Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!
Chapter 79 :Neither Of Them Is A Traditional Point Guard

Chapter 79: Chapter 79 :Neither Of Them Is A Traditional Point Guard

MistBank Arena is a cauldron of noise, the air thick with tension as overtime tips off.

On the sidelines, Coach Crawford and the Mistfoxes’ head coach huddle with their clipboards, scribbling plays like generals plotting a final stand.

At this stage, both teams have shown their hands—no secrets left. Every offensive set, every defensive scheme, laid bare.

Now it’s down to the stars.

Whose marquee player has the stronger nerve, the deeper tank, the sharper edge? That’s the team walking away with the W.

The Mistfoxes roll out their starting five, undeterred. The Roarers counter with Ryan, Lin, Kamara, Malik, and Sloan.

Gibson’s been glued to the bench most of the night, his minutes eaten by Sloan.

No shame in it—against the Mistfoxes’ relentless track-meet pace, Gibson’s 37-year-old legs are running on fumes.

Malik’s not much better, his 36-year-old frame creaking, but he’s still out there. Sloan’s taken Gibson’s spot at the four, leaving no backup center.

Omar? Sure, he’s an option, but Crawford’s not tossing a benchwarmer into this crucible.

The buzzer sounds, and the overtime jump ball goes up.

No surprise—Ender, the Mistfoxes’ 7-foot-4 skyscraper, swats it to his side.

The Mistfoxes immediately pushed the tempo, but their fast breaks lacked bite. They were feeling the fatigue too.

Monroe tried to slash hard to his right, but Ryan was glued to him, mirroring every step. As Monroe shifted the ball for a crossover, Ryan struck like a viper—one clean swipe, and the ball was his.

The Roarers counter, but Kamara’s layup gets obliterated by Ender’s monstrous block.

What follows is a brutal stretch of clanks and bricks—a blacksmith’s duel.

Both teams are gassed, shots falling short, rims unforgiving.

Both teams struggled to score.

Three minutes in, the Mistfoxes scrape together four points; the Roarers muster five.

Ryan’s responsible for three of them, splashing a triple, though he misses another that rattles out.

The crowd’s on edge, every possession a grind.

Both coaches begin burning timeouts, playing chess with their final moves.

Overtime grants each side two fresh pauses, and they’re spending them like gold.

With 48 seconds to go, Malik muscles in a floater over Ender’s outstretched arms. Mistfoxes122. Roaeres 125.

The Mistfoxes’ coach calls his last timeout, the arena pulsing with anticipation.

Monroe takes the ball out of the break, Ryan locked onto him like a shadow.

Hold this possession, and the Roarers might just steal a road win in MistBank.

But Monroe surprises him—no head-down drive to the rim.

Instead, he signals Ender for a pick.

The Mistfoxes rarely run pick-and-rolls—they’re the league’s least frequent users, but not never.

Ender’s 7-foot-4 frame is a brick wall, stonewalling Ryan.

Monroe explodes past Sloan’s switch, leaving him in the dust.

Ryan’s still fighting through Ender’s screen as Monroe storms the paint.

Malik leaps, arms high for the block, with Kamara abandoning his man to help. Monroe twists midair, dodging both, and flips a one-handed reverse layup.

Swish.

124-125.

The Mistfoxes’ fans erupt, hope reignited.

Crawford doesn’t call timeout.

Ryan glances at the timer: 36 seconds.

A one-point lead is a tightrope—burn the clock to the 24-second mark, and you still leave 12 seconds for a game-winner.

Too risky.

Ryan crosses halfcourt—two steps in, the trap springs. Bayne and Monroe collapse on him, right in his grill.

He grips the ball, shouting, "Lin!"

The defenders’ arms shoot up, blocking his passing lane.

Ryan drops his weight—hard.

One step—he explodes through the narrow gap between the two defenders, slipping right through before they can react.

Foot hits the hardwood—no hesitation.

He pulls up.

Release.

The ball carves a gorgeous arc, time slowing to a crawl.

Every eye in the arena—players, fans, coaches—locks onto that orange sphere, tracing its rainbow path to the hoop.

Swish.

124-128.The MistBank Arena crowd goes ghost-quiet.

The Roarers’ bench explodes, towels waving like battle flags.

Up in the booth, Callahan’s losing it: "My God, Ryan’s on fire from deep tonight!"

Patterson jumps in: "That’s nine of eleven from three! "

The game isn’t over—27 seconds remain on the clock.

Monroe pushes the ball up with urgency.

Ryan is already there to meet him—legs wide, arms spread, cutting him off just beyond the arc.

The rest of the Roarers clamp down on their matchups, eyes flicking between their man and Monroe, ready to collapse the moment he makes a move.

Monroe has no interest in calling for a screen.

He goes into a front-cross, trying to shake free.

Ryan slides with him—like a shadow.

Left, right, pivot—it doesn’t matter.

Every move Monroe makes, Ryan is already there, chest out, feet planted.

Monroe spins, backs down, anything to gain space.

He manages half a step, maybe.

But Ryan keeps sticking to him, relentless, like flypaper.

"Fucking leech," Monroe mutters under his breath.

Out of options, he kicks it to Bayne.

Bayne feints, shaking Lin for a step, but Malik’s help defense is a brick wall, sealing the lane.

