Saturday morning. Less than twelve hours after the Roarers' gritty win over the Yurev Crows, the team filed into their practice facility. Tomorrow night wasn't just another game—it was the game. A clash with the Millvoque Bullets: reigning champions, Eastern Conference leaders, the measuring stick of the entire league.

The media had already begun their drumbeat. Headlines splashed across every outlet: "West Player of the Week Ryan Carter vs. East Player of the Week John Adebayo-Kambon: Collision Course."

After finishing practice in the morning, the team had their film session at noon.

Inside the screening room, Crawford barked, "Roll it."

The screen lit up with clips from the Bullets' last three games. First up was Keith Milton—curling into mid-range jumpers, one after another.

"First," Crawford said, laser pointer in hand, the red dot circling around Milton's face. "Keith Milton. Their number one option. A midrange maestro. Doesn't matter if you contest—he finds angles, rises up, splash. He killed you last time, until—thankfully—Gibson managed to clamp him down."

He clicked forward.

Jules Holloway filled the screen—ferocious, suffocating defense, forcing turnovers, ripping steals.

"Second. Jules Holloway. He sets the tone defensively. Quick hands, lateral speed, off-the-charts IQ. If he smells weakness, he'll suffocate it. And while scoring isn't his primary role, don't forget—when the team needs buckets, he's fully capable of dropping 30-plus."

Stanley leaned in, eyes burning with resolve. Known himself for rugged defense, he was only a bench piece—while Holloway was an All-Star, perennial All-Defensive Team member, and a champion.

Ryan, meanwhile, couldn't help but frown. He remembered all too clearly what Holloway's defense had felt like last game. He'd experienced the clamps firsthand.

Crawford paused the tape. Then he turned to Ryan.

"Of course," Crawford said, voice dropping lower, "and then there's this guy. The core of the Bullets."

A new clip rolled.

John Adebayo-Kambon detonated at the rim, hammering home a dunk, his grin wide—like he was mocking the entire arena.

Crawford's gaze shifted, locking directly onto Ryan.

"John Adebayo-Kambon. Last season's MVP. He sat out last time, but now—you finally get to face the best power forward in the league."

Ryan straightened in his chair.

"I'm not losing to him."

Just that. Simple, firm. He wasn't foolish enough to boast beyond that.

Crawford went on, dissecting Kambon's strengths. Ryan scribbled notes line by line.

Fortunately, he wouldn't be the one directly guarding him. But even so, he knew—Kambon's defense was elite. Especially that lethal chase-down block, the kind that erased shots out of nowhere.

Ryan knew this one was going to be brutal. Last time out, Kambon had rested, and even then, it had taken his system's [100-PT MILESTONE BONUS]—a night of dimes, assists raining like Westbrook in his prime—for them to scrape by with a one-point buzzer-beater. This time, the Bullets were at full strength. Deep down, he wasn't sure they could pull it off.

"Don't think it's just those three," Crawford pressed on. "They're the defending champs. Every single guy matters."

The screen switched again. Two massive frames appeared—towering centers, both over seven feet.

"When they face slash-heavy teams," Crawford explained, tapping the laser pointer at the paint, "they love to roll out the Twin Towers. Seal the lane, cut off driving angles, force you outside. Tomorrow night, unless something crazy happens, they're going big."

He clicked again, showing the Bullets shifting into a twin-tower lineup against a fast-driving opponent. The paint turned into a wall. Guards forced into bad jumpers. Opponents suffocated.

"That's what you're facing," Crawford said flatly. "

"So your threes have to fall," Crawford turning his eyes to Kamara. "Especially you. If you lay another egg tomorrow, I won't hesitate to pull you."

Usually the loudest voice in the film room, Kamara just nodded quietly. Last night he'd managed only two points, and the embarrassment still burned.

Across the room, Deshawn raised an eyebrow at the remark. If Kamara got yanked, that meant more minutes for him. He didn't want the Roares to lose—of course not—but part of him couldn't help hoping Kamara stumbled again.

——

Sunday night.

