"Here." Miles shoved a thick envelope into Ryan's hands. "Ten grand. Don't lose it."
Ryan thumbed the wad of bills—thicker than dollars, the strange raised numerals biting into his fingertips. He didn't recognize the face on the currency, but the weight in his palm was universal. Money talks, no matter the world.
He slid the envelope into his pocket.
Miles continued, "Also, let's sort out your jersey number. What do you want?"
Without hesitation, Ryan answered, "Zero."
He had the Russell Westbrook power, after all, so zero was the only choice—the number that spoke to Westbrook's prime.
"Alright, zero it is," Miles nodded. "No one's wearing it."
"Where will I stay? Is there a players' dorm?" Ryan asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The league doesn't handle housing," Miles glanced at his watch. "Now that you've got the cash, you'll have to figure it out. Be back here tomorrow at eight in the morning for check-in."
As Ryan walked out of the Roarers Training Center, he couldn't quite figure out where to stay. The problem of housing loomed over him.
Ryan wandered aimlessly down the block, his throat dry, mouth like sandpaper. A corner convenience store caught his eye. He ducked inside, hit by a blast of cool air. Grabbing a bottle of water, he made his way to the counter.
"Yo! My guy!"
A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.
Ryan turned—and there he was. Jamal. The same dude who once lost a one-on-one so bad he offered to lick Ryan's bloody nose.
"So?" Jamal grabbed a pack of gummies from the shelf, tearing it open with his teeth. "Roarers give you a shot?"
Ryan twisted the cap off his water. "Tried out. Made it. One-year non-guaranteed rookie deal."
"No shit!" Jamal choked on a gummy. "Bro, I'm telling people I know an ABA star!"
"I don't even know if I'll get to play," Ryan said first. "Let's not crown me just yet." He took a long drink. The water hit his throat like relief in a bottle. Then another thought hit him. "Hey… I'm looking for a place to crash."
Jamal's eyes lit up like slot machines. "Say no more. You're crashing with me."
Twenty minutes later, Ryan stood in front of a rundown apartment building. The outer wall looked like it had been in a fight and lost—chunks of paint peeled away, revealing concrete scars. Inside, the elevator panel was missing two buttons, and someone had jammed gum into another. Jamal casually banged the 7 button with his fist.
"Welcome to the palace," he said, shoulder-checking the door to unit 702 until it creaked open.
To Ryan's surprise, the place wasn't half bad. Yeah, the furniture had seen better decades—coffee table scratched to hell, the couch's corners frayed like overworked elbows, and the fridge wore a jacket of sticky notes. The TV was propped up on stacks of magazines. Still, everything had a place. No trash, no clutter, just...lived-in.
"Didn't peg you for the tidy type," Ryan said, brushing his fingers over a dust-free remote.
"My sister's magic." Jamal kicked off his sneakers. "It's just me and her here."
Jamal opened one of the three doors off the main room, revealing a storage space crammed with boxes, deflated basketballs, and a pump. A folded mattress leaned against the wall.
"If you're cool with it, clean this up and it's yours."
"And rent?" Ryan raised a brow.
Jamal scratched his head, then waved it off. "Forget rent. Bros don't charge bros."
Jamal hadn't studied economics, but he understood investment. If Ryan made it big—even as a benchwarmer—he'd remember who gave him a roof. And Jamal? He knew Ryan would make it.
Ryan didn't turn down Jamal's offer—just gave a quiet nod. If Jamal turned out to be a decent guy, maybe someday he'd pay it forward when things weren't so tight.
Just then, a bedroom door clicked open. A girl in an oversized T-shirt stepped out, maybe fifteen or sixteen, eyeing Ryan with quiet suspicion.
"My sister—Kylie," Jamal said offhandedly.
Ryan offered her a polite smile. "Hey."
She gave him a quick once-over, expression unreadable.
"This is Ryan. He's crashing with us for a bit," Jamal said to his sister.
Kylie's face darkened immediately. Her brows pulled together like storm clouds. "Nope. Not happening. You bringing your idiot friends over for a night is bad enough—now you want one to move in?"
The tension hit hard. Ryan shifted awkwardly, not sure where to look.
