CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER 42 :[TRASH TALK BONUS ACTIVATED.]

With just over four minutes remaining in the first quarter, LaVonte shook off Stanley’s single coverage again—no, bullied through it would be more accurate. Built like a tank, LaVonte barreled toward the rim with unstoppable force.

Stanley still contested the leap, but—whistle—BANG!

The dunk hammered home through contact. The crowd erupted.

And-one.

Clock froze at 4:35.

As LaVonte stepped to the line, Crawford burned a timeout.

Paladins up 28-11.

From the opening tip, Stanley had been on LaVonte island—no help, no switches, just one-on-one. LaVonte saw it, welcomed it, and feasted.

Nine shots in just over seven minutes. Hit seven of them. Toss in a few free throws, and he was already at 18 points.

To be fair, Crawford’s gamble wasn’t entirely a bust. The other four Paladins had scored just 10 combined.

And 28 total wasn’t outrageous.

The real issue? The Roares couldn’t score. Cold as ice.

No surprise: Crawford subbed in Ryan. No play drawn, just a nod.

Ryan peeled off toward the baseline to stretch, bouncing in place.

He first checked the system.

[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 76.8%]

"System," he muttered. "Any rewards or spins for tonight?"

[GIVE ME A VALID REASON.]

"Uh—" Ryan glanced down at his neon-orange PEs, laser-etched with his name. "First game wearing my personalized PEs?"

[DENIED. WEAK JUSTIFICATION.]

"Come on," Ryan groaned. "You’re literally the most generous system ever."

A pause. Then:

[TO CELEBRATE YOUR FIRST GAME IN PERSONALIZED GEAR, THE SYSTEM IS FEELING GENEROUS: ONE FREE SPIN OF THE LUCKY WHEEL.]

[GENERATING...]

[LUCKY WHEEL ACTIVATED.]

Let’s go!

Ryan grinned. "Told you you were the best."

The familiar massive wheel materialized.

He glanced at a few segments—and immediately cursed. "The hell?!"

-WESTBROOK SYNC RATE 100% (3 SEC)

-REFEREE’S BLIND SPOT (1 UNDETECTED FOUL)

-FREE THROW ACCURACY +1 %

...and more

-THANKS FOR PLAYING!

Not just one!

No time to complain. Game was restarting.

"Whatever." Ryan exhaled. "Spin."

The wheel spun, clicked, and slowed...stopped.

-TRASH TALK BONUS

"...Seriously?"

The wheel disappeared.

A line of text hovered in the air:

[TRASH TALK BONUS. Trash talk is a basketball tactic—and an art. Sometimes, a single trash talk can change the course of a game. Using this reward will successfully provoke one opposing player. One-time use only. To activate, whisper: "System, use."]

Change the course of a game?

Ryan stepped onto the court with a healthy dose of skepticism. Lin, Kamara, Stanley, and Sloan trotted out alongside him.

LaVonte sank the and-one at the free-throw line with calm precision.

As they jogged back, LaVonte brushed past Ryan and muttered, "I’m staying in this whole quarter... just to keep you company."

Ryan blinked. The hell did I do to piss this guy off?

Lin inbounded the ball, and Ryan pushed the pace, dribbling upcourt. Just as he reached the three-point line, LaVonte was already there—arms wide, stance low. A full meter between them, and yet the pressure was suffocating.

Ryan didn’t take the early shot. They were down eighteen. No time for heat checks.

He kept his dribble low, studying gaps, but LaVonte’s eyes followed every feint, every crossover.

Ryan exploded into his first move—then a quick cut the other way. Nothing. LaVonte slid with him, balanced and grounded, wingspan swallowing space.

Third move. Still stuck. Shoes screeched across the hardwood.

Damn it. He’s reading my accelerations.

With only a 76.8% Westbrook sync rate, there’s no way I’m shaking him.

Ryan shot a glance at Sloan, currently filling in at center.

Sloan immediately stepped up to set a high screen.

LaVonte was firmly sealed off—half a step, but enough. Ryan turned the corner off the screen, slashed into the paint, slipping past the opposing center.

Then—

Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow.

Shit—!

LaVonte had shouldered Sloan aside and was back on him, closing like a missile.

But the rim was right there.

Ryan rose, cocking the ball high.

And then—SMACK!

A hand came crashing down, pinning the ball to the glass.

Gasps. Shouts. The crowd exploded.

Ryan landed, turned—

The ball slid down the backboard.

LaVonte landed and caught it one-handed as it dropped low.

He didn’t push it up. Just grinned. "You ain’t scoring easy tonight."

Ryan’s eye twitched. Why’s he got a vendetta against me?

Backpedaling into defense, Ryan caught his breath.

LaVonte brought it down to the left wing. Stanley stepped up to guard him. Ryan stayed with Bellanova, their point guard.

Then LaVonte waved. Bellanova sprinted over to screen.

Motherf— He’s hunting me? Didn’t see him calling for Darius earlier.

