CHAPTER 48: CHAPTER 48 :BACK-TO-BACK AGAINST A TWIN-FORWARD POWERHOUSE

The Roarers’ celebration finally began to wind down, players starting to drift off the court in ones and twos.

From the sideline, Erica Dawson—one of the network’s sharpest sideline reporters—hurried onto the hardwood, mic in hand, producer in her earpiece.

But she hesitated.

Who to interview?

Ryan had just finished with 19 points, 19 assists, and 10 rebounds—a jaw-dropping triple-double.

Gibson? He scored 25—not quite Darius’ 28, the team-high.

But Gibson hit the buzzer-beating game-winner.

And that mattered.

More than that—Gibson broke his career-high for the first time in eight years.

Even he hadn’t seen it coming.

Funny thing, records don’t always fall in your prime.

Russell Westbrook’s 24-point quarter? That was in 2024, in a Nuggets jersey.

And Derrick Rose?

His career-high 50-point game didn’t come in Chicago during his MVP years.

It came much later—after the injuries, in 2018, wearing a Timberwolves jersey.

Ryan spotted Erica’s dilemma. He quickened his pace, veering left toward the tunnel. On-court interviews? Plenty more where those came from. But for Gibson? Hell, the man probably forgot what a live mic felt like.

Erica didn’t have to choose anymore. With Ryan walking toward the tunnel, she turned to Gibson just as Coach Crawford stepped onto the court.

A firm hand landed on Gibson’s shoulder. Assistants swarmed him with towels and backslaps. The adrenaline was fading now, leaving something raw in its wake—Gibson’s eyes glistened under the arena lights.

Erica reached his side.

"Tariq," she began gently, "I can see how much this means to you. A buzzer-beating game-winner, and your career-high—25 points. Incredible."

She paused.

If this had been on Roarers’ home floor, the place would’ve erupted—cheers shaking the rafters, a standing ovation, a cinematic moment etched in memory.

Even here—if not for the choke sign—maybe the Bullets fans would’ve offered a few grudging claps. But now?

The entire arena was raining boos.

Gibson’s expression tightened. As the boos swelled, he realized just how hostile the crowd was.

He wiped at his eyes with the towel—whatever emotion had been building, gone.

Ryan, just steps from the tunnel, glanced back at the growing noise—then broke into a jog.

Nope. Not my circus...

Erica plowed forward. "What does this moment mean to you?" She thrust the mic forward like a lifeline.

Gibson took a breath. "It means everything. For the team. For the fans. For my kid..."

He half-turned, instinctively looking toward the stands—but stopped short. Maybe better not to point him out. Not with this crowd.

"For them, I’ll give everything I’ve got. I’m gonna keep playing hard. Every night."

The boos got louder. Erica winced slightly, gave a polite nod, and wrapped it up quickly.

"Thank you, Tariq."

Some stories just don’t get fairytale endings.

——

Ryan and Gibson walked into the post-game presser together.

Ryan flopped into his seat and casually pulled a bottle of Zero9 from his pocket, slapping it onto the long table with a smirk.

Within seconds, a league PR rep swooped in and whisked it away—clearly, they’d been expecting that move from him.

Reporters turned first to Gibson. Questions came rapid-fire—his performance, the final shot, and inevitably, the celebration.

When someone asked about the choke gesture, Gibson looked almost amused. "Man, it’s a shame the cameras didn’t catch what happened right before that..." he started.

Thud.

Under the table, Ryan gave him a quick kick.

Gibson blinked, then shrugged with a grin.

"Heat of the moment," he said. "Guess I got a little carried away."

Naturally, the questions aimed at Ryan revolved around his monster stat line—another triple-double in just his fifth game.

"I think tonight should silence the people who’ve been calling me a garbage-time stat-padder," Ryan said dryly, arms folded, eyes scanning the room. "They’ve been loud all week. I figured I’d speak their language—numbers."

Then came the curveball.

A reporter near the back raised his hand. "Just twenty minutes ago, ABA insider Blake Ryland reported that you might be under consideration for the Rising Stars Challenge during All-Star Weekend. Any thoughts?"

Ryan blinked. "Me? I’ve only played five games. That can’t be real."

Still, you could see his curiosity spark. He’d clearly done his homework on how things worked. Unlike the NBA’s complicated formats, this league’s Rising Stars event was stripped down: two teams, one game, no time limit—first to 40 points wins. The league selects seven rookies and seven sophomores into a player pool. Two respected ABA figures—retired players or coaches—serve as head coaches and draft from the player pool.

Selections are mostly based on stats and having played at least half the season.

Another reporter followed up immediately. "Considering your record-breaking numbers and your recent sneaker deal—second only to Colter Frye’s this season—some say the league might make an exception. If you do get in, what would it mean to you?"

Ryan paused, then nodded slowly.

