Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!
Chapter 72 :Foul-Drawing Artist

The gym hummed with energy, the squeak of sneakers on polished wood echoing as he joined his teammates.

Only Darius was missing—everyone else showed up, clapping him on the back and congratulating him on taking home the Rising Stars MVP trophy.

——

Wednesday rolled in with a lighter touch—short drills to loosen the legs, followed by a film session that carried a heavier weight.

Coach Crawford stood at the center of the room, flanked by two assistants hunched over playback controls and analytics screens, their fingers dancing across tablets.

The main display flickered to life, casting a glow over the team as it rolled clips of their Thursday opponent: the Nova City Starships.

Crawford crossed his arms.

"You all know who we’ve gotta lock in on."

The screen zoomed in, locking on Jalen Hardell, the Western Conference point guard from the All-Star Game just days ago—the nightlife prince who tossed cash like confetti in the clubs.

Former league MVP. Scoring champ.

Crawford kept it blunt.

"His floaters, step-back threes, and playmaking are top-tier. When he’s on, shutting him down completely is damn near impossible. Most teams double him early to disrupt the flow."

Ryan scribbled notes as he listened.

"But even on an off night," Crawford continued, "he’ll kill you at the line. Guy’s a foul-drawing artist. Averaging 10.2 free throws a game this season—tops in the league. Honestly? It’s how he eats."

The screen shifted, and Crawford queued up a montage of Hardell’s foul-drawing artistry.

The clips showed him drifting into shots, leaning into defenders with a sly nudge, turning a routine jumper into a whistle. On drives, he’d hook an arm under a defender’s, exaggerating the contact with a theatrical grimace that fooled refs into calling fouls.

Ryan watched, transfixed, as Hardell’s moves unfolded—smooth, calculated, and damn effective.

Kamara leaned over, his voice a low rumble beside Ryan. "That guy’s hooked my arm more times than I can count. Now I’m paranoid every time I guard him, keeping my hands high."

Ryan nodded, jotting that down.

Foul manufacturing?

He thought of SGA from the NBA in his original world—or James Harden during his Rockets prime.

——

The Nova City Starships had rolled into Iron City late last night, and by mid-morning, they’d already commandeered the Iron Vault Arena—the Roarers’ home court—for a walkthrough and light practice, getting a feel for the hardwood under their feet.

By 1 PM, it was the Roarers’ turn. Ryan laced up and joined the team on the hardwood, going through positioning sets and plays.

After practice, Ryan headed back to his new place.

As he kicked off his shoes by the door, his phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number.

He thumbed the screen, pressing it to his ear. "Ryan, it’s Jalen Hardell. Where you at?"

Ryan froze for a split second, caught off guard that the Starships’ star would call him directly. "Uh, home. What’s up?"

"I’m coming by. Send me the address," Jalen said, the line going dead before Ryan could process it.

He stared at his screen for a second, then shrugged. It’s not like he could ignore a call from an All-Star. He sent over the location.

Minutes later, a low rumble announced a sleek sports car pulling up outside, its engine purring like a restless beast.

Ryan opened the door, and Jalen Hardell stepped out, all swagger and grin, with a lanky guy sporting dreadlocks trailing behind—K-Vibe, the hip-hop artist whose tracks rattled club speakers citywide.

"C’mon in," Ryan said, stepping aside. He couldn’t help but ask, "You’re allowed out of the hotel?"

K-Vibe grinned. "Man’s got privileges. He could hit a club tonight and no one would blink."

Ryan laughed. So this really was the prince of nightlife.

Inside, Jalen’s eyes swept the living room—two sofas and a coffee table sat like lonely islands in a sea of empty space.

"Sorry," Ryan offered, scratching his neck. "Just moved in yesterday."

Jalen waved it off, sinking onto a couch with K-Vibe beside him, the leather creaking under their weight.

"Isn’t this kind of thing against the rules?" Ryan asked. "Meeting the opponent the day before a game?"

Jalen shrugged, cool as ever. "No cameras, no witnesses—no problem."

"Fair enough," Ryan said. "So, what’s this about?"

Jalen exchanged a glance with K-Vibe, who pulled a folded paper from his jacket. "I wanna buy that song you dropped last time—’Remember the Name.’ Ten grand. Any issues? If not, sign this full copyright transfer."

