The Lumina bench erupted in laughter as Lamar elbowed Derrick, flashing a grin.
"There goes your Rookie of the Year competition."
Derrick shrugged, stretching his legs. "Shame I'm out. Would've liked to give him a proper welcome."
A teammate chimed in, "Come on, man. You just cooked Malik all night—and that dude's a former DPOY."
Derrick shook his head. "Yeah. Was. He's a step away from retirement. Nothing to brag about."
The timeout ended. Lumina made a sub of their own.
Jordy Polk stepped onto the court.
Who?
Unless you were a die-hard Lumina fan, you wouldn't know.
A rookie who'd somehow clawed his way into the rotation early in the season… until a string of boneheaded mistakes buried him on the bench. 22 straight games without a single second of playing time—not even garbage minutes.
By season's end? He'd be cut. No question.
But right now, Polk's palms were sweating—he was fired up. Eleven minutes left on the clock. Coach had finally called his name, and this was it—his shot.
This is it. Gotta make it count. I'll show them—I'm getting back in that rotation.
The game resumed.
The ball was inbounded to Roarers' #0—Ryan. The same guy who'd declared himself "Rookie of the Year" at yesterday's press conference.
Polk smothered him immediately, arms wide. "You ain't getting past me!"
Ryan slid into a low stance, rocking a stationary between-the-legs dribble—the ball snapping rhythmically between his legs. He glanced up, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"You ever seen a triple-double MVP?"
"What?" Polk blinked, confused—
And just like that, Ryan exploded.
One move. One blur of a step. He was gone.
Polk spun around, off-balance, just in time to catch a glimpse of that #0 jersey slicing past his teammates, slicing through the lane—
Finger roll.
Swish.
107-63.
Polk stood frozen, face pale.
How the hell is he that fast?!
He instinctively glanced toward the sidelines. The coach's darkened expression made his chest tighten.
He rushed to receive the inbound pass, but as he dribbled up the court, Ryan was already on him—like a ghost.
Low stance, center of gravity sunk deep. One hand probing forward, the other guarding his side, like a panther ready to strike.
His eyes flicked rapidly between Polk's chest and the ball, reading every twitch, every hint of movement.
Polk jabbed, crossed over, spun—nothing. Ryan stayed glued to him, step-for-step. No gambling, no overreaching. Just suffocating pressure, all angles shut.
Polk hit a wall. No way through.
He gave it up.
The shooting guard curled off a back screen on the weak side, caught the pass in stride, and instantly sold a pump fake. Omar bit hard on the closeout and flew past. A quick dish to the 45-degree wing—
The small forward rose for the jumper.
Clang!
The ball caromed off the front iron, launching high into the air. Lumina's third-string center exploded upward like a human pogo stick, fingertips stretching for the rebound.
But from two steps beyond the arc, Ryan launched like a missile streaking through the air. He cut sharply through the lane at a blistering angle. Just as the center's fingertips grazed the ball, Ryan defied gravity, soaring higher with freakish lift and perfect timing to snatch the ball out of the air with both hands.
Still airborne, he twisted his torso before landing and—without so much as a stutter step—unleashed a full-court sprint.
Fast break chaos erupted.
Roarers flooded the lanes, Lumina scrambled back in transition. Ryan's eyes flicked upcourt—one decisive heave—a laser-precise bullet flying toward Omar streaking down the sideline.
The pass was perfect.
The catch wasn't.
Omar fumbled the rocket pass, the ball spitting off his fingertips onto the hardwood.
Now!
Polk's eyes lit up.
He pounced like a predator, intercepting the loose ball just as Omar bent to grab it.
Steal!
With no one ahead, Polk burst forward. The court opened before him, nothing but hardwood and the rim expanding in his sights.
The crowd's roar crashed over him like a tidal wave as he blazed toward the opposite rim.