"I’d be deeply honored. Truly. To team up and compete alongside the top rookies from the past two years in the ABA—this kind of opportunity? You don’t waste it."

Then came a more playful one: "What if you’re invited to the Slam Dunk Contest?"

That gave Ryan pause.

Ryan’s mind raced. He had Westbrook’s game dunks—power, speed, rim-rattlers. But the contest? That required theatrics. Flair. Neither Westbrook nor LeBron had ever bothered with it.

Ryan shook his head. "I’m an in-game dunker. If they invite me? Appreciate it—but I’ll pass."

——

The postgame press conference ended with the usual flashes and microphones, and within minutes, Ryan and Gibson had joined the rest of the team on the bus. No airports tonight—just a long, straight drive down I-907. Millvoque to Yurev City, 150 miles. A rare back-to-back without boarding hassles or travel delays—just a smooth ride straight to the hotel.

Most of the guys were already slouched into their seats, hoods up, earbuds in, decompressing after the emotional high of the win. Coaches murmured near the front, film pulled up on their tablets.

Ryan never could sleep on buses. Too many vibrations, too much motion. Instead, he pulled out his phone and began digging into everything he could find on the Crows. Coach Crawford had given the usual pregame surface-level stuff—but Ryan wanted more.

Eastern Conference Standings:

6th Place — Yurev Crows

15-26 (Last 10: 4-6)

Not exactly red-hot, but dangerous enough to make you pay attention.

The ABA’s only true twin-forward powerhouse.

Playstyle Breakdown

Offense:

Relentless rim attackers — third in ABA for shots at the rim.

Pick-and-roll heavy — 68% of halfcourt sets begin with a screen.

Shooting woes — just 30.1% from deep, 19th out of 20 teams.

Defense:

Switch-everything length — 2nd in steals, 5th in deflections.

Weak on the glass — only 18th in defensive rebounding rate.

Fatal Flaw:

They fall apart in the clutch. In clutch time situations — games within 5 points in the final 3 minutes — they’re just 3–15.

Once a perennial contender, the Crows are steeped in tradition. They’ve made several deep playoff runs and even captured a championship nearly a decade ago. Their front office is known for its uncanny eye for raw talent—earning them the nickname "rookie whisperers." The team has produced multiple Rookie of the Year winners over the years, including... Lin.

Eight years ago, Lin burst onto the scene in a Crows jersey and took the league by storm.

Ryan scrolled through a headline about Lin’s early days in Yurev. He looked up instinctively, eyes landing on the same guy, now fast asleep two rows ahead.

Today it’s Gibson. Tomorrow it’s Lin.

So this is the ABA. Different world, same game.

Stick around long enough, and everyone’s got a past.

The "one-franchise-for-life" myth? That’s rare—in any universe.

Even back in the NBA—his NBA—guys like Kobe or Steph Curry were outliers.

Long dubbed "the league’s last loyalist," Damian Lillard spent a decade swearing he’d retire in Portland.

One trade later, he’s suiting up for the Bucks.

Doesn’t matter the league, doesn’t matter the world. It always ends the same.

Ryan kept scrolling through the info.

Eight years ago, the Yurev Crows were knocked out of the Eastern Finals after Lin missed a potential game-winning three.

That moment marked the start of their decline.

What followed was a slow rebuild.

Now—finally—a pulse again.

Leading the charge? Dario Banchieri. A 6’10" point forward and last season’s Rookie of the Year. Averaging 27.6 points per game, he’s a walking mismatch—too quick for bigs, too big for guards—and he thrives in isolation.

Alongside him is Felix Wacker, also 6’10", a do-it-all forward who took Rookie of the Year honors two years ago. Their two-man game is unorthodox: a high pick-and-roll that flips convention, going forward-to-forward instead of guard-to-big.

That twist forces defenders into impossible choices—slow-footed bigs get exposed by Banchieri’s handle, and smaller wings get buried by Wacker’s physicality in the post.

Suddenly, Kamara dropped into the seat next to Ryan.

Glancing at Ryan’s phone, Kamara smirked. "Not many teams can match up with their size at the forward spots. But us? We’re one of them. And we already took them down at home once this season."

Ryan looked at him, then over at Gibson, who was already knocked out in his seat. 6’9" and 6’11". Yeah, that’s a hell of a size advantage.

"Guess it’ll come down to your ’big wings’ then," Ryan said.

Kamara shrugged. "Malik’s back too. They gamble hard on steals, but their rebounding instincts are trash."

Ryan considered it. Malik wasn’t what he used to be, but he could still protect the rim when it mattered.

"And one more thing," Kamara added, lowering his voice. "You can count on whoever you want this game—just don’t count on Lin. He always plays like crap in Yurev."

Ryan sighed inwardly. Here we go again.

How deep does this guy’s distrust of Lin run?