Ryan skimmed the contract, the legal jargon blurring past, and scrawled his signature. He’d never planned a music career—last time was just a drunken jam session, a few bars belted out for fun.

Ten grand for that? Plus, networking with a guy like K-Vibe? No brainer.

K-Vibe took the signed paper, a grin spreading. "I’ll credit you for the composition and lyrics, co-billed with me."

"Yeah," Ryan shrugged. "I don’t really care."

Without another word, K-Vibe reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick stack of bills, crisp hundreds banded tight. He dropped it onto the coffee table with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should have.

Ryan blinked, then scooped it up without counting. The weight felt real—clean, immediate. He slipped it into his pocket with the ease of someone who’d just sold something he never thought had value.

"Any details on the track you wanna share?" K-Vibe pressed, leaning forward.

Ryan thought for a moment, then hummed the opening beat—a sharp, driving rhythm that had stuck in his head.

K-Vibe’s eyes lit up. "Man, that’s fire. I’m telling you, I’m gonna layer it with basketball-ready lyrics. This is gonna blow up—every ABA highlight reel will have it blasting."

Ryan grinned. "Can’t wait to hear the finished product."

They chatted a bit longer, then Jalen and K-Vibe stood to leave.

At the door, Jalen paused, a sly smile creeping in. "Wanna hit the nightclub with us tonight?"

Ryan’s eyes widened, and he shook his head fast. "Don’t get me in trouble, man!"

——

Thursday. 9 PM. Iron Vault Arena.

The place buzzed with energy. The crowd’s roar rolled through the rafters, thick with anticipation. The night was alive.

Maybe it was the afterglow of All-Star Weekend.

Maybe it was Ryan’s Rising Stars MVP.

Maybe it was the Roarers’ five-game win streak.

Whatever the reason, the Iron Vault was nearly packed—close to 80% full, the highest turnout the arena had seen in five years.

The Iron City Roarers and Nova City Starships emerged from the player tunnel, their footsteps echoing as the arena erupted into a sea of cheers and flashing lights.

Ryan jogged onto the hardwood for warmups, the energy in the air practically humming.

Amid the chaos, Amin Thomas, the Starships’ shooting guard and Ryan’s teammate from the Rising Stars Challenge, jogged over with a wide grin and pulled Ryan into a quick hug.

"Bro, I’m locking you down tonight," Amin teased, his eyes glinting with competitive fire.

Ryan chuckled, tossing the ball back and forth. "Hope you can back that up."

Amin laughed and darted off, only for Jalen Hardell to take his place, sauntering over with that effortless swagger. "Man, you missed out last night—not joining us was a crime. It was wild."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Hope it didn’t mess with your game."

Jalen smirked. "Nah, I’m good. Won’t be holding back out there, though."

He stretched his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders loose. "Tonight’s gonna be fun."

He jogged off.

Kamara sidled up, slinging an arm around Ryan’s shoulders, his voice low but curious. "Didn’t know you and Jalen were tight."

Ryan shrugged, keeping his eyes on the court. "Ran into him at a Vega City’s nightclub a while back."

Kamara’s grin widened. "Oh, spill the tea—any juicy stories?"

Ryan smirked. "He was throwing cash around. At least ten grand."

Kamara rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Psh, old news. Guy’s done that before. Nothing new there."

Just then, the arena’s jumbotron cut to the courtside VIPs.

Front and center was Steven Palmer, Iron City’s wealthiest man—and the Roarers’ most vocal fan.

Ryan glanced up, his gaze lingering, but Chloe was nowhere in sight—a flicker of disappointment tugging at him.

"Hey," he asked Kamara, nodding at the man in the sharp suit chatting beside Palmer. "Who’s that guy?"

Kamara’s jaw dropped. "Dude, you don’t even know Victor Crane, our owner?"

Ryan scratched his head, sheepish. "Never met the guy."

Kamara leaned in, his tone dropping to a serious whisper.

"He’s selling the Roarers to Palmer. It’s pretty much a done deal."

Ryan blinked, processing the news. "That won’t affect us, right?"

Kamara’s expression turned sober. "Maybe not you. But for the rest of us? Could mean trades. Reshuffles. No one knows."

Ryan patted him on the back. "Don’t stress what hasn’t happened yet. Game first."

Kamara nodded, eyes sharp again. "Yeah. Game first."