CHAPTER 90: CHAPTER 90 :REAL BASKETBALL. THIS AIN’T THE LEAGUE

All the players had arrived. K-Vibe pulled them together.

"Two quarters," he said. "Keep it real. Play hard. Give the cameras something undeniable."

Ankle Reaper locked eyes with Cameron, a grin spreading. "Been a minute since we threw down, huh? I’m coming for you."

Cameron chuckled, thinking back. "What, five, six years?"

Ballet Bear turned to Ryan, his massive frame looming. "I’m hyped to ball against this year’s hottest rookie. I’m not holding back."

Ryan flashed a grin. "Same here, big man."

Ballet Bear laughed, patting his 330-pound frame. "Don’t let the size fool you—I move like a cat."

"I know," Ryan said. "Caught your highlights."

Truth was, Ryan had only scoped out clips of his opponents during dinner, prepping for the matchup. Ballet Bear’s tape was unreal—crossover dribbles, spin moves, all silky smooth despite his size. No way Ryan was sleeping on him.

The ref’s whistle cut through the noise. Yeah, K-Vibe had even brought in a ref to keep things legit.

Both teams took the court.

K-Vibe’s squad—him, Ryan, Cameron, Afro Guy, and the 6’11" center—was stacked.

Well, except for K-Vibe himself—he was a hip-hop artist, not a baller.

The other team’s starting five included the big three: Ankle Reaper, Ballet Bear, and The Guillotine, no surprises there.

The crowd leaned in, ready for a show.

K-Vibe’s squad sent out their lanky 6’11" center for the tip-off, while Ankle Reaper’s crew—nobody bothered naming the teams—rolled with Ballet Bear.

Ryan blinked. Wait... This 330-pound giant was jumping center?

The lone ref tossed the ball skyward at midcourt.

Both men leapt.

The center clearly had the better bounce, rising higher—but mid-air, Ballet Bear’s massive gut bumped him off balance.

The center wobbled, flailed, and fell back down as Ballet Bear snagged the ball with ease, flashing a wide, toothy grin.

Ryan’s jaw dropped.

That’s how you play it?

Ballet Bear dribbled upcourt himself.

No coach, no pregame huddle, no practice—just raw instinct. Everyone found their matchup on the fly.

Ryan scanned the court and cursed under his breath. Nobody was stepping up to guard Ballet Bear.

Guess it’s me.

He squared up, heart pounding. He’d never faced a dude this big—330 pounds of pure mass.

Ryan crouched low, putting on a serious defensive stance, but inside, he was sweating. If this guy barreled through, he’d get flattened. No way he was risking his body for a street game, "play hard" or not.

His plan: let Bear blow by if he wanted, then maybe sneak a block at the rim.

The others cleared out, giving them space. Streetball thrived on one-on-one battles, and the crowd knew it.

Ballet Bear went through the legs, gave a head fake, then lunged forward. Ryan instinctively shifted back half a step. That’s when the spin came—fast, sharp—and suddenly Ryan was trailing.

Ryan hadn’t seen that coming. He’d braced for a bulldozer, not a spin move. Scrambling to recover, he was already half a step behind.

Bear stormed the paint and launched.

Ryan jumped after him, arm stretched, swiping for the ball. No chance.

Ballet Bear hammered a one-handed dunk. The rim rattled like it might snap off.

Ryan glanced up.

Is this thing sturdy?

Images of Shaq tearing down backboards flashed in his head.

The crowd exploded. The court announcer raised the mic, shouting,

"First bucket of the game goes to... BALLET BEAR!"

Chants followed immediately:

"Ballet Bear! Ballet Bear! Ballet Bear!"

Their center inbounded to Ryan, who brought it upcourt. Relief hit as he saw Ballet Bear switch to cover the dude with the afro.

Thank God. I didn’t want that walking wall in my face all game. One wrong bump and I’d be eating pavement.

But then he spotted his own defender: The Guillotine.

His gut tensed.

That nickname... doesn’t sound like fun.

Ryan signaled for a screen from the center, falling back on habits from the ABA.

The Guillotine laughed. "Yo, this ain’t the ABA, man. Pick-and-roll? Nah."

Pick-and-rolls weren’t banned in streetball, but they were rare. Out here, it was all about the solo battle. One-on-one or nothing.

The center ignored him too.

Ryan smirked, locking eyes with The Guillotine. "Aight, then. I’m coming."

The Guillotine didn’t flinch. Ryan was known in the ABA as a slashing point guard, a rim-attacker with jets.

Ryan took two steps back, creating space, then exploded forward—Westbrook-level first-step burst.

A quick crossover, then a scissor-step fake. The Guillotine bit, lunging the wrong way. Ryan blew past, dodging the help-side center, and went up with one hand, ready for a highlight-reel dunk.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed.

A massive hand swatted his shot clean to the ground, the ball bouncing out of bounds.

Ryan landed, spinning around. The Guillotine stood there, grinning.

