Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!

Chapter 144: Taste the 89.1% Westbrook

The road trip ended in a loss. That night, the team flew straight back to Iron City.

It was past midnight when they landed. Ryan dragged his luggage back to his apartment, washed up, and dropped onto his bed — but he didn’t sleep. He pulled out his phone and started scrolling.

The buzz from that ad still hadn’t died down.

The hashtag #CatDadRyan was still trending. The replies were a circus. Someone had stitched a screenshot of him throwing down a vicious dunk next to a frame from the ad, him cradling the cat, captioned: "Same guy??" Another solemnly noted that "his cat-holding technique is very professional." The top comment, with the most likes, was a single line: "Motion to rename them the Cat City Roarers."

Ryan rolled his eyes, tossed the phone aside, and called it a night.

—

The next morning, Ryan woke up and met Chloe for breakfast.

She was laughing before she even sat down, shoving her phone screen right up to his face — that meme everyone was passing around, the fat orange cat in his arms looking like a throw pillow.

"Come on, tell me," she said, chin in her hands, eyes bright with mischief. "How long did you practice that face?"

"...Can we not." Ryan hid behind the menu.

Chloe laughed her fill, then unhurriedly put the phone away, studying him with open amusement.

Halfway through the meal, something seemed to occur to her, and she tossed it out casually: "Hey — what if we got a cat? The whole internet’s already certified you a cat dad. We don’t even have one at home. Nobody’d believe it."

Ryan’s fork paused mid-air.

A pet, huh...

Truth was, he preferred dogs. And he’d had one, once.

The thought had barely surfaced when a long-buried image came rushing up, without warning —

His past life. In that cramped little apartment, the only one who ever waited for him to come home was a husky. Then work swallowed him whole — late nights, dinners, drinks — and day by day he left it alone at home. By the time he finally noticed something was wrong and rushed it to the vet, the doctor only shook his head. Too late.

The thing died in his arms. Right to the very end, those blue eyes stayed on him, without a trace of blame.

It was a wound he’d never quite gotten past.

"...We’ll see." Ryan dropped his gaze, took a bite of his food, and swallowed that surge of feeling down along with it. "Too busy lately. Can’t take care of one."

Chloe glanced at him, seeming to catch something flicker across his face — but she didn’t push. She just gave a soft "Mm," and let it drop.

—

After breakfast, the team headed back to the Roarers Training Center and filed into the film room.

The lights dimmed, the screen lit up, and footage of the Paladins’ recent games began to roll.

On screen, LaVonte was doing whatever he pleased out there, as usual. Crawford gave it a single glance and waved a hand. "Him, I don’t need to explain. Tomorrow we’ll run a couple of sets geared toward him."

He clicked the remote. The picture switched.

"This is the one to focus on." On screen, a guard pushed the ball up the floor, his rhythm shifting on a dime, a single burst of speed leaving his defender in the dust.

Crawford’s eyes settled on Ryan. "Kyran Herring. Last time we played them, he sat out. You’ve never really gone up against him."

In the back row, Kamara pulled his feet down off the chair and started in, unhurried — this kind of insider briefing was a job he never let anyone else take.

"Starting point guard. The other of their two engines." He jerked his chin at the screen. "Handles are top two or three in the whole league. Crossovers, finishes, makes the ball dance — one-on-one, almost nobody can stay in front of him."

He shot a glance at Crawford, and seeing no intent to cut him off, went on. "Rookie of the Year — two years before our guy Lin. Eight All-Star nods since. Won an All-Star Game MVP, a Three-Point Contest, the whole bit."

"And of course," Kamara added after a beat, "that ring, three years back — the one he won alongside LaVonte."

It was something Ryan already knew. Three years ago, the Paladins took the title. But it was right after that when Kambon and the Millvoque Bullets surged up the ranks, stringing together back-to-back championships and building a dynasty of their own.

Kamara turned to Darius, spreading his hands. "Last time, one LaVonte alone left our boy Ryan looking like that. This time? Buy one, get one free."

Ryan didn’t bother answering him, eyes locked on the screen.

Everyone in the room understood the weight of those words — last time, a single LaVonte had been a 31-point blowout. And that night, the Paladins’ second engine hadn’t even suited up.

This time, he was playing.

