CHAPTER 58: CHAPTER 58 :PRINCE OF NIGHTLIFE—REMEMBER THE NAME

With the day free, the players lingered, the vibe loose and friendly.

Someone floated the idea of a night out, and it caught like wildfire. "Vega City’s got the best clubs. We hitting up Neon Pulse tonight. Who’s in?"

Most of the guys nodded, but they quickly agreed to split by teams—Team Vess and Team Nealson hitting separate spots. No need for headlines about "rival teams partying together" stirring up drama.

Ryan wasn’t about to say no to a night out. A chance to cut loose in Vega City’s electric nightlife? That was a slam dunk, as long as they kept it clean and didn’t end up as tabloid fodder. The ABA had no hard rules against players having fun, just a friendly nudge to not go overboard. With Rising Stars practice scheduled for tomorrow, no one wanted to show up hungover, injured, or worse.

He rolled with Eddie and Jamal to Nox Lounge, a downtown hotspot pulsing with neon and bass that hit like a fast break. Each of the seven Team Nealson players arrived with their own crew—agents, bodyguards, or buddies like Jamal, there to keep things smooth and handle any trouble. The bouncer, a mountain of a man, parted the velvet ropes without a word, ushering them into a plush VIP section overlooking the dance floor. The booth was stocked with bottles of premium tequila and whiskey, ice buckets glinting under the strobe lights.

Seven players squeezed into the plush semi-circle couch, drinks in hand, laughing over stories from college ball and their first paychecks.

Music pulsed through the floor like a second heartbeat. Flashing lights danced across the walls, and the energy inside the club was already electric.

At the next table, Jamal was deep in party mode—flirting with the server and swaying nonstop to the beat.

Then came the noise.

A wave of shouts and shrieks erupted near the entrance. Heads turned. Phones shot up.

The man entering didn’t walk—he floated. Velvet blazer, ripped designer jeans, gold chains that shimmered under the strobe. A thick, carefully shaped beard. Eyes hidden behind oversized shades, even inside. And in each hand? Wads of cash, which he began tossing into the air like confetti.

Bills fluttered down over the dance floor. Chaos erupted.

"Holy shit, my big bro’s here!" said Amin Thomas, the Starships guard, grinning as he stood to get a better look.

Ryan narrowed his eyes as the man walked into the club, followed by an entourage that could’ve filled a tour bus. And then it clicked.

Jalen Hardell.The face of the Nova City Starships. MVP. Scoring champ. This year’s Western Conference All-Star starter. Flashiest player in the league—and unofficially known as the Prince of Nightlife.

Ryan couldn’t help thinking—superstars making tens of millions a year really did live differently.

Here he was, still quietly proud about scoring 40% off his K3, while this guy walked into a club and tossed out thousands like pocket lint.

Hardell strutted toward the VIP area, his entourage in tow, tossing another fistful of bills that sent the crowd into a frenzy. He spotted Amin and dapped him up, his grin as big as his reputation. "Y’all rookies havin’ fun?"

To his credit, the superstar was surprisingly down-to-earth, greeting each rookie with a nod or quick handshake. The players stayed cool—they’d faced him on the court before.

But what did turn heads was the guy trailing in Hardell’s orbit: a rapper named K-Vibe, not quite a household name but a rising force in the Atlantis hip-hop scene. His braids swung as he moved, a diamond-studded chain catching the strobe lights, and his laid-back swagger screamed confidence.

"Ayo, K-Vibe!" Amin called out, genuinely hyped.

K-Vibe gave a chin lift in response, his diamond-studded "Lucky 7" pendant catching the light.

With the greetings done, the groups split off to their own corners of the club. Hardell and his crew, including K-Vibe, strutted toward a private booth deeper in the VIP area, already reserved with bottles lined up like trophies. The rookies settled back into their own vibe, the music pounding as the night roared on.

An hour in, the drinks were flowing and the energy was high—Ryan included.

Amin had already commandeered the DJ booth, grabbing the mic to rap along with the track. Then Max McCale from the Drayport Talons yanked Ryan up. "Come on, let’s go!"

Before he knew it, Ryan was on stage with a mic shoved into his hand.

Problem? He didn’t know a single song in this world.

So he just vibed, moving to the beat as the bass rattled the speakers. The DJ—a wiry guy with sleeve tattoos and a headset tilted sideways—mixed into an instrumental break, the synths sharp, the drums punchy.

Then Ryan caught it.

A rhythm that felt familiar. Close, but not quite, to something from Earth. It took him a second to place it—then it hit him.

On impulse, he grabbed the mic.

"You ready?! Let’s go!"

The crowd erupted, screams cutting through the bass. Ryan leaned in, adrenaline surging. "Yeah, for those of you that want to know what we’re all about—it’s like this, y’all, c’mon!"

Another wave of cheers washed over him.

He launched into the chorus, the words flowing like muscle memory:"This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill,

Fifteen percent concentrated power of will,

Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain,

And a hundred percent reason to remember the name!"

The club went silent for a split second, jaws dropping. This song didn’t exist in Atlantis. Was this kid freestyling a banger out of nowhere? Then the energy exploded, the crowd screaming the chorus back, caught in the fire of the moment.

As Ryan rolled into the next lines, trying to freestyle the verse, he stumbled halfway through—forgot the lyrics. No choice but to loop back to the chorus.

"This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill..."

The DJ, quick on the uptake, tweaked the rhythm to match, the bass thickening behind Ryan’s flow.

And damn—it worked. The entire club was shouting the hook by the second repeat.

Hardell stared from his VIP throne, then elbowed K-Vibe beside him. "This kid tryna steal my ’Prince of Nightlife’ title?"

But K-Vibe wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on Ryan, pupils blown wide. "Bro..." His voice was hushed. "If I got on this track? It’d blow up worldwide."

"Huh?" Hardell blinked.

Before he could stop him, K-Vibe had already jumped onto the stage. He moved beside Ryan, eyes lit up.

"Yo, did you write this?"

Ryan shrugged, still catching his breath, and nodded. No one in this world had ever heard it, after all.

"What’s it called?"

"Remember the Name."

"Man, that’s fire," K-Vibe grinned, eyes gleaming. "Sell it to me."

"Huh?" Ryan blinked.

"I’m serious. It’s mine now," K-Vibe laughed, snatching the mic out of Ryan’s hand, his pro instincts kicking in. He jumped into the verse, freestyling new lyrics on the spot, his flow sharp and effortless. The crowd lost it, phones up, recording every second as K-Vibe turned the track into his own.