"I’m the Guillotine in the air," he said, "Not chopping heads—chopping shots."

The crowd went wild, chanting, "Guillotine! Guillotine!"

Ryan had to give it up. That leap was insane, the timing perfect.

He grabbed the ball for the sideline inbound. Cameron caught it, immediately matched up by Ankle Reaper. Old streetball king versus the new one. Showtime.

Cameron went to work, backing down Reaper with a shoulder. Ankle Reaper held firm. Cameron spun quick—Ankle Reaper stayed with him. But Cameron hit a second spin, smooth and lethal, and laid it in.

"CAMERON!" the crowd thundered.

2–2.

Now it was Ankle Reaper’s turn. Ryan didn’t even pretend he was guarding him.

Hell no.

Ankle Reaper’s handles were next-level, a human highlight reel who’d left countless defenders in the dust. He’s the gold standard for ball-handling, like Bone Collector from Ryan’s old world—crossover so filthy it was a crime.

The rest of the team knew better too—they all deferred.

Let Cameron deal with it.

Problem was, Cameron’s defense had never been his strong suit.

Sure enough, two moves and Ankle Reaper was gone. Layup. Easy.

The fans chanted, "Ankle Reaper!"

Some started chugging water, throats already hoarse from screaming. This game was too hot—keep shouting, and they’d lose their voices by halftime.

The center fired the ball to Ryan, who pushed it fast.

His speed was no joke. A quick crossover, a hesitation step, then a sharp cut—Guillotine was left grasping air.

Ryan hit the paint, gathered the ball with both hands, and bent his knees for a dunk. The Guillotine was already airborne, looming again.

Ryan faked, pulling the ball back, crouching low. He waited till Guillotine was falling, then sprang up for an easy slam.

He turned to Guillotine with a grin. "Once the blade drops, it’s harmless."

Guillotine laughed. "Try me again."

The crowd gave a scattered cheer—"Ryan!"—maybe ten voices at most.

Not bad. At least someone was rooting for him. This wasn’t Iron City, after all.

It was Ankle Reaper’s squad’s turn to attack, and once again, Ballet Bear had the ball. Ryan, stuck defending him, braced himself.

Out of nowhere, Ballet Bear whipped the ball with his right hand, sending it arcing behind Ryan’s head. It looped around, and Bear snagged it with his left, smooth as a street magician.

Ryan had seen clips of Ballet Bear pulling this stunt, humiliating defenders with flair. Now, on the receiving end, it stung a little. But he knew these flashy moves were more show than substance.

He didn’t budge, holding his ground.

Bear wasn’t fazed. He spun suddenly, trying to shake Ryan.

This time, Ryan was ready, sliding laterally to cut off his path.

If Bear tried to bulldoze through, though, Ryan was letting him go—no way he was eating pavement for a street game.

Ballet Bear saw the lane cut off and didn’t force it. Instead, he planted one foot and pirouetted—literally—a full 360, back to the basket. With his back to Ryan, he launched a no-look lob over his shoulder.

The Guillotine was already cutting in.

He soared.

Caught it in mid-air.

BOOM.

Alley-oop hammer slam.

The crowd lost it. That pass was a work of art—a spin move to ditch Ryan, then a balletic 360 pivot to set up the oop. No wonder they called him Ballet Bear.

6–4. Ankle Reaper’s crew.

Ryan took the inbound and brought it up himself. The Guillotine met him again.

He hit him with a flurry—crossovers, scissor steps, change of pace—and finally shook him loose. As soon as he slipped into the paint, two help defenders collapsed. Guillotine was right behind, all arms and breath on his neck.

A triple-team.

Perfect, Ryan thought.

Draw the defense, kick it out.

The baseline corner had to be wide open for a three.

He glanced right.

Empty.

He whipped his head left.

Nobody there either.

In that split-second hesitation, The Guillotine pounced, swiping the ball clean from Ryan’s hands. He fired it to Ankle Reaper, who took off like a missile.

One-man fastbreak, capped with a thunderous dunk.

The crowd exploded, chants of "Ankle Reaper!" shaking the bleachers.

Ryan just stood there, mentally exhausted. If this were Roarres, someone would absolutely be in the corner. But now?

Forget K-Vibe—dude barely knew how to space the floor.

Cameron was hanging near the elbow, waiting for a dump-off.

The center and Afro Guy? They’d just stood there, watching Ryan 1v3 like it was a TV show.

Thing was—this was streetball. You don’t really see corner threes. Not because it’s forbidden or anything, just... most guys out here don’t shoot that well from deep.

And more importantly?

Corner threes don’t look cool.

Streetball wasn’t about efficiency. It was about respect. It was about style. Iso battles. Paint scrums. Trash talk and tough finishes.

Honestly, a lot of these dudes hated how the pros played now—just standing around jacking threes all game. Boring. Clinical.

They weren’t here for good basketball. They were here for real basketball.