CHAPTER 34: CHAPTER 34 :EXTRA WORK, LOOKBOOK SHOOT, HEADING TO THE SIGNING CEREMONY

The next morning at Roares Training Center, Ryan walked into the main practice court to find Malik already there, working on floaters by himself.

"You sure you don’t want a day or two off?" Ryan asked.

"I’m fine," Malik replied, eyes still on the rim. "I just can’t do any heavy contact or load-bearing drills for now."

Soon the rest of the team trickled in, Coach Crawford last as usual. Practice began.

When it came time for tactical movement drills, Crawford glanced at Omar and said flatly, "You’re starting next game."

Omar froze mid-movement. After getting torched by Axton in his first non-garbage-time minutes last game—subbed out almost immediately—he’d assumed his role was set in stone. Now this?

"Me? Starting?" he asked, stunned.

Crawford didn’t flinch. "Just a spot start to eat up some minutes. Malik’s out at least two games. You’ll fill in. Your job is to hold the line and wear Axton down a little. I’m not starting five smalls out the gate."

Omar nodded quickly. "Got it."

His chest swelled—nerves, pride, maybe both.

A start was still a start.

"But," Crawford added, voice sharp, "how long you stay on the floor? That’s on you. If you stink up the place, you’re out after two possessions."

Most coaches wouldn’t say that publicly. But Crawford had built a reputation on brutal honesty—the fact he hadn’t called Omar "useless" to his face was practically encouragement.

Omar clenched his fists. "I’ll give it everything I’ve got."

During scrimmages, Omar hustled. But his feet were cement—Darius blew by him, Kamara crossed him over, even Sloan left him grasping air. Crawford’s profanity-laced critiques echoed each time.

After practice, Omar caught Ryan heading to the gym.

"Hey," he said, jogging over. "You free the next few nights to get in some extra reps with me?"

Ryan looked at him, surprised.

"I really want to get better," Omar added. "I don’t want to be the weak link out there."

Ryan could see it in his eyes—he meant it.

"Alright," he said. "Let me figure out my schedule. I’ll text you."

——

8:03 PM.

The steel door of the Roares Training Center’s main practice court creaked shut. A beat later, the squeak of sneakers and the steady thump of leather on hardwood began to echo through the empty facility. Ryan and Omar were locked in, deep into their extra work.

Ryan stood near the elbow, back to the basket. He backed Omar down slowly—shoulder into chest—then spun baseline and finished with a quick scoop off the glass.

Breathing steady, he stepped off the block and pulled out his phone. A clip loaded on-screen: yesterday’s footage—Axton isolating Omar in the post.

"See this?" Ryan tapped pause, zooming in on Axton’s lead foot. "When he rocks onto his toes like this—" he demonstrated the micro-movement, "—even if he’s selling a pass, he’s going spin. Don’t bite. Prep your weight. Get ready to slide early."

Omar squinted at the screen, nodding slowly. "Got it."

They replayed the sequence twice, then went right back into the drill. Ryan took Axton’s place, replicating his footwork, shoulder feints, head dips. Omar mirrored, adjusting angles, lowering his stance, absorbing contact.

Then they switched. Omar mimicked Axton’s on-ball pressure—wide stance, hands active, bumping with the forearm. Ryan attacked off the dribble, pushing into his body, challenging him again and again.

The session took on its own rhythm—video, rep, correction, repeat. Minutes bled into each other. The clock above the court ticked past nine.

Neither of them noticed when the heavy metal side door creaked open, just an inch.

Coach Crawford stood outside in the hallway, arms folded, face unreadable. Through the narrow gap, he watched.

Omar wasn’t quick—not by league standards—but his frame was massive, his shoulders like columns. And he was working. Really working. That mattered.

Crawford exhaled quietly. The fact Omar had reached out to Ryan on his own said more than any stat line. The kid wasn’t just trying to survive—he wanted to belong.

If he could give them just ten honest minutes a night, that opened up a whole new rotation possibility. And then there was Ryan—the gifted kid with a flash of Marcus in his game. Suddenly, the seven-man grind that had dragged through half a season started to feel... lighter.

Crawford allowed himself a smile. Maybe—just maybe—this thing wasn’t dead yet.

Twelve straight losses meant nothing. Not with 36 games left. Not with kids willing to come back for extra work at night.

He gently pulled the door shut, muffling the next round of collisions.

His dress shoes echoed down the corridor. Step by step, the weight on his chest eased.

Playoff odds be damned—he’d just seen the future.

——

By the time Monday night rolled around, it had already been four straight days.

10:30 PM. The lights inside Roares’ main practice court still burned bright.

