CHAPTER 106: CHAPTER 106 :FIRST GAME PLAYING SICK

By three o’clock, the sun was blazing over Iron City as Ryan pulled into the lot at the Roarers Training Center.

The training center was quiet, the team’s morning session long over.

He didn’t linger in the gym—just made a beeline for the medical room, rapping lightly on the door before stepping inside.

"Ryan," Dr. Lopez greeted him, glancing up from a clipboard. "Right on time. How’s it feeling?"

"Throat’s way better, no more fog in my head," Ryan said, his voice steadier than yesterday’s rasp. "Still got a bit of a cough, though."

"Good. Let’s take a look." Lopez snapped on his stethoscope, motioning Ryan to sit. "Deep breath—in, out."

Ryan complied, inhaling the sterile air, exhaling slowly.

Lopez listened intently, moving the stethoscope across his chest, his face focused like a coach breaking down tape. "Lungs are clear, no crackles. That cough’s just leftover irritation." He grabbed a tongue depressor, peering into Ryan’s throat. "Inflammation’s down, mucosa’s healing nicely. You’re on the mend."

"So," Ryan asked, leaning forward, his eyes locked on Lopez, "can I play tonight?"

Lopez peeled off his gloves with a snap, a half-smile on his face. "If you were smart, you’d rest. But if you’re dead set on playing, fine—just limit your minutes. I’ll talk to Coach Crawford."

"Thanks, Doc," Ryan said, nodding, a grin breaking through. He was back.

He left the medical room and headed straight for Crawford’s office. By this hour, practice was long over; the coach was almost certainly in.

A knock, a push of the door—and there was Crawford, phone pressed to his ear.

Ryan took two steps in before Crawford hung up, looking up with a nod. "Lopez called. You’re on the bench tonight, subbing in."

Ryan’s grin widened, a spark of relief hitting him. "Cool. I’m heading out then." No need to linger—Crawford wasn’t big on small talk.

The coach gave a curt nod, already turning back to his desk. Ryan was out the door before his ass could hit a chair, his mind already on the game.

Back home, he settled in with his tablet to study tape on tonight’s opponent—the Ceris Shadows, currently sixth in the West.

Tip-off was at 7:30.

It would be his twentieth ABA game, and after tonight, he’d have faced every single team in the league. (The Noze Boulders, whom he’d already seen twice.)

His phone chimed.

He fished it out, grinning at the lock screen: a fresh selfie of him and Chloe Palmer, snapped hours ago at a greasy diner, her arm slung around him, both mid-laugh. The text was from Chloe: Rehab check-up done?

His fingers flew: Cleared. Subbing tonight. Chloe’s reply pinged instantly: Hell yeah! Kill it tonight. I’m in the stands. A winking emoji followed, and Ryan’s grin widened.

Ryan grinned, thumbed out a quick See you there, and tossed the phone back down. The cough was still there, faint, but his legs felt good. That was what mattered.

——

By 7 p.m., the Iron Vault Arena was already humming, the stands packed, the air thick with the smell of popcorn and the bass from the pregame playlist.

Both teams emerged from the tunnel and hit the floor for warmups, the arena already boiling with noise.

At the broadcast table

Jim "The Voice" Callahan leaned toward his mic, voice rolling like gravel over ice. Beside him, Duke "Ice" Patterson swiveled in his chair, headset snug, watching the players emerge.

Patterson: "So, Ryan Carter coming off the bench tonight?"

Callahan: "That’s what I’m hearing. Little under the weather yesterday. Guess Coach Crawford’s being careful."

Ryan, in his warm-up jacket, scanned the VIP seats from the sideline. There she was—Chloe, rocking his No. 0 jersey, her blonde hair loose, blue eyes locked on him. Next to her sat her dad, Steven Palmer.

Chloe flashed a fist-pump, mouthing Let’s go! Ryan nodded back, a spark igniting in his chest. Her belief in him was louder than the arena’s roar.

At 7:30 p.m., the tip-off loomed. The Roarers’ starters—Darius, Lin, Kamara, Malik, and Gibson—took the court

The Roarers were still riding the aftertaste of a six-game win streak—cut short two nights ago—but most in the arena expected them to handle the Ceris Shadows easily. No superstars on that roster, not on paper anyway.

And yet, basketball games aren’t played on paper.

The ball went up, and Lin drained a three-pointer on the first possession, the crowd exploding. But then, like a blown fuse, the Roarers went dark. Shots clanged off the rim, passes sailed out of bounds, and the offense sputtered like a stalled engine. Darius forced a contested jumper—brick. Malik’s layup rolled off. The basket seemed cursed, the hoop bending under their misses.

The Shadows smelled blood.

On the other end, they spread the floor, zipped passes to the open man, and rained threes from every angle. The center stayed in the paint, but the other four?

Deadly. In the span of four minutes, they sank four threes, each swishing clean, a 4-for-4 barrage that left the Roarers reeling. The scoreboard glared: 4-16, Shadows up 12.

Callahan’s voice rose: "The Shadows are raining fire from deep! Roarers look lost out there."

