The next morning, the Iron City Roarers wrapped up a light practice on the main practice court—an hour of rhythm shooting, a quick offensive walkthrough, and up-tempo transition drills. Afterward, the team was directed upstairs to the film room on the second floor of the Roarers Training Center.
The space was purpose-built for tactical breakdowns—dim lighting, three wall-mounted HD screens across the front, and a large interactive touchscreen board in the center. Players filed into tiered seating, each chair equipped with flip-down desks and headset jacks.
The coaching staff stood at the front—Coach Crawford centered, flanked by two assistants manning the playback controls and analytics feeds.
The main screen lit up with clips of Friday's opponent: the Emerald Bay Lumina.
"Emerald Bay," Crawford said, voice low but razor-sharp. "Best spacing team in the league, you all know who we're keying on."
The screen zoomed in on Lamar Dixon: 23 years old, 6'5", point guard/shooting guard hybrid. A walking bucket with heliocentric offensive gravity.
Ryan had done his homework last night:
- Rookie of the Year five years ago.
- Three-time All-Star, a lock for this season.
- Third in MVP voting last year, behind only two modern-day superstars.
The playback froze on a clip of Lamar pulling up off a high ball screen.
Crawford tapped the pause button, then pointed.
"Right here—reads the drop, kills the space, hits the pull-up. That's elite PnR sequencing. He's not just a scorer—he's their offensive engine. Live dribble creator. Deadly pace variation. You give him that elbow, he'll bury you."
He outlined the defensive scheme:
- Go under screens, dare him to drive.
- Weak-side tags to cut off passing lanes.
- No soft switches—fight through every screen.
Crawford looked around the room.
"Now, I'm not asking you to shut him down. Nobody in this league is locking this guy up one-on-one. But I am asking you to make every touch, every dribble, every look at the rim feel like a grind. Make him feel like he's dragging a truck uphill the whole game."
The footage cut to Lamar on defense.
Not pretty.
Slow feet on switches. Late on closeouts. Screen navigation? Poor. Several wings cooked him clean on curls and cross screens.
Crawford turned to the board and tapped it twice.
"Defensively, he's the hole. We all know it. Lateral movement's a step behind. He struggles chasing off-ball through contact. He dies on screens."
He snapped his fingers.
"Hunt him. Every. Damn. Possession."
Crawford circled Lamar's face on the playbook. "Run '41 Fist' until he pukes. Get him on an island. Darius—" He locked eyes with the neon-green-haired point guard. "I want him cooked."
Darius cracked his knuckles. "Please. Like I haven't cooked him before."
The way he said it, you'd think the Roarers were riding a ten-game win streak instead of a ten-game skid.
The session continued, Crawford drawing up a series of ATOs and counter-sets. Ryan scribbled in his notepad, struggling to keep up. In his past life, he was just a basketball junkie, not a pro. Some of the terminology flew over his head. But he jotted it all down, planning to study it later.
At exactly 10:00 a.m., the session wrapped.
Ryan made his way to the weight room for a quick lift.
At 11:00 sharp, Crawford barged in mid-set.
"That's enough for today. Hit the showers. We roll out in thirty—press conference at the Iron Vault."
(The Iron Vault: the Roarers' home arena, nicknamed for its brutalist steel exterior and notoriously hostile acoustics.)
Ryan finished his shower and slipped into the black casual suit he'd bought the night before—tailored wool blend hugging his shoulders, the slate-gray henley underneath tempering the formality, cropped trousers exposing just enough ankle to keep it from feeling stiff. Kylie's picky eye hadn't steered him wrong.
Ryan adjusted his cufflinks in the full-length mirror when Crawford walked in, jingling car keys between his fingers. "I'll drive you," he said.
That was… unexpected. Since when did head coaches chauffeur rookies?
The luxury sedan's leather seats smelled like cold air and industrial cleaner, the kind that stung the back of your throat. Ryan sank into the passenger seat as the engine purred to life.
The Iron Vault was only a few blocks from the Roarers Training Center. The building, famous for its raw steel framework, was now bathed in the dull iron hue of midday sunlight. As Ryan gazed out the window at the approaching arc of its dome, it looked like a slumbering beast. The press room was tucked away behind a special passage near the structure's left jawline.
Crawford turned into the VIP entrance, tires bumping over the speed bump. "Media's taking the west elevators," he said, tapping the steering wheel. "We're going through the tunnel."