Ryan slumped to the floor, legs heavy, sweat clinging to every inch of him. He leaned back against the wall, chest rising and falling. Four straight days of extra workouts with Omar had taken their toll.

He pulled out his phone and opened his banking app—something he’d only just installed today.

The five endorsement deals had been digitally signed days ago, and the first installments—30% to 50% upfront—had already been hitting the agency’s escrow account.

When Eddie had mentioned transferring his cut earlier, Ryan had realized with mild disbelief that the guy whose body he now occupied didn’t even have a bank account.

So after Roares’ midday team practice, he let Eddie drag him to open one.

Now, the numbers glowing on his screen made him grin—180,000. Not exactly life-changing, but more than he’d ever had.

Including his last life. Back then, he was a 27-year-old office worker—average pay, average life, barely scraping by.

This 180,000 wasn’t even the full amount—it was only the upfront payment, and after Eddie’s 10% cut.

"What’s so funny?" Omar dropped down next to him, dripping sweat, his soaked T-shirt clinging to his broad frame like he’d been dragged out of a river.

Ryan quickly locked the screen. "Nothing," he said, brushing it off. "Just thinking. This is the last night. I’m slammed tomorrow."

No lie there.

His Tuesday was already stacked. First up: a lookbook shoot with Frey & Mason, the casual apparel brand that was flying in specifically to photograph him.

Then, that night, the Zero9 signing ceremony.

The deal had been finalized days ago—Ryan had already signed the digital contract, and Eddie had received a generous 200K upfront payment the same day. The whole event was just theater, strategically timed for the night before Roares’ home game against the Boulders.

Smart marketing—create buzz, flood the socials, boost engagement. A new signing, a breakout star, a flashy event the night before tip-off.

Omar shrugged. "OK. Game’s the day after tomorrow anyway." He wiped his face with his shirt. "Thanks for putting in these nights. Seriously. Four nights—really helped me a lot."

Ryan glanced over at him and smiled. "We both got something out of it."

——

Tuesday, 3:30 PM. East Side, Iron City.

Ryan stood in front of a graffiti-covered wall, wearing Frey & Mason’s latest drop—a lightweight, slate-gray jacket catching the warm afternoon sunlight just right.

The photographer circled him, camera clicking.

"Chin up. Higher." The man snapped his fingers. "Yeah, perfect. Like you just won a game."

Ryan shifted as instructed, adjusting his posture, letting the jacket fall open just enough. Eddie had stationed Jamal nearby to snap behind-the-scenes shots throughout the session.

The shoot dragged longer than planned.

By the time Ryan changed out of the eighth outfit, the sun hung low over the industrial skyline, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement.

As the team started packing up, the shoot lead from Frey & Mason pulled him aside.

"We’re gifting you everything from today," she said with a smile.

Ryan blinked. "Seriously?" A grin stretched across his face. That was at least a few hundred bucks saved in wardrobe.

"It was a great shoot," she added. "Hope you wear us off-court."

Eddie jumped in, already checking his phone. "You didn’t ask for it, but we’re posting about the BTS."

She looked pleasantly surprised. "That’s amazing. Thank you."

A few minutes later, the BTS shots were already live across Ryan’s socials.

"Shoot day. @FreyandMason. You’ll see soon. #JustFitsThatSpeak"

Below it, a carousel of Jamal’s captures: Ryan mid-laugh, adjusting his cuffs, squinting against the sunset—all carefully curated to look uncurated.

It was nearing 7 p.m., and the Zero9 signing ceremony was set to start at 8:30. Eddie was rushing to get Ryan home in time.

Ryan took a quick shower and changed into the new slim-fit suit—dark navy, slightly tapered at the ankles—and he was ready.

Originally, he was planning to wear the only one he owned—the one Kylie had picked out for him. But last night, Kylie insisted he couldn’t keep showing up in the same outfit. She practically dragged him out to buy another.

He headed downstairs and slid into the passenger seat of Eddie’s car.

The signing was being held at a ballroom at the Crown Hotel.

On the way there, Ryan adjusted his cuffs, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knee.

Nervous? Yeah. But not about the signing—that was just theater. The contract was already inked, the money already wired. No, what had his stomach twisting was the certainty that she would be there.

Chloe Palmer.

Eddie shot him a look from the driver’s seat. "You good?"

Ryan exhaled. "Just thinking."

"Well, stop. You look like you’re about to face a firing squad." Eddie smirked. "It’s a champagne-and-handshakes night, kid. Relax."

But Ryan couldn’t. Not when every heartbeat seemed to echo her name.