The Iron Vault Arena was bursting at the seams. Not a single seat left, not even in the nosebleeds. The matchup had sold itself weeks ago: the defending champions coming to town, the East's Player of the Week facing off against the West's Player of the Week. The buzz was electric, a low hum of anticipation that grew louder as the pregame clock ticked toward 9:00 PM.

When the lights dimmed and the arena announcer's voice boomed, the crowd roared to life. Spotlights swept the floor, player names rang through the rafters, and flames shot skyward as the teams emerged from the tunnel. By the time the introductions ended and the dome lights blazed back on, the building felt like it might collapse from sheer noise.

Warm-ups began. Players trickled onto the court, some laughing, some locked in, bouncing the ball with the mechanical rhythm of routine. Ryan jogged to his corner, picked up the first ball he saw, and let it fly. The shot swished clean. He didn't bother seeking out anyone from the Bullets—he barely knew them, and this was no time for small talk.

But one man came looking for him.

A heavy smack landed on his shoulder, hard enough to sting.

"Kid," a deep voice rumbled, "I've been waiting to finally battle you out here. I'm excited."

Ryan's lips tightened as he rubbed the spot. "Excited's fine, but do you have to hit me like you're trying to sideline me before tip-off?"

Kambon blinked, then burst into a laugh that echoed across the court. "Ha! You're funny. I like you even more now." His grin widened, the kind that made entire arenas feel like the stage belonged only to him.

"Honestly, I believed in you from the start. Didn't expect you to rise this fast, though—the way you've been tearing it up has been incredible."

Ryan shrugged modestly. "Appreciate that."

"But don't stop here," Kambon pressed. "Keep climbing. I want you to beat out Frye for Rookie of the Year. You've got the tools. Don't waste them."

Ryan smirked. "Give me a couple hours and I'll show you how I climb—by going right over you."

For the second time, Kambon looked momentarily stunned, then broke into another booming laugh. "Man, you talk funny. I like that. You and I—we're friends now."

He leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing something personal. "You know why I feel that? Because I see myself in you. You were homeless once, right? Me? I grew up in the projects. Single mom, two jobs, barely kept food on the table. I know the grind. I know the hunger. When I see you—"

Ryan felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He hadn't expected this. The reigning MVP, the man with the richest contract on the court, turning into a storyteller before the game even tipped off. And not just a few sentences, either—this was spiraling into childhood anecdotes, high school battles, maybe even how he made the leap to the ABA.

Out of courtesy, Ryan nodded, offering small encouragements, but when the tale threatened to drag on, he gently cut in. "That's a great story, seriously. Maybe we can go deeper into it later. Right now I should get back to my warmup."

Kambon slapped his chest affectionately. "Fair enough. Offseason, then—we'll set up a time."

Finally, he jogged back toward his half of the court. Ryan exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulder where that first slap had landed.

He couldn't deny it—there was something surreal about this. A league MVP, someone pulling in tens of millions a year, talking to him like an equal. Ryan's own rookie deal barely cleared three hundred thousand. The gap was staggering, two extra zeros that felt like a canyon between their worlds. And yet here Kambon was, treating him with warmth. For Ryan, it was disarming. A little overwhelming, even.

And it made him think.

Kambon wasn't the only MVP he'd crossed paths with. Hardell, for instance, had been almost too eager to drag him into nightlife and bad decisions. And now here was Kambon, showering him with encouragement, promising offseason hangouts. Ryan chuckled under his breath. Not bad, for a kid who'd once been sleeping on benches. MVPs as friends? Not a bad look.

Well—except for one.

LaVonte.

That bastard had torched him in their first matchup, humiliated him in front of the whole arena. No smiles, no friendly banter, no respect. Just raw domination. That stain lingered in Ryan's chest like a burn scar.

And tonight, as he glanced toward the Bullets warming up across the floor, he clenched his fists. One day, he'd pay LaVonte back. But first, there was Kambon. The reigning MVP. The mountain standing in front of him.

By 9:30 p.m., the starting units gathered at center court, ready for the tip.

The Roarers sent out their usual five—Ryan, Darius, Kamara, Malik, and Gibson.

The referee raised the ball, then launched it high into the air.

Roarers vs. Bullets.

West's Player of the Week against East's Player of the Week.

The clash was underway.

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