No dice.

Five seconds left on the shot clock.

Bayne swings it to Ender, cutting hard to the rim. Sloan reads it like a book, stepping up to meet him. Ender lobs a desperate floater, Sloan’s fingertips grazing it as he soars. Clang!

The ball spits off the rim.

Sloan spins, snags the rebound, and tucks it tight.

There are still seven seconds left on the game clock, but with the Mistfoxes trailing by four, fouling makes no sense.

The clock bleeds out—3, 2, 1... zero.

The buzzer roars.

Roarers win, 128-124.

The arena falls into stunned silence, save for the Roarers’ bench erupting, towels flying.

Ryan pumps his fist, sweat-soaked but grinning. "We stole it!" he shouts to Sloan, who’s roaring back, "Hell yeah!"

The Roarers swarmed together at center court, relishing every second of their hard-fought victory. Hugs and shouts echoing into the rafters.

Up in the broadcast booth, Callahan’s voice boomed through the speakers: "Eight straight! Congratulations to the Roarers on an eighth consecutive win!"

Patterson chimed in, "And Ryan? He just broke his own single-game scoring record with 48 points! That’s 18-of-22 from the field, 9-of-11 from deep, that’s the best three-point shooting night of his career."

As the adrenaline started to wear off, the Roarers slowly calmed down. Mistfoxes players jog over, exchanging handshakes and respectful hugs. It had been a war.

Ryan’s stat line is a masterpiece: 18-of-22 from the field, 9-of-11 from three, a perfect 3-for-3 from the line, 48 points, 4 rebounds , 8 assists.

No question—he’s got the on-court interview and the postgame presser waiting.

The Roarers flew back to Iron City that same night.

When Ryan finally got home—2 a.m.—his phone rang.

It was Damon Ruiz, Lead Footwear Performance Engineer at Vantix.

Ryan blinked at the screen, then picked up.

"You seriously timed this?" he said, half-laughing. "You know exactly when I get home?"

Ruiz doesn’t waste a second: "Congrats, man! You hit every signature shoe clause a game early!"

The six conditions were clear:

1. Average at least 20.0 points per game

2. Average at least 20.0 minutes played per game

3. Score 30+ points in at least three games

4. Record at least one 40+ point game

5. Log at least four double-doubles

6. Record one triple-double

Ryan only needed to meet five of the six performance clauses—but he nailed all six.

He’s currently averaging 28 minutes per game, so even if he sits out the final one, he still qualifies.

"Thanks. Told you it wouldn’t be a problem," Ryan said.

Ruiz is practically vibrating through the phone. "I’m hyped! Flying out first thing tomorrow to talk shoe design."

Ryan laughed. "Got a back-to-back tomorrow night, man."

"I’ll catch the game," Ruiz shot back. "Postgame, your place. We’re hashing this out."

Ryan grinned—guy’s more eager than he is. "Alright, deal."

——

The next morning, with a back-to-back against the Drayport Talons—seventh in the East—looming, the Roarers skipped their usual practice.

Run-throughs at Iron Vault Arena were set for 2 p.m.

At 11 a.m., the team huddled for a film session, breaking down the Talons’ sets.

By noon, the players piled into the player cafeteria, plates loaded, banter flying.

Meanwhile, Coach Crawford sat in his office, brows furrowed, wrestling with a rare kind of problem—a good one, but still a problem.

Darius’s five-game suspension was officially over, but Ryan’s blistering form and stat lines made a return to the bench out of the question.

He massaged his temples and looked over at assistant Miles.

"Get Darius in here," he said.

Miles ducked out to the cafeteria and returned with Darius, who slumped into a chair, his eyes wary.

Crawford cut straight to it. "Your suspension was done. You were back tonight—off the bench. Ease into it, find your rhythm."

Darius’s face tightened. "My rhythm was fine, Coach. I was ready."

Crawford’s tone is flat, unyielding. "It’s decided. You’re coming off the bench tonight."

Darius goes quiet, jaw clenched, then leans forward. "If it’s just tonight, fine. But if you’re planning to keep me on the bench long-term, I won’t accept that."

Crawford leaned back, his eyes steady. "You and Ryan would both start moving forward. Lin would shift to the bench."

Darius nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders. As long as his starting spot was secure, he was good.

But Crawford wasn’t done. "Going forward, I wanted Ryan handling the ball more."

Darius bristled, his hackles up. "You’re stripping me of the point guard role? No way I’m signing off on that."

Crawford locked eyes with him, stare like steel, until Darius shifted uncomfortably. Then, measured, he said, "Positions in modern basketball are fluid, especially for guards. You’re not a traditional point guard, Darius. You’re a combo guard."

"And neither is Ryan. He’s a downhill guard. His off-ball awareness still needs work. Without the ball in his hands, his threat level drops. You, on the other hand, can function without the ball. That’s a strength."

It was a half-compliment, and Darius’s scowl softened. "But—"

"No buts. I’m not asking you to give it up completely. You two will share ball-handling. Minimum 50-50. We’ll adjust based on matchups."

Darius leaned back in thought.

"This is better for you," Crawford said. "Less playmaking pressure, more focus on scoring. That’s your bag. Done deal."

Darius exhaled, gave a curt nod, and headed out.

The meeting ended. And so did the debate.