CHAPTER 33: CHAPTER 33 :WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO ENDORSE A LITTER BOX?!

Ryan logged 19 minutes and 23 seconds off the bench tonight.

His stat line:

Points: 14 Assists: 3 Rebounds: 4 Steals: 4

Field Goals: 6/12

Three-Point: 1/4

Free Throws: 1/2

Plus/Minus: +12

For a rookie playing just his second game off the bench? More than solid.

Especially in the fourth quarter—he went 5-for-6, scoring 11 points, a very impressive showing.

But compared to the absurd fireworks of his debut—35 points in a single quarter—tonight felt... quieter. Not bad, just not headline-grabbing.

And then, of course, there was the quote.

At the postgame press conference, after last game, Ryan looked straight into the cameras and said,

"Forty-plus? I can do it. No problem."

That made tonight’s 14 feel underwhelming by comparison.

Some fans even wondered: did the media mishear him? Maybe he said fourteen, not forty?

So they went back and pulled the clip.

Watched it again. And again.

Nope. He said forty.

Clear as day.

In the Roares’ locker room, the players had showered, changed, and were settling back into their routines. Malik sat at his locker, still in compression gear, gingerly flexing his leg as the team doctor gave him the rundown. The MRI was in—grade one strain. Lucky. It could’ve been much worse. You could feel the whole room exhale.

Crawford stepped in, glancing at his phone. "Postgame presser’s set. Darius and Ryan, you’re up."

Ryan froze mid-lace-tying. "Why me?"

Normally, aside from the head coach, only two types of players usually got mic’d up post-game: franchise cornerstones, or the night’s undeniable standout. Ryan was neither—he didn’t light it up tonight, and he wasn’t the top scorer on the team.

Crawford didn’t blink. "Could be the near-fight with Darius. Could be that off-the-backboard pass. Either way, they want a show."

A beat.

He shot Darius a look. "Don’t say anything stupid."

Darius smirked, brushing a hand across his chin. "Relax. I know what to say."

Ten minutes later — the postgame press room at Blackrock Mining Arena.

Coach Crawford took the podium first.

Normally, players and coaches did their media duties separately. The last time he’d shared the stage with Ryan had been the rookie’s debut—more of a training wheels moment than anything else.

This time, Crawford was solo.

He started with the update everyone was waiting for: Malik’s MRI came back—Grade 1 strain, out about ten days. Could’ve been worse. Much worse.

Then came the usual questions—the twelve-game skid, playoff math, rotations. Crawford handled it all with the calm of a man who’d done this a hundred times before.

When he stepped down, Darius and Ryan took his place behind the mic.

Then came the main event.

Darius slouched into his chair like he owned the laminate table, Ryan sitting straighter beside him. The first question came like a fastball:

"Darius—right after Ryan missed that three, cameras caught you shoving him. What exactly did you say?"

Darius grinned.

"Told him, ’Stop jacking threes. I hate that.’"

Laughter rippled through the room. A follow-up: "Weren’t you worried it’d escalate?"

Darius threw an arm around Ryan’s shoulders—just shy of a headlock. "Nah. Me and the kid? We’re tight."

Next question:

"What’s your impression of Ryan as a new teammate and player?"

Darius didn’t miss a beat.

"He’s raw, no doubt. But I got him—gonna make sure he develops the right way."

Ryan played along, shooting him a mock-glare that had reporters chuckling.

Both of them were relaxed, showing no signs that the loss had gotten to them.

From there, the rest of the presser went smoothly—full of smiles and chuckles.

Mission accomplished.

——

No hotel stays—road teams flew straight home after games. Always had. The Roares were no exception.

Ryan didn’t get back to Unit 702 until after 2 AM. As expected, the place was dark and still—Jamal and Kylie were already asleep.

But on the kitchen table, beneath a small frosted cupcake, sat a note:

"Congrats on the Top 2 Plays tonight. Don’t sweat the L—we get ’em next week."

Ryan smirked, heart warm, unwrapped the cake, and ate it in three bites. The sugar hit his bloodstream like a fast break. For a second, the sting of the loss dulled.

——

The next day, the team had the day off.

Ryan emerged from the Roares Training Center around noon, fresh off his daily two-hour fitness session. His agent Eddie’s car idled at the curb—backseat occupied by Jamal, who was already Eddie’s errand boy (sorry, assistant).

Ryan slid into the passenger seat.

"You really need to buy a car," Eddie said as he pulled away from the curb.