Crawford pulled up several of Herring’s possessions, breaking down his tendencies and passing reads one by one. Last time, with Herring all but certain to rest, the coach had barely covered him; this time, Ryan took down every detail in his notebook.

When he finished, he switched the picture, freezing on a big man. "Their weakest spot is center. They’ve spent years trying to shore up the five, and they’ve never landed the right guy."

Kamara perked up again, leaning toward Ryan to keep the briefing going. Crawford didn’t stop him — as long as it wasn’t nonsense, he was happy to let Kamara give Ryan the side tutorial.

Kamara rattled off a few notes on their center. Crawford had nothing to add, and cut to another clip, freezing on a frontcourt player. "Calvin Locke."

"You went up against this one last time, too," Kamara said. "Don’t let that quiet night fool you — he’s one of the Paladins’ Big Three, right next to LaVonte and Herring."

Honestly, Ryan had no memory of him at all. That night, all that had filled his head was that uncrossable chasm named LaVonte... oh, and that point guard who’d drawn the start because Herring was resting — what was his name again? He couldn’t place it.

Crawford finished breaking down Locke and cut to another clip, a new player on the screen. "Josiah Stith."

He paused, as if waiting for Kamara to pick up the briefing.

But this time, Kamara said nothing.

Ryan turned, puzzled — he’d taken notes on this guy last time too, gone up against him, and still had no real impression of him. That wasn’t what threw him, though. It was the way Kamara had suddenly clammed up and dropped his head, fiddling with his phone.

"Ha." Darius cracked up beside him. "Yeah, don’t hold your breath waiting on him for this one."

"Why’s that?" Ryan asked.

Kamara shot him a glare. Darius pretended not to notice and pressed on. "You expect him to open his mouth?" Then, pitching his voice up into an imitation of Kamara: "’Ohhh, this guy’s just like me, the media’s always comparing us, and that nickname? Pinned on me first, you know—’"

"Knock it off, you." Kamara cut him off, sour. "I don’t have that whole going-haywire-mid-game thing he’s got."

Darius snorted with laughter.

The two of them. Even Crawford, perpetually stone-faced, let the corner of his mouth tug upward for a second before he caught himself, switching to the next clip.

"Matteo Bellanova."

Oh — something clicked in Ryan’s head. The name he hadn’t been able to dredge up a moment ago finally landed. That was the point guard who’d drawn the start because Herring sat.

Crawford ran through two more rotation players in passing, and with that, the film was done.

Tomorrow’s opponent, top to bottom, had been laid out. Everything worth remembering, Ryan had committed to memory.

—

Midday the next day, at Iron Vault Arena.

The pre-game walkthrough was short — some shooting, a few sets run through, just enough to get a feel for the floor and the lights they’d be playing under tomorrow night. By the time they wrapped, it was past noon, and everyone was getting hungry.

The three of them were in no hurry to head home. They wandered over to a restaurant across from the arena, grabbed a table, and settled in to catch their breath and grab a bite.

The bell over the door jingled. Three people walked in, all in matching uniforms.

Ryan glanced over, then his eyes caught the logo stitched on them — Vantix. His own brand.

The youngest of the three was already grinning, calling out toward him: "Ha, there you are!"

Ryan looked closer and placed him — the lanky kid who’d shown up at the hotel in the dead of night back in Halveth, shoeboxes in hand. Raymond.

Sloan recognized him too, mumbling around a mouthful of food: "What are you doing all the way out here?"

"Got moved out to cover the West." Raymond waved a hand, breezy.

The two colleagues behind him recognized Ryan and the others by now. They stepped up, shook hands all around, exchanged a few pleasantries, then tactfully went off to find their own table.

Raymond didn’t budge. He sprawled into a chair at their table and snagged a fry.

"Actually, I was just thinking I needed to track you down," he said, chewing. "Running into you here saves me the trip."

Kamara caught right away that this "you" didn’t include him — he wasn’t with Vantix — but he leaned in anyway, ears perked.

"Track us down?" Ryan raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Raymond opened his mouth, but Sloan cut him off with a raised hand. "Hold up. Got a bone to pick with you first."

He pointed at Raymond. "You, my guy — last time you went all hush-hush on me, said the company’d greenlit my custom PEs, somebody’d reach out soon. Had me hyped for days. And then? Not a peep. I went and asked Doyle — he said there was no such thing. So that was all just talk?"

