CHAPTER 103: CHAPTER 103 :COMMON COLD, LISTED AS QUESTIONABLE

Ryan finished the night with 40 points, 8 assists, and 5 rebounds—a stellar stat line by any measure.

But in the end, it wasn’t enough. The Roarers fell just short, and his 40-point effort went to waste. The team’s five-game win streak was snapped.

Not long after the loss, the Roarers flew back to Iron City, with back-to-back home games looming on Saturday and Sunday.

Friday morning.

The moment Ryan opened his eyes, he knew something was off.

His body ached, his throat was raw and scratchy, and his nose was already starting to clog. He sat up slowly, frowning.

"Probably just sore from the game," he muttered, swinging his legs out of bed.

He dragged himself to the Roarers Training Center. The plan was a light recovery session—shooting, stretching, low-impact drills.

But ten minutes in, he was dragging. Movements felt sluggish. Breathing was shallow. His body wasn’t bouncing back—it was shutting down.

He pressed his palm to his forehead; it was hotter now, a low-grade fever simmering. Shit, am I coming down with something?

Crawford noticed too.

"You alright?" the coach asked, walking over with a concerned look.

Ryan opened his mouth, but a cough cut him off, sharp and grating, like a busted engine. "Think I’m... cough... catching a cold," he rasped, throat raw.

Darius instantly jumped three steps back like Ryan had the plague. "Yo, keep your biohazard away from the team!"

A few of the guys laughed, but Crawford didn’t.

Crawford’s face stayed stone-cold. "Cut it out," he barked, then softened, eyeing Ryan. "No practice for you. Get to the medical room now. Let Lopez figure out if it’s a cold or the flu. Don’t mess around."

Ryan nodded, stifling another cough, and grabbed a towel as he left the court.

He trudged to the Roarers’ medical room.

Dr. Hector Lopez, the team physician, waited inside, a wiry man in his 50s with a no-nonsense vibe and eyes that missed nothing. A sports medicine veteran, he’d patched up everything from sprained ankles to shattered dreams, and a cold was just another Tuesday.

"What’s the deal, Ryan?" he asked.

Ryan slumped into a chair, coughing twice, his voice like gravel. "Woke up feeling like crap. Sore throat, body aches, stuffy nose, headache, and my forehead’s warm. Started this morning."

Lopez didn’t waste time. He pulled on gloves and got to work.

He checked Ryan’s temperature: 100.6°F, a low fever.

His stethoscope pressed against Ryan’s chest, confirming clear lungs and a steady heartbeat.

A tongue depressor revealed a mildly irritated throat, no swelling or pus.

"Looking good so far," Lopez muttered, then swabbed Ryan’s nose for a rapid viral test.

Five minutes later, the result blinked negative—no influenza A or B, just a common cold, likely a viral upper respiratory infection.

Lopez set down his tablet, his tone blunt but steady.

"Good news: it’s not the flu, just a classic upper respiratory infection—common cold. No signs of strep or bronchitis. Bad news: you’re running on empty. Sore throat, congestion, low fever, and fatigue—probably from that road trip and sweating buckets last night without bundling up."

Ryan rubbed his nose, voice muffled. "We got back-to-back games tomorrow and Sunday. Can I play?"

Lopez rolled his eyes, scribbling a prescription. "A cold’s not the flu, but it’ll drag you down. Rest 2-3 days, you’ll be mostly clear. No antibiotics—viral, not bacterial. I’m giving you pseudoephedrine for the congestion, ibuprofen for fever and aches. Drink water like it’s your job—eight cups a day, throw in some electrolyte drinks. Grab lozenges for the throat."

He leaned forward, voice firm. "You’re low-grade contagious, and your stamina’s shot. Come back tomorrow at 3 p.m. for a recheck. If your fever’s gone and you’re not aching or short of breath, you can play—25 minutes max per game to avoid dehydration or relapse. Stay wrapped up on the bench, no more chilling in a sweaty jersey."

Ryan nodded.

Playing time wasn’t the biggest issue. Just being cleared to play was what mattered.

He was still in the Rookie of the Year race—he needed to play every remaining one to hit the minimum qualifying threshold.

Dr. Lopez went to get the meds, then handed them to Ryan.

"No training today or tomorrow. Stay home and rest. Come back at 3 p.m. tomorrow for a temperature check. If the fever’s gone, you’re cleared. If not, head home and stay there."

Ryan took the meds. "Got it. Thanks, Doc."

Back on the main court, he found Crawford.

"All clear," Ryan said. "It’s a cold. I’m heading home."

