The next morning, 8 a.m. sharp at the Roarers Training Center.
Head coach Crawford stepped onto the main court and blew his whistle.
"Next game—Ryan's in the rotation."
The five starters barely reacted. For a team known across the league for its brutal seven-man rotation, any extra help was welcome. Each of them averaged over 38 minutes a game; shaving off even a minute or two sounded like a win.
Stanley and Sloan, the two main bench guys, exchanged a quick look—both knew their minutes were likely taking the hit.
Meanwhile, the four rookies stuck at the end of the bench looked at Ryan with thinly veiled envy.
In that morning's session, Ryan was brought into the team's "bridge unit" offense for the first time. It was usually Stanley running point during that segment—today, the job went to Ryan.
After practice, Ryan knocked out his usual two-hour strength workout. By the time he made it back to Unit 702, it was already past four.
Not long after, the doorbell rang. Eddie.
Ryan opened the door and saw him standing there empty-handed. "We're not signing here?"
"Kid, come on," Eddie grinned, dangling his car keys. "Big moments need a little ceremony. We're doing this at my office."
Jamal perked up. "Can I tag along?"
"Hell yeah," Eddie smirked. "Soon as we're done signing, you're officially on the clock."
————
Eddie drove them through downtown Iron City and headed south. Fifteen minutes later, they rolled into a part of town that had clearly seen better days.
Faded brick buildings lined both sides of the cracked pavement. Signs for auto repair shops, pawn stores, dusty laundromats, and half-empty diners flashed by. This wasn't the trendy side of town—but it had its own kind of rhythm.
Eddie pulled up in front of a two-story brick building with faded red bricks and peeling paint.
On the ground floor: a timeworn barbershop, complete with mannequin heads in the window and a red-and-blue pole spinning lazily by the door. Two old-timers sat out front in lawn chairs, reading the paper and chatting like they had nowhere else to be.
Next to the barbershop, a narrow metal door with a scratched-up sign:
"2F – Eddie Sports Management"
Eddie caught the look on Ryan and Jamal's faces and grinned.
"When I started this thing, I rented the upstairs. Thought about moving after Marcus led the Roarers to the title the next year. Fancier spot, maybe."
He paused. "But Marcus? Said he liked it here. One year later, I bought the whole damn building."
Eddie pushed open the narrow metal door at the top of the stairs. The hinges gave a long, rusty groan. Behind it, the stairwell was bathed in a sickly yellow glow, the kind that never felt fully awake. Every step echoed—stone steps, solid and old—until the sound swallowed itself in the still air above.
At the top of the stairs, the office revealed itself abruptly - no reception, no hallway, just the workspace laid bare. The slightly worn but clean gray-blue carpet bore the faded trails of countless footsteps. The space was modest, functional, yet heavy with the residue of former glory.
Photos hung in neat frames across one side. Front and center: Marcus, drenched in sweat, eyes lit with triumph, lifting the championship trophy overhead. And right beside him—Eddie, grinning like a proud father trying not to cry. Around that photo were clippings from old newspapers:
Iron City Times: "Local Kid Marcus Leads Roarers to First Title"
Sports Illustrated: "Marcus Clinches Third Title, Earns Third Finals MVP"
Player Weekly cover: "Who Saw the Diamond Before It Shined?"
Below the frame was a locked display case holding a game-used ball, covered in signatures.
The desks along the wall were cluttered with cardboard boxes, sample sneakers from past seasons, and stacks of basketball magazines no longer in print. Though messy, the space was clearly cared for—no dust, no mold, just the faint scent of aging paper.
"I haven't signed a player in a while, not much going on," Eddie said, tugging open the curtain by the window. A pale band of sunlight spread across the carpet. "But I still come to clean, to sit. This...is where all my stories began."
He motioned Ryan into the private office while Jamal hung back respectfully. Ryan settled at the desk, methodically reviewing the contract pages. After several minutes, he nodded.
"All good."
"Then let's make it official," Eddie said, handing him a black pen.
Ryan signed.
Eddie extended a hand. "Welcome aboard, Ryan. You're chapter one in my next story."
They shook, Eddie's grip firm, eyes sincere.
"Kid!" Eddie barked at Jamal. "Get in here and document this."
Jamal rushed in, grinning like he'd been waiting all day for this. Eddie handed him his phone, then stood shoulder to shoulder with Ryan beneath the giant Marcus poster. Another handshake.
Click. Click. Click. Jamal took a dozen.
Afterward, they stepped back into the main space. Eddie walked over to a cluttered desk, brushed aside a few shoeboxes and folders, revealing a slightly outdated desktop. He nodded toward Jamal.
"Clear this up. It's your station now."
He sat down and fired up the computer. It whirred to life like an old tractor.
"Socials are all set," he said, typing. "Accounts are under my management. First—so you can focus on basketball. Second—so you don't go posting dumb stuff and ruin your career like half the rookies out there."
"Anyone ever livestream themselves playing with guns?" Ryan deadpanned.
Eddie snapped his head around. "playing with guns?"
"Kidding," Ryan said, smirking.
Eddie bluetooth-transferred the handshake photo from his phone and began posting across platforms from the company accounts:
"Welcome aboard, @Ryan — every legend starts somewhere."
Then, one by one, he logged into Ryan's freshly minted accounts. Same photo. First post: "Signed. @Eddie Sports Management knows how to build winners. #ProveIt"
With that done, Eddie spun the chair half a turn and looked at Jamal.
"First assignment. Get everyone you've ever met—exes, first crushes, kids from elementary school—I don't care. Make sure this post gets blasted everywhere."
Jamal snapped a salute. "On it!"
He pulled out his phone and got to work.
First message? Kylie, obviously. She had tons of schoolmates and friends.
————
Top floor office of a sleek glass skyscraper — headquarters of a major sports agency.
A few sharply dressed agents lounged in the coffee area, chatting casually. One of them suddenly held up his phone, displaying the freshly posted signing photo of Ryan.
"Hey, check this out—Eddie just signed Ryan."
Another agent grabbed the phone, glanced at the photo, and snorted, "No surprise there. Crawford brought him back, so of course the perks go to his own crew."
An older agent sipped his coffee, voice calm and measured. "Do you really think Eddie's gonna make a comeback this time?"
A brief silence fell over the group. Then the bald guy in the corner let out a dry chuckle. "Come on—comeback? You honestly believe this kid can deliver and become the next Marcus? Bet he gets steamrolled next game." He paused, then added, "Speaking of which… who're the Roarers playing next?"
The youngest agent piped up: "Road game against the Boulders."
At the mention of the Boulders, the room froze.
Everyone's expressions grew a little strained. Some quietly looked down at their phones, fingers scrolling fast to the ABA standings. Their eyes went straight to the bottom.
Western Conference:
9. Noze Boulders — 10-29 (Last 10: 0-10)
10. Iron City Roarers — 7-32 (Last 10: 0-10)
The Noze Boulders — perennial basement dwellers of the Western Conference, and the Roarers' unofficial rivals in futility.
What made it even more ironic: in their two matchups this season, the Roarers had swept the Boulders both home and away.