Jamal quickly pointed at the Roarers training gear Ryan was still wearing. "Look! That's the Roarers logo. He just signed as a rookie—future ABA star. Just crashing here for a bit, promise. He'll have his own mansion soon enough."
Kylie's eyes locked on the patch. Her whole demeanor shifted like a switch flipped. She blinked, then gave Ryan another look—this time more appraising than annoyed. "What position?"
Ryan blinked. That came out of nowhere. "Uh… coach hasn't said yet. Probably point guard?"
Kylie stepped closer, holding up her hands like she was measuring him. "Six-three? Six-four?"
"Six-four barefoot," Ryan replied.
Kylie gave a little nod. "Not bad."
She turned and walked back to her room, saying over her shoulder, "There are clean sheets in the cabinet in your room. The water heater takes ten minutes."
As she turned, Ryan caught the print on the back of her T-shirt—someone in mid-dunk, back view, wearing a Roarers jersey. Number 1. Marcus.
The door shut behind her. Jamal leaned in with a smirk. "She's a basketball junkie. Marcus is her idol."
Ryan huffed a laugh. That explained the whiplash.
————
By the time Ryan finished organizing the room, dusk had settled in and shadows stretched long across the walls.
(Oh—and Kylie had insisted on helping make the bed. Practically shoved him aside to do it herself.)
Dusting off his pants, Ryan turned to the siblings with a grin. "Alright. Let's go grab some essentials. Dinner's on me."
————
The western mall glowed like a circuit board coming to life, neon signs flickering on as they walked in. Jamal led them through the routine first: towels, toiletries, even a pack of disposable razors. Next door, Ryan grabbed a few solid-colored shirts—nothing flashy, just durable cotton that could survive daily wear.
Then came the sports store.
Ryan stopped cold in front of the basketball shoes. Row after row of them. He ran his fingers along the laces and soles, until his hand paused on a pair—white with gold accents, low-top, and a small "Marcus · #1" stitched into the tongue.
That was the one. He didn't bother looking further. Team gear would cover the rest.
When he glanced back, Jamal and Kylie were standing at a nearby rack, admiring the Roarers' jerseys—specifically, the #1 Marcus editions. Kylie was running her fingers over the stitching like it was holy. Jamal had a look on his face like he was ten years old again.
Ryan walked over. "How about one each? My treat."
Kylie's face lit up like she'd won the lottery. Jamal whooped, clutching his like a relic: "My first legit jersey!"
————
They ended the night at a nice little restaurant, low lighting, decent ambiance.
Kylie poked at her flambéed dessert, the waiter's torch still lingering over the caramelized crust. "Never eaten anything that came with a show."
Over dinner, the conversation drifted.
Ryan learned the ABA consisted of 20 teams divided into Eastern and Western Conferences, with each team playing a 76-game regular season (home and away against every opponent twice). The Roarers' golden era began 15 years ago when Marcus joined - they won their first championship in his sophomore season, ultimately capturing three titles during his eight-year tenure with the team.
But ever since Marcus died in a car crash seven years back, things spiraled. The Roarers hadn't made the playoffs once in the past five seasons, bottoming out in the West year after year.
Ryan frowned. Something wasn't adding up.
"Wait," he said, setting down his fork. "Five straight years at the bottom? Shouldn't they have top draft picks by now? At least one first overall?"
Jamal and Kylie blinked at each other.
"What's a draft pick?" Kylie asked.
Silence.
Ryan stared. Slowly, pieces began to click into place.
From what he pieced together, this version of the ABA didn't have a draft system—no structured entry, no balancing mechanisms.
No structured way for the weak to rebuild.
Either you got lucky—like the Roarers once did, with Marcus appearing out of nowhere—or you paid through the nose trying to catch up.
Ryan glanced down at his new sneakers. The tiny gold "1" on the tongue caught the light.
He was starting to realize: whatever league he'd walked into… it made the NBA back home look merciful.
*******
P/S:Finished writing this chapter during halftime of Nuggets vs. Thunder G4. Now I can focus on the second half.
36-42
What a terrible 1st half.
Westbrook's awful shooting percentage is just like what I wrote in Chapter 6...