Patterson groaned. "They’re sleepwalking, Jim. Shadows are eating their lunch."

Coach Crawford, face like carved granite, burned a timeout. The Roarers trudged to the bench, heads low, as Iron Vault’s energy dipped. Crawford didn’t sub Ryan in, instead barking tactics—swing the ball, attack the paint, wake up. But the pause didn’t fix the funk. The Shadows clamped down with a 2-3 zone, daring the Roarers to shoot threes. Lin chucked another—airball. Darius’ jumper kissed iron. Fast breaks fizzled, and the Roarers couldn’t crack the zone or hit from deep.

Each miss feeding the Shadows’ confidence, keeping them red-hot.

Three minutes later, the score was 6-24, an 18-point hole. Iron Vault’s crowd, usually a cauldron of noise, grew restless, murmurs replacing roars.

Crawford called another timeout, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. The Roarers slumped to the bench, faces tight, the weight of the deficit pressing down. Patterson’s voice crackled: "Down 18? Roarers need a spark, or this one’s slipping away."

In the stands, a lone voice bellowed: "Put Ryan in!" The cry lit a fuse. "Ryan! Ryan!" The chant swelled, fans stomping, the arena shaking like a streetball court after a poster dunk.

They didn’t care that Ryan was still fighting off a cold—right now, they believed he was the only one who could lead the Roarers back and take the lead.

Chloe listened to the entire arena chanting Ryan’s name, a rush of pride surging through her—after all, that was her boyfriend.

Crawford’s eyes flicked to Ryan, who sat at the bench’s end, eyes locked on the court. "You good?" the coach asked, voice low.

Ryan nodded, his jaw set. "Hundred percent."

Crawford gave a curt nod. "Get in there. Wake ’em up."

Ryan shed his warm-up jacket, his No. 0 jersey catching the light as he jogged to the scorer’s table. The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of noise crashing over the arena.

Ryan bowed his head, voice barely a whisper.

"System, we running a raffle tonight?"Before it could answer, he added quickly, "Reason being—it’s my first game playing sick."

The reply came instantly.

[Because the host is pushing through illness to play, your considerate System awards you: ONE FREE SPIN OF THE LUCKY WHEEL.]

[GENERATING...]

[LUCKY WHEEL ACTIVATED.]

The familiar holographic wheel shimmered into existence in front of him.

"Spin it," Ryan said.

The wheel whirred, slowing to land on: [While you’re on the court, team confidence +5%, shooting accuracy +5%.]

His eyes lit up.

Perfect.

The Roarers were ice-cold, bricks clanging off the rim like they’d forgotten how to shoot.

And right now, exactly what they needed.

The Roarers had the ball. Ryan brought it up, feeling surprisingly fine—and with his cold down to a stray cough, he felt ready to ignite.

He crossed half court and eyed the Shadows’ zone. His defender sagged off, wary of the drive, giving him a generous cushion.

He blinked. Seriously? After I drilled that logo three last game? That’s... kinda disrespectful.

Not a volume shooter from deep, but with the team ice-cold, Ryan didn’t hesitate. He rose and fired before the closeout could get there.

Swish.

9–24.

Iron Vault exploded, fans leaping.

Ryan jogged back, coughing once, a grin creeping up.

Huh. Maybe the flu’s good for my jumper.

The system’s buff kicked in, the Roarers’ swagger returning. Darius drained a mid-range jumper, Kamara muscled in for a layup, and Ryan dished a no-look pass to Gibson for a corner three.

The Shadows’ lead shrank, their zone wobbling.

By the first quarter’s end, it was 24-36, the gap cut to 12.

Callahan roared: "Ryan Carter’s got Iron Vault alive again!"

Second quarter, Crawford pulled Ryan to rest, heeding Dr. Lopez’s warning to limit his minutes. Ryan slumped on the bench, towel over his shoulders, watching the Roarers falter without him. The system’s buff faded, and the team’s confidence dipped—shots rimmed out, passes went stray.

Six minutes in, the score ballooned: 30-48, an 18-point hole again.

Ryan checked back in. Momentum shifted almost immediately, the gap shrinking to 47–58 by halftime.

The third opened the same way: Ryan on the bench, Shadows stretching the lead. At the six-minute mark, it was 57–74. Then Ryan reentered, and the chase began again. By the quarter’s end, they trailed 71–84.

Ryan returned to the bench and leaned toward Crawford. "Coach, let me play the whole fourth. I’m fine."

He’d only played six minutes a quarter—just 18 minutes total.

Crawford nodded. "Alright. But if you feel anything off, you tell me right away. No pushing."

Ryan grinned. "Just a little cold, almost gone. I’ll be fine."

And so Ryan played the entire final quarter, leading the Roarers as they chipped away at the deficit, possession by possession.

With five seconds left, the Roarers were down one.

Ryan came off a high screen, crossed over, stepped back, and drilled the go-ahead jumper.

107–106.

Patterson screamed: "Clutch! Ryan Carter with the dagger!"

They got the final stop, the buzzer sounding under a wall of noise.