Ryan snorted. "You know I’m broke."

Eddie smirked. "Which is why I’m here to deliver you a bag of money today."

They drove to a quiet little spot for lunch, one of Eddie’s usual hideouts. After they finished eating, Eddie leaned back in his chair and got down to business.

"Alright. Here’s where we stand. Arvos and Vantix haven’t moved—no updated offers. But Stryda bumped theirs. Added half a mil. Two years, two million."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "I scored just fourteen last night, and they still increased the offer?"

Eddie nodded. "Honestly, you played well. Fourteen was in line with their projections. If you’d dropped thirty, that’s when shit gets stupid."

Ryan tapped his fork against his plate. "So what’s the play?"

"We wait. After next week’s home game, I’ll start squeezing them. Unless you completely faceplant, we’ll lock in something fat."

Next week. Home game. Shouldn’t be too bad...

Ryan gave a slow nod. "So about that bag of money you mentioned?"

Eddie pulled a tablet from his briefcase, fingers already swiping as he spoke.

"You’ve got a few dozen endorsement inquiries sitting in my inbox," he said. "I filtered the noise. Lowball offers? Gone. Cheap junk? Tossed—bad for your image."

He tapped once more and spun the tablet around toward Ryan. "These five made the cut."

Ryan glanced at the screen—up first, a casual apparel brand.

"Frey & Mason," Eddie said. "Small label. They’re only asking for a seasonal lookbook shoot—nothing else. One year, twenty grand. No social posts, no appearances."

Ryan skimmed the photos. Neutral tones, minimalist design. He gave a small nod. "Done."

Eddie swiped to the next screen.

"Vola Active," he said. "Anti-sweat fragrance line. Just print work again—your face on the packaging, a few stills for in-store displays. Two years, sixty grand."

Ryan didn’t hesitate. "Also fine."

The next offer was a small headphone brand—short commercial shoot, fifty grand for the year. Ryan took it without hesitation.

Eddie swiped to the fourth offer and Ryan’s chair screeched as he recoiled. "The fuck? A litter box?" His finger hovered over the tablet like it was radioactive.

He looked up at Eddie. "You’ve got to be kidding."

"I don’t kid when there’s money involved." Eddie didn’t blink.

Ryan shot him a look. "Didn’t you say ’cheap junk gets tossed—bad for my image’?"

Eddie held up a finger. "One, it’s actually one of the top-tier brands in pet care. Premium pricing. Two, it makes you look relatable. Might even win over a few cat people. And three—" he paused for effect—"they’re offering a hundred and twenty grand. Two years."

Ryan’s protest died in his throat. "But...I don’t even own a cat."

Eddie waved his hand like swatting a fly.

"No one’s fact-checking whether you actually have a cat. Oh, and there’s a commercial too. You come home from the game, gently pet the cat, scoop the litter box, then look at the camera and say—’Clean game. Clean box.’"

Jamal, who’d been quietly sipping his drink, broke into laughter.

Ryan glared at him.

"My bad," Jamal said, still chuckling. "That line got me."

Ryan turned back to Eddie. "Fine, I’ll take it."

Eddie gave a satisfied nod. "Smart move. Never say no to money."

Ryan leaned back slightly. "Do I need to show up somewhere to sign?"

Eddie shook his head. "Not for the smaller ones. Technically, I can sign for you—you’ve already authorized me. But to avoid any bullshit later, I recommend using a digital signature."

Ryan nodded. "Got it."

"There’s one last deal that requires your physical presence," Eddie added. "They’re going to set up a stage in the hotel ballroom for the signing ceremony. It’ll be a big production, with lots of media invited to cover it."

"Big brand?"

"Not yet. New electrolyte drink—Zero9. Matches your jersey number, so they want you front and center." Eddie paused. "Three years. Half a mil."

Eddie swiped the tablet and showed Ryan the details of Zero9. Ryan glanced through it — five flavors, sleek design, and a fresh, modern look.

Ryan’s eyebrows shot up. "Not a big brand, but they’re dropping cash like one."

Eddie’s eyes gleamed. "The owner’s got deep pockets."

"Who?"

Eddie didn’t say it right away. He let the name land like a dropped pin.

"Chloe Palmer."

Ryan’s entire body stilled. The name hit him like a blindside screen.

Her.

The memory hit like a flash—her golden hair catching the stadium lights, that faint, captivating smile, and then her final words before turning to leave:

"We’ll see each other again. Soon."

The way she’d made soon sound like a promise.