"Doyle?" Raymond scoffed. "That old-timer doesn’t know squat."

"He doesn’t know, but a gofer like you does?" Sloan laughed. "Alright then. So where’s this guy who’s supposed to reach out to me?"

"Look no further." Raymond pointed a fry at himself.

"...You?"

"Yep." Raymond leaned back. "Got promoted. Not a trainee rep anymore — made it official."

"Congrats," Ryan said with a smile.

Sloan, though, was fired up now. "You take Doyle’s spot?"

"Nah, nah." Raymond cleared his throat. "I’m your guys’ dedicated rep. Anything comes up, you call me — twenty-four-seven, on call."

"Hold on," Sloan leaned in. "Back to my shoes. What’s the actual story?"

"Easy." Raymond pulled a tablet from his bag, swiped a couple of times, and turned it around to him. "See for yourself."

Sloan leaned in — on the screen was a shoe in deep black, the forefoot webbed with silver-gray cracks like fractured stone, streaks of crimson running along its lines — a sharp burn of color against all that dark.

His eyes lit up. "Send me that pic!"

Kamara, leaning over for a look, clicked his tongue. "Damn, Sloan, that colorway’s better looking than you are."

"Weren’t you always griping about the shoe not keeping up on lateral slides, and the landings being hard on your feet?" Raymond pointed at the screen. "Upper’s been locked down tighter this time, swapped out the midsole too — plants nice and solid now."

Sloan’s eyes were glued to the screen, his breath quickening.

He knew it well — the flagship Apex, even Ryan’s custom pair, had always come in a single, solid color. But this one, crimson searing across the black, silver veins fracturing all the way through — it was one of a kind on the whole line.

He never imagined Vantix would spring something like this on him.

"When do I get them?" His head snapped up, his voice climbing.

"Soon." Raymond smiled. "Once there’s a date, you’ll be the first to know."

"Good, good," Sloan said, grinning. "Add my number."

"No need." Raymond waved it off. "I’ve already got both your contacts." And with a flick of his finger, he fired the design straight to Sloan’s phone.

Ryan watched from the side, throwing a glance at Raymond.

This kid — young as he was, already a rep, and assigned to handle him and Sloan specifically, the two biggest names Vantix had. And the strange part: back when he was still just an intern, he’d known about things even Doyle hadn’t caught wind of, long before anyone else.

This kid... had connections.

"Alright." Raymond turned to Ryan, tucking the tablet away. "Now, about yours."

He nodded toward the other table, where his two colleagues sat heads-down over their food. "Those two are from marketing. They’re here at the Roarers Team Store today, setting up the event and the display for your drop."

Ryan already had a pretty good idea, but he asked anyway: "For my drop?"

"Your exclusive custom PE. Limited release."

"Got a date yet?"

"April eighteenth." Raymond didn’t miss a beat.

"What day’s that?"

"Friday." Raymond paused. "Also the Roarers’ last home game of the regular season — second-to-last game overall, the one against the Phantoms."

"You’ll need to be there." He glanced toward the other table. "I’ll get you the schedule and the rundown once those two have hammered out the details with the Team Store."

With that, he got up from the table and ambled back over to his colleagues.

Sloan and Kamara were still huddled together, buzzing over the shoe photo that had just landed on Sloan’s phone.

Only Ryan sat quiet, his expression flat.

The limited release had been locked in over a month ago. This was just the dust settling — it barely moved him at all.

Besides, what really sat heavy on his mind right now was tomorrow night’s game.

The Paladins.

To Chloe, to the cameras, he’d called it "proving himself" — never once said the word "revenge."

But he alone knew — that night, walking out of the arena after being run over from start to finish, he’d made himself one promise:

Sooner or later, I’m making you pay for that night.

What stood between him and those titans back then wasn’t a gap — it was a canyon, one you couldn’t see the bottom of. And now, after grinding through most of a season, step by step, he’d climbed to the other side.

Tomorrow night, he was going back.

To make good on that promise, right in front of LaVonte.

"System," he murmured inwardly. "Sync rate."

[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 89.1%]

Ryan looked down at the figure, the corner of his mouth curling up, his eyes sharpening.

LaVonte.

That guy at 76.8% sync, the one you ran over — tomorrow night, you’ll get a taste of the Westbrook at 89.1%.