At precisely 8:00 AM, the main gym doors swung open. Coach Crawford entered like a storm front, flanked by five assistants clutching clipboards. The players automatically formed a semicircle, sneakers squeaking against the hardwood.
"First order of business," Crawford rasped, his voice rough from years of barking orders. "Sam is cut. Ryan Carter's officially one of us now."
No one looked surprised. Sam, last season's rookie, barely saw ten minutes of game time across three forgettable appearances before Crawford benched him indefinitely. The four current rookies exchanged glances, their postures stiffening. The message was clear: underperform, and you're next.
Crawford's eyes cut to Ryan like a blade. "How's the body? Still need the IVs?"
Ryan rolled his shoulders, the motion fluid. "Cleaned out."
Crawford gave a slight nod, then clapped once—loud and sharp. "Warm-up!"
The gym roared to life. Sneakers squeaked, balls bounced, players fell into practiced dynamic stretches. Another day, another grind.
Warm-up faded into strength and conditioning.
Barbells clanged.
Squats. Deadlifts. Bench presses. Push-up variations. Weighted sleds.
Then came explosiveness drills—box jumps, depth jumps, vert leaps, medicine ball slams.
Endurance wrapped it up: ski erg, variable-speed sprints, high-intensity intervals.
Ninety minutes in, Crawford finally called for a breather.
"Grab water," he barked. "Five minutes."
Players collapsed onto benches, drenched in sweat.
Crawford's gaze cut across the court and landed on Ryan. "You're at the two-guard spot."
Ryan wiped his mouth. "Actually... can I try point?"
Across the court, Darius' head snapped up like a hound catching a scent.
Crawford's brow twitched. Truth was, he liked Ryan at the two. That was Marcus' old spot—and in Ryan, he caught a flicker of the same spark—and wondered if that position was ready for a second legend.
But he respected Ryan's choice.
"Alright," he said after a beat. "Let's see what you've got at point."
Scrimmage time. Half-court, five-on-zero sets—motion runs, spacing drills.
Then fast-break reps: 3-on-2, 2-on-1 transitions, touch passes on the move.
What followed was a masterclass in controlled chaos:
- 5v0 sets where Ryan zigged when he should've zagged
- 3v2 fastbreaks where he passed to phantom cutters
- Horns sets that collapsed like a house of cards
Yet through every botched play, Crawford stayed eerily patient. No clipboard spikes. No vein-popping rants. Just calm corrections—a stark contrast to how he eviscerated others for minor mistakes.
What Ryan didn't know: Marcus, when he first showed up, had been a complete mess too. Couldn't run a set to save his life.
Crawford remembered.
And maybe, just maybe, he saw something again.
Practice ran until noon. The sharp blast of the whistle cut through the gym, and players staggered to a stop, towels slung over their shoulders as they trudged toward the player cafeteria in loose clusters.
Inside, each player picked up a personalized tray—portions meticulously calculated down to the gram, tailored to their individual caloric and macronutrient needs by the team's nutrition staff.
Ryan pulled out a chair. Waiting across from him were Eileen, the team's lead nutritionist, and Ben, his strength coach. A tablet lay between them, displaying his latest body scan and composition readout.
Eileen tapped the numbers. "You're six-four, seventy-nine kilos. Given your current state—undernourished, muscle-depleted—we're looking at a rapid replenishment phase. If you stick to the system, we're aiming to get you up to eighty-nine kilos within two months."
She slid over a printed menu with fluorescent highlights:
Lunch: 200g grilled salmon (for omega-3 recovery), 150g brown rice (complex carbs), 2 boiled eggs (whole), and a spinach salad dressed with olive oil.
Post-workout: within 30 minutes—whey protein shake with banana and almond butter. ~600 kcal.
"Kitchen's already prepped your meals," she added, passing him another page. "Breakfast and dinner macros are listed. Stick to them. No deviations."
Before Ryan could finish scanning, Ben shoved a third sheet at him. "Two-hour daily strength blocks. This is your split." Ryan gave it a cursory nod, but his mind was elsewhere.
89 kilos? That was still lighter than Westbrook's 91—and Ryan had two inches on him. At that weight, the system's fusion might cap at 90% efficiency. He'd need to push further. 100 kilos. Minimum.
After lunch, he rested until 1 PM, then returned for shooting drills.
When the clock hit two, Coach Crawford clapped his hands. "Two days from now, we're in Emerald Bay for an away game," he said. "So tomorrow's light: one hour on-court, one hour film and strategy."
Ryan's pulse jumped. His first away trip.
The excitement hadn't even faded when it hit him—how many games had the ABA even played? And where did the Roarers stand?