Ryan had no choice—switch.

He crouched, locking onto LaVonte.

"Let me show you how to drive," LaVonte taunted.

He dropped his hips, then boom—exploded forward.

Ryan matched the first step, but LaVonte leaned a shoulder in—

BAM.

It felt like being hit by a truck. Ryan staggered, just half a step—but it was enough.

He tried to recover, but the space was gone.

LaVonte rose, effortless.

WHAM!

A two-handed dunk that shook the rim.

Roares ball.Ryan brought it up again. LaVonte was still waiting, same stance, same suffocating pressure—like the man didn’t breathe, didn’t blink.

Ryan jab-stepped, tested the angle, but it was like dancing in a closet. Nowhere to go.

The clock ticked.

He swung it to the right corner—Lin, open.

Lin rose with perfect form. The shot was pure. The result? Pure iron.

Clang.

Ryan went in for the rebound, but tonight there was no sharp read, no 100% Westbrook bounce.

Offensive boards weren’t coming easy.

LaVonte snatched the board with ease.

No fast break. Instead, he held the ball, waiting as Ryan backpedaled.

"Still trying to pad your stats like last game?" LaVonte smirked.

Ryan ignored him, retreating on defense. But the words stuck like gum under a sneaker.

LaVonte brought it up, slow, methodical, as if savoring the moment.

Ryan picked up Bellanova again, but he could feel LaVonte’s eyes scanning, watching.

Sure enough—LaVonte waved his hand.

Another screen.

Again?

Ryan gritted his teeth.

Switch.

LaVonte sized him up, then—bang—a sudden pull-up three.

But short.

Clank.

The shot rattled out. Kamara soared for the rebound, then outleted to Ryan.

Ryan pushed the ball upcourt.

But LaVonte was right there again. Fast. Too fast for his size.

Still no space. No daylight.

Kamara flashed across, sliced through the paint.

There—timing perfect. Ryan dropped a bounce pass between legs. Kamara caught it in stride.

Went up strong—

Whack. The opposing center hacked his arm. Foul.

Kamara to the line.

Ryan moved to his designated spot along the lane line—the second space from the basket on the right side. As the ref handed the ball to Kamara, Ryan felt a presence.

LaVonte stood beside him.

LaVonte nudged Ryan. "I hate stat-padders."

Ryan’s jaw tensed.

You want to go there? Fine.

He dipped his head slightly, whispered:

"System, use."

[TRASH TALK BONUS ACTIVATED.]

LaVonte frowned. "What?"

Ryan didn’t look at him. "I said... I could never chase stats like you."

He paused just long enough.

"Who else would return from a hamstring injury in garbage time just to keep their 600-game double-digit streak alive—after scoring only 8?"

LaVonte froze.

A breath.

Then—face hardened, jaw set.

"Kid—" he muttered. "You really pissed me off."

The arena seemed to tilt slightly. Ryan swore he felt the temperature drop.

All while—

Swish. Kamara’s first free throw.

Swish. The second.

Paladins ball.

As they jogged back, Kamara gave Ryan a side glance.

"What was that about?"

Ryan kept his face blank. "I respect his legacy. He respects my... honesty."

Kamara raised an eyebrow. "Cool. Just don’t talk trash to that guy."

Ryan stayed quiet.

Kamara leaned closer, muttering:

"Last guy who did? Scored two, fouled out, and cried in the tunnel."

Ryan’s eye twitched.

The final minutes of the first quarter unfolded like a nightmare for Ryan. LaVonte, after torching the defense for 21 points in less than ten minutes, suddenly—intentionally—shifted gears. No more isolations. No more downhill attacks. LaVonte wasn’t hunting buckets anymore—he wasn’t just guarding Ryan now; he was focusing all his energy on him, hunting him.

Wherever Ryan went—on or off the ball—LaVonte was there. Glued. Hounding him with the kind of full-body defense that turns legs into jelly and minds into mush. There was no space, no rhythm, no room to think. Each jab step, each off-ball cut, met resistance. Every dribble was a negotiation.

With 20 seconds left, Ryan waved off the playcall entirely.

He isolated at the elbow, back to the basket, and initiated the grind. Shoulder first, he rammed into LaVonte—testing, probing for weakness.

First bump. LaVonte’s sneakers remained absolutely still.

Second bump. Like driving into a concrete pillar.

Third heave—nothing. Not an inch.

Damn, this guy’s strength is on par with those giant centers.

The shot clock screamed: 5...4...3...

Desperation triggered muscle memory. Ryan spun, kicking out his right leg in that iconic Dirk-style one-legged fadeaway, the ball lofting toward the rim—

SMACK.

LaVonte’s hand met the ball at its apex, swatting it into the stands with contemptuous ease. The buzzer blared. First quarter over.

40–21. Paladins up.

Ryan walked off in silence, jaw tight. Four field goal attempts. Zero makes. Zero assists. Zero rebounds. Zero points.

A blank stat line.