Are they...cheering for me? The thought flashed—this is it, the moment—
He took one giant stride inside the foul line and elevated, right arm winding up for a vicious windmill.
Time slowed.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the crowd behind the rim—their hands clapped over mouths, eyes blown wide—not in awe, but...fear?
Polk raised the ball high with one hand, ready to hammer it down—
A chorus of screams:
"NOOO—!"
No? Why would they—
Then came the shadow.
A titanium forearm crashed from above.
SWAT!
The ball was obliterated mid-air.
A chase-down block—vicious and clean.
With the impact catapulting Polk off-balance, he crashed into the baseline photographers as the rejection sent the rock rocketing toward the sideline.
Through the chaos, one figure snagged it—pivoted—and torched back the other way.
Number 0. Ryan.
Polk sat slumped beside the baseline cameras, dazed.
He watched as that number 0 jersey—faded into the distance.
Then came the Euro step. Smooth. Effortless.
Ryan slipped between two Lumina teammates like they were practice cones and floated a teardrop off the glass.
107–65.
The second the ball swished through the net, Polk jolted back to reality—
He'd been frozen. Just sitting there. Staring.
Shit.
He scrambled to his feet, stumbled forward to take the inbound, his stomach a knot of dread. He didn't dare glance toward the bench. Didn't want to see that look on Coach's face.
Dribbling upcourt, he hit the three-point line—and there he was.
That goddamn zero.
Ryan crouched low, arms spread, a panther coiled to strike.
This bastard ruined my chance. My one shot.
Polk's vision tinged red. He hated that smirk.
He exploded forward—
First step. Cross. Spin.
Ryan matched him, stride for stride. No opening.
Polk switched to a low-block post-up, grinding into Ryan with two hard bumps—but the rookie held his ground like a rooted oak.
The hell? This stringbean was strong?
Out of the corner of his eye: a teammate waving frantically on the wing. Wide open.
Polk ignored him.
No. This is my moment.
I'm taking this shot.
He pulled up at the elbow, launched into a forced fadeaway jumper—
Then—SMACK!
Ryan's hand came out of nowhere and smacked the shot away, sending the ball flying toward half-court.
Polk stumbled on the landing, barely staying upright.
He turned.
Ryan was already streaking past him like a black flash.
No—NO!
Polk took off in pursuit, lungs burning.
Too late.
Ryan scooped the ball off the bounce near center court and exploded down the lane.
Polk chased—but Ryan just pulled away.
As he approached the rim,
Ryan glanced back, grinning.
Then he soared.
BOOM!
The two-handed dunk rattled the backboard so hard the shot clock shuddered.
Silence.
On the Roarers' bench, nobody moved.
You don't celebrate when you're down 40.
Except Coach Crawford.
His eyes narrowed.
He wasn't watching the scoreboard. He was watching Ryan—closely, hungrily.
On the sideline, Lin whispered, "Dude's a monster,"
Darius swallowed hard. "Okay, I probably shouldn't say this, but—"
Every head snapped toward him.
"—I think he's on some kinda—mmph!"
Malik clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Shut up!"
On the court, Ryan hung on the rim an extra second—just because—before dropping lightly to the floor.
The whistle blew. Lumina timeout.
107–67.
Clock: 9:49, 4th quarter.
Polk dragged his feet to the bench, legs jelly, brain blank.
"Polk." Coach's voice was Arctic. "You're done."
He nodded robotically, collapsing onto the end of the bench. A towel over his face. The fabric soaked through—sweat or tears, who knew?
That's it. My Lumina career is over.
No—hell, I might be done in the whole ABA.
And then, that voice slithered through his skull again: "You ever seen a triple-double MVP?"
He pulled the towel away and glanced over at the Roarers' bench.
Ryan was high-fiving his teammates one by one.
Triple-double MVP?
The hell is that even supposed to mean?
(Note: In this world, in this ABA, no one's ever averaged a triple-double for an MVP season. The concept doesn't exist.)