5:57 AM.
The thud of a basketball hitting the back iron echoed through the cold morning air, startling a few sparrows off the sagging power lines above. Ryan exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling under the dim floodlight that stretched his shadow past the three-point arc.
The alcohol was long gone from his blood.
[WESTBROOK CURRENT SYNC RATE: 72%]
He pinched the inside of his upper arm—still too lean.
That missing 28%? He knew exactly how to earn it. Build this body up. Muscle by muscle, rep by rep.
He'd forced himself up early, back to the same street court where he'd gone one-on-one with Jamal the day before.
This time, every shot was about syncing his body to Westbrook's mechanics—the lift, the release, the torque behind each motion.
He stepped back to the free-throw line, took a breath. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. Elbow tucked. Release.
Swish.
Again.
Swish.
It was starting to click. The shooting form, the rhythm, the energy transfer—he was beginning to feel it. It wasn't perfect yet, but it was miles ahead of yesterday's shaky attempts.
And so he kept going. Shot after shot, rep after rep.
An hour and a half passed like that.
After nailing a step-back jumper, he finally let himself rest. He sat on the edge of the cracked concrete court, breathing deep, sweat dripping from his chin.
He pulled out the phone he bought last night after dinner—cheap, no apps, just the essentials. Notes app open.
[Free Throws: 61 / 100
Pull-up Jumper 10/20
Pull-up Jumper After Cross-over 9/20]
He added a new line.
[Step-back Shot: 7 / 20]
Three-pointer? ... Not attempted today, as he didn't want to disrupt the newly established muscle memory for mid-range shooting.
7:28 AM blinked back at him. Time to move.
Ryan wiped his face with his shirt, grabbed his hoodie, and headed toward Roarers Training Center.
First official day as a pro.
————
7:43 AM. Ryan pushed open the side door to the main practice court.
The squeak of sneakers against the rubber flooring echoed through the vast, empty gym—someone was already on the court.
Inside the paint, Malik was working on soft floaters near the rim.
Beyond the arc, in the deep corner, an Asian player was calmly knocking down three after three—Lin.
Ryan had done his homework the night before, digging through every available bit of information on his new teammates. He knew who they were—on paper, at least.
Malik Jefferson - 36 years old. 7'0". Veteran center.
He averaged 12.5 points and 7.1 rebounds last season—numbers that were a shadow of his prime: 22.2 and 14.9, back when he owned the paint.
He joined the Roarers 14 years ago, playing a key role in supporting Marcus during their three championship runs.
Three rings. Five All-Star appearances. One Defensive Player of the Year award.
But the last four seasons had not been kind. The decline wasn't gradual—it was a cliff.
Ronny Lin - 27.
6'0", shooting guard, pure perimeter threat.
Eight years ago, he took home Rookie of the Year. Feels like a lifetime now.
Career average: 12.8 points per game with a 39% clip from deep.
But everyone still talked about his rookie year—23.1 points a night and a mind-bending 58% from three.
Then came the moment.
Eastern Conference Finals. Series tied 1-1. Game 3.(Best-of-three ABA playoffs.) Down by one. Ten seconds left.
Wide open.
Caught the pass.
Passed on the mid-range look.
Stepback three. Clanged off the rim.
Season over.
Critics tore him apart. Confidence cracked.
He drifted from team to team, his numbers plummeting. Two years ago, the Roarers picked him up on a vet-min deal.
The squeak of sneakers stopped as Malik and Lin spotted Ryan entering.
"Didn't think the team would actually sign you," Malik said with a small smirk. "Congrats."
"We're teammates now," the shooter said with a curt nod. "Name's Ronny Lin. Ronny or Lin's fine—whichever you prefer."
"Ryan."
"Malik." The big man's introduction was interrupted by the door banging open.
Two starting players walked in:
Tariq Gibson - all 6'11" of him. Thirty-seven years old and still clinging to the league.
He'd joined the Roarers eight years ago as a benchwarmer and somehow managed to coast to a championship ring.
When Marcus died and the team fractured—most players scattering to new contracts—Tariq got bumped into the starting lineup.
His stats? Not worth quoting. Just a run-of-the-mill backup power forward forced into a role too big for him.
Kyle Kamara - 6'9", 30 years old. The league's most inconsistent flamethrower. Capable of dropping 30 on any given night—or going 0-for-everything in 20 minutes of court time. His specialty? The legendary "five zeros" stat line: 0 points, 0 rebounds, 0 assists, 0 steals, 0 blocks. A walking paradox.
Then came two more—swingmen from the main rotation.
Jeremy Sloan - 22 years old, 6'8". Couldn't shoot to save his life, but the guy vacuumed rebounds like he was built for it. More often than not, he'd finish games with more boards than points.
Stanley Freeman - 28 years old, 6'5". Defense so gritty you could pave roads with it. Shot so broken they should ban him from the three-point line.
And finally, the rookies.
Four of them, all new signings. With less than two minutes of average playing time—mostly in garbage time—Ryan simply hadn't learned their names yet.
Ryan worked his way through the roster, exchanging nods and fist bumps—until the gym doors crashed open.
Darius strutted in, his neon-green hair practically glowing under the arena lights.
Darius Vaughn - 29 years old. 6'3". Point guard.
He'd joined the Roarers late last season.
Career average: 23.6 points per game.
Easily the highest-caliber player the Roarers had signed in the past five years.
So how did they land him?
His contract had expired with his last team. They passed on re-signing him. No one else around the league was willing to offer him a max deal.
He became untouchable—until the Roarers stepped in and picked him up on a near-max.
Why the hesitation?
He was a handful.
Trash-talked opponents, sure—but also his own teammates. Even coaches.
Picked up technicals like candy. Ejections, suspensions.
Clashed with team rules more than once.
Now, seeing Ryan, Darius came to a halt. His expression flickered—half surprise, half wariness.
Ryan offered him a calm, easy smile. "Ryan," he said. "Looks like we're teammates now."
With that, the Roarers' full 12-man roster stood assembled on the main practice court.
(The ABA team consists of 12 players.)