Crawford gave a short nod. "Alright. You’re officially listed as Questionable for tomorrow."

Ryan didn’t argue. He just wrapped the towel around his shoulders and headed for the exit.

Ryan had just gotten home, kicked off his shoes, and changed into sweats when his phone buzzed.

His phone buzzed, the screen flashing "Chloe. " His heart did a quick stutter.

He picked up quickly, voice rough from coughing. "Yo, what’s good?"

Chloe’s voice came through, sweet but edged with worry. "Saw you’re listed as questionable on the Roarers’ site. What’s up? You okay?" Her concern felt like a warm hand through the line, cutting through his haze.

Ryan pinched his nose, fighting a sneeze. "Just a dumb cold. Doc’s got me on lockdown, resting up at home." He coughed again, wincing.

A beat of silence. "You eaten anything?" she asked, her tone sharpening like she was about to scold him.

"Nah," he admitted, glancing at his empty kitchen counter, where a lone bag of stale chips sat. "Ain’t got much."

"That’s dumb," she said, a slight tease in her tone. "Give me a minute."

He started to say, "You don’t have to—"

But she’d already hung up.

Ryan chuckled, shaking his head.

His head throbbed, and his throat felt like gravel, but the thought of Chloe showing up sparked something in his chest, fever be damned.

About half an hour later, the low growl of a sports car pulled up outside. Ryan recognized the sound before he even stood—there was no mistaking that engine.

When he opened the door, a brand-new cherry red K3 sat in the driveway. Chloe stepped out like she’d just walked off a fashion editorial—tan trench coat, oversized sunglasses, and two brown paper bags in hand.

"You got a K3 too?" he asked, surprised.

She shrugged, amused. "You gave me a ride in yours last time. It was nice. So I got one."

Ryan grinned. The way she said it, the car might as well have cost twenty bucks.

Ryan suddenly wondered—

Did she really buy the same car just because he had one?

It felt oddly... couple-y. Like matching sneakers, or those cheesy his-and-hers hoodies girls wore when they were all in.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought.

Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. Not everything’s a sign.

Chloe tilted her head, sunglasses slipping slightly. "What’s up?"

Ryan blinked. "Just... fuzzy-headed," he said, giving his temple a quick shake. "Trying to clear it. Come on in."

Ryan stepped aside to let Chloe in. She swept past him like a breeze, her perfume leaving a faint, captivating trail in the air. Moving through his place like she’d been there a hundred times, she set the bags down on the coffee table. The aroma of hot food quickly filled the room, pushing out the stale air.

"Got you covered," she said, unpacking with the efficiency of a point guard running a play. "Chicken noodle soup—fancy stuff, low-sodium, with carrots and real chunks of chicken. Mashed potatoes, roasted squash, and some whole-grain toast on the side. Oh, and hot apple cider with a touch of honey. Perfect for your sick ass."

Ryan raised an eyebrow, slumping back onto the couch. "You tryna turn my crib into a diner or what?"

"You take your meds yet?" Chloe asked, unpacking the last of the bags.

"Nope."

"Then eat first, and take them right after. Oh—and drink a bottle of Zero9 before anything else."

"Uh... I’m out," Ryan admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Finished the last one a few days ago. Meant to restock."

The ten cases she’d dropped off last time were long gone, but he hadn’t had the time—or energy—to go grab more.

Chloe let out a sigh. "Seriously? Fine. I’ll have another ten cases sent over—right now."

"You really don’t have to. I can grab some tomorrow—"

"Ryan," she cut in, with that signature mix of sass and steel, "just follow my lead, alright? Your only job is to get better. You’re the face of Zero9, and if people see you looking like death warmed over, they’ll start thinking my product doesn’t work. Can’t have that."

Ryan could only nod in surrender. "Alright, fine."

Without missing a beat, Chloe grabbed her phone and made a quick call, rattling off instructions to have ten more cases of Zero9 delivered straight to his door.

Ryan watched her, something warm blooming in his chest. If she were my girl... He didn’t let the thought finish, but it lingered all the same.

Chloe hung up and turned back to him, catching the look on his face.

"What?" she asked, eyebrow raised. "Why’re you looking at me like a lovesick puppy?"

Ryan chuckled, scratching his head. "Just thinking... you’re really good to me. Thanks."

Chloe smirked. "Took you long enough to notice."

Then, with a quick shift in tone, "Now eat already. Or do you need me to feed you like a toddler?"

"I got it, I got it," Ryan said, reaching for the soup.