."
Crawford lingered by the window, silent, but gave a slight nod.
Ryan picked up the pen. He skimmed the paperwork—just enough to catch the number: $300,000. Good enough.
Crawford cleared his throat. "Questions?"
Ryan hesitated. "Yeah. Any chance of an... advance?"
The GM and Crawford exchanged a look.