Monday came fast for the Roarers.
By Wednesday they'd be in Noze City facing the Boulders, which meant a late-afternoon film session before tomorrow's flight. The mood in the darkened room was loose—a far cry from the Emerald Bay prep. Guys slouched in their seats, a few muffled laughs cutting through the hum of the projector.
Darius leaned back in his chair with a grin. "Looks like that eleven-game skid might finally come to an end."
Coach Crawford shot him a sharp look. "Don't get cocky. We're not that much better than they are."
On the screen, a clip played of a towering seven-footer banging in the post.
Crawford's laser pointer stabbed at the image on the screen. "Diondre Axton. Their entire offense runs through this kid now. He's their main scorer in the paint and a solid rim protector."
Darius snorted. "Soft. Malik steamrolled him in the last two matches."
Malik cracked a small grin.
Crawford spoke seriously. "Last time we played them was two months ago. He's been coming into his own lately. A few strong teams are seriously interested now."
That wiped the grin off Malik's face. He gave a quiet nod, eyes narrowing as he focused on the screen.
Coach Crawford kept the footage rolling, launching into a breakdown of their sets and tendencies.
————
The evening light bled through the blinds of Unit 702 as Ryan zipped up his duffel for tomorrow's flight to Noze City. He wandered into the living room and dropped onto the couch, flipping on the TV without much interest. The door clicked open—Jamal stepped through, followed by Eddie, carrying a bulging briefcase.
"Skip the small talk," Eddie announced, collapsing onto the couch. The briefcase thudded onto the coffee table like a judge's gavel. "Let's talk footwear."
He yanked out three bound contracts thick enough to prop up a bedframe. Ryan waved him off. "Just give me the numbers."
Eddie slid the files back into the case. "Alright. Arvos and Stryda first."
Ryan nodded silently. He'd been in this world long enough to know how the sports industry worked.
Arvos, Stryda, and Vantix — the holy trinity of athletic brands. But when it came to basketball, Arvos and Stryda had a stranglehold on the market, owning over 80% of all endorsement deals.
"They both came in with identical offers," Eddie said, tone sharp. "Almost like they planned it. Two years, one-point-five mil."
Ryan's brow lifted. That was barely half of what Eddie had hyped up two days ago.
"Just a feeler," Eddie shrugged, rubbing thumb against fingertips like counting invisible bills. "You've only had one breakout game. They're not convinced it's real yet — they're playing wait and see."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping like a secret.
"Then there's Vantix. They came in hot — four years, five million. No bullshit. And get this—" he tapped the briefcase, "—they're ready to drop a PE version of their flagship team model, the Vantix Apex, for you. You hit 15 a night for 10 games, and they'll upgrade you to a custom PE line — limited release too, to test the market."
Ryan's eyes lit up. "That actually sounds—"
"Not done," Eddie cut in, flashing a wild grin. "Here's the kicker: meet the conditions they set this season, and the signature shoe clause kicks in."
Ryan snapped upright. "A signature? That's—" His words stalled. It wasn't just about stats. Signature shoes required star power, media buzz, marketability. Hell, even MVPs didn't always get one. Jokic, for example — Nike never gave him a signature model. It wasn't until he signed with 361° that the Joker 1 finally happened.
Eddie let out a sharp laugh. "Yeah, it's crazy. But Vantix is desperate. They've been dying to break into the basketball market — can't land a superstar, can't land a top rookie."
Then he dropped his voice lower. "You know who their biggest name is right now?"
Ryan leaned in, hooked. "Who?"
Eddie smirked. "A backup." He paused. "Your teammate. Sloan."
Ryan paused for a beat, then let out a short laugh. "No wonder they're desperate."
He glanced at Eddie. "What's your take?"
Eddie shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into something between a smirk and a warning. "Honestly? I'm leaning Arvos and Stryda. When people think basketball kicks, those two names pop up first. They've got All-Stars, MVPs—hell, just appearing in a commercial with their roster lifts your profile overnight." He shook his head. "Vantix? They're—"
"But their offer—" Ryan started.
"Trial-balloon numbers!" Eddie's voice spiked like a faulty mic. He leaned in, finger jabbing the coffee table. "We stall Vantix, you drop two more big games, and watch them scramble to double it."
Ryan's fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. "And my signature line..."
Eddie let out a low chuckle. "That'll come—if you earn it. You think Vantix offering a signature model out the gate is a good thing?" His tone dropped. "They're gambling everything. If you flame out? If the shoe flops? That's not just bad—it's catastrophic. They'll have trouble moving even their team shoes after that. And you?" He leaned in. "You'll be the punchline. That one guy Vantix bet the farm on."
Ryan gave a slow nod. "Maybe I was overthinking it."
He realized he'd been rushing it. Even Westbrook didn't land a signature shoe right away—he joined the NBA in 2008, but it wasn't until 2018 that Jordan Brand released his first official signature shoe, the Why Not Zer0.1.
Eddie exhaled through his nose. "Everyone's watching tomorrow. You show out again, everything changes."
Ryan did the math in his head. Tomorrow's game… the 100% Westbrook trial from the system was gone. Right now, his sync rate sat at 73%.
Basically, a downgraded version of Westbrook.
Not the OKC version. The Lakers version.
His mind flashed to Westbrook's rough patches in LA—1-for-9, 0-for-11, defenders leaving him wide open by three meters beyond the arc.
"What if..." His throat clicked. "What if I go one-for-nine tomorrow?"
Eddie didn't laugh. He just went still. The air in the room turned thick.
"…One game?" Eddie finally said, voice low and tight. "They'll keep watching. Won't pull the plug that fast."
Ryan pressed. "What if it's a whole streak?"
Eddie launched off the couch like the cushions were electrified. "Don't even fucking joke about that!" His briefcase toppled over, spilling contract drafts across the floor—Arvos logos, Stryda terms, all those glittering maybes. "If you shit the bed out there, we're both finished."