Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!
Chapter 81 :A Grudge Match in Roarers’ Practice

Chapter 81: Chapter 81 :A Grudge Match in Roarers’ Practice

Even though the Roarers had just gone back-to-back against the Drayport Talons on Wednesday, there was no day off to catch their breath on Thursday.

Friday loomed large with a tough home game against the Vega Tigers, the top-ranked team in the West.

Ryan remembered the moment like it was yesterday—midcourt, lights blazing, sweat still dripping.

Colter Frye had walked up after the Rising Star Challenge, eyes burning despite the loss.

"Next time, Tigers versus Roarers—we settle this," he’d said, low and intense, like a vow carved into stone.

Ryan had grinned and pulled him into a brief embrace, the rivalry sealed right there.

He just didn’t expect "next time" to come so soon.

At 10 a.m., the Roarers reported for practice—not a full-speed grind, but a light session followed by a structured scrimmage.

Unit 1, as always, featured the starters: Ryan, Darius, Kamara, Malik, and Gibson.

Coach Crawford called out the next five:

"Unit 2—Lin, Stanley, Sloan, Omar, DeShawn."

That one name—Lin—stood out.

He’d always been a Unit 1 guy during scrimmages. Even when his confidence wavered, he belonged with the starters.

But not today.

Today, he was a Unit 2 player.

And as he stepped over, his eyes flickered with something unmistakable: disappointment.

This wasn’t just a half-court drill session. The team was running a full-court game, mimicking real game conditions—two ten-minute halves, twenty minutes total.

At center court, Crawford tossed the ball skyward. Malik and Omar leaped for it. Omar won the tip, though Malik didn’t seem to go all out. No need to.

The ball went to Stanley, slotted in at point guard.

He brought it up the floor with Darius guarding him.

Omar stepped up to set a high screen—standard Roarers stuff. They opened nearly every set with a 1–5 pick-and-roll, and they drilled that look relentlessly in practice.

But Stanley waved him off.

Stanley motioned for Lin to come set the screen.

Lin hesitated for a second, and Ryan—who was guarding him—briefly paused as well.

Lin quickly recovered, hustling to block Darius.

Stanley, meanwhile, shot a glance at Ryan, his eyes brimming with challenge.

Oh? Calling me out for a one-on-one? Got a chip on your shoulder?

Ryan thought.

Stanley did have a grudge. He’d been the top backup guard on the rotation until Ryan showed up, cutting into his minutes.

Then, when Darius got slapped with a five-game suspension, Stanley thought he’d finally get his shot to start. Nope—Ryan took that, too.

The sting of that demotion still burned in Stanley’s gut. He’d spent late nights in the gym, grinding to prove he deserved those minutes, only to watch Ryan step in and claim the spotlight. It wasn’t personal, not really—but it felt like a robbery.

Ryan’s lips curled into a slight smirk. He stepped up, legs wide, switching onto Stanley.

The air on the court shifted; both teams sensed the tension.

Crawford noticed it too but stayed silent.

Sometimes, these moments had to happen.

Tension about playing time, touches, hierarchy—Crawford believed that letting it boil over in practice was better than letting it explode in a real game.

If you want minutes, earn them.

If you want respect, take it.

The battle was on.

The other players cleared out, giving Stanley and Ryan the floor to settle their score.

Everyone knew what this was now—one-on-one.

Stanley was a defensive bulldog, a lockdown artist on the perimeter, but breaking ankles or going one-on-one wasn’t his forte.

Ryan, on the other hand, carried the kind of raw, 2016-17 MVP Westbrook energy.

Sure, the sync rate was only in the 80s, but that was more than enough.

People often got it twisted, thinking Westbrook was a weak defender. That was flat-out wrong.

That year, sure, his individual defense was rated average—but not because he couldn’t guard. It was because he spent so much energy orchestrating the offense, and he wasn’t always the primary defender on the opponent’s top guy.

Don’t get it twisted—Westbrook’s athleticism was off the charts: lightning-quick lateral movement, explosive bursts, and a knack for swiping the ball and sparking fast breaks. When he locked in, he was a nightmare.

Later in his career, he proved it. With the Clippers, he shifted gears, taking on more defensive responsibility. Often tasked with guarding the opponent’s top ball-handler—think Luka Dončić—he held his own and then some, earning serious praise.

By the time he got to Denver, his defense leveled up again. Postgame, he was often the one getting the "Defensive Player of the Game" chain from Coach Malone—a tradition in that locker room.

Back on the court, the rest of the players gave them space, drifting to the wings. The court belonged to Ryan and Stanley now.

Stanley took a few dribbles up top, then suddenly exploded to his right. But the moment he planted that lead foot, Ryan was already there—one hard slide cut off his lane.

Stanley pulled a quick crossover, accelerating again, but Ryan stayed glued to him, unmoved.

Stanley shifted sideways, using his body to nudge Ryan and create space for a mid-range jumper. He barely got the ball up—not even off the ground yet—when Ryan’s left hand came swinging down—

Smack!

A vicious, clean block that swatted the shot away like it was nothing.

The ball ricocheted left.

Darius scooped it up and sprinted down the court for a layup. Just a layup—this wasn’t a real game, and there was no crowd to entertain.

Stanley’s face twisted. "Fuck," he muttered, scowling.

He came back down for another go.

This time, Ryan met him early, saving Stanley the trouble of calling for a screen just to hunt the switch.

Again, the others cleared out. The message was obvious: let them play.

Stanley added more sauce this time—crossovers, hesitations, slick footwork—before drifting to the right wing. He raised his left arm, looking like he was about to gather for a pull-up.

Ryan stepped up.

Pump fake.

Stanley dipped low and blew past him with a deceptive in-and-out.

But just as he passed, Ryan’s long arm snaked around and poked the ball loose.

Ryan’s 6’11" wingspan, longer than Westbrook’s 6’8", made him a defensive menace.

He pounced on the loose ball while Stanley gritted his teeth, jogging back on defense.

When Ryan pushed the ball downcourt, Stanley slapped the floor with both hands. Message received: If I can’t beat you on offense, I’ll shut you down on defense.

Ryan probed with a few drives, but Stanley’s defense was no joke.

He stuck to Ryan like glue, cutting off every angle. If Stanley’s three-point shot wasn’t so shaky, he’d be a high-level 3-and-D stud.

Ryan reset beyond the arc and called for Malik to set a screen. Malik walled off Stanley, and Ryan flashed right, slicing toward the paint.

Stanley was still fighting through the pick when Ryan Euro-stepped past Sloan and Omar, laying it in with ease.

Stanley took the inbounds, his face a mask of frustration. He played it cautious this time, but Ryan’s defense was relentless. Stanley tried a back-to-the-basket move, then spun for a rushed fadeaway.

Clang.

It bricked off the rim.

On Unit 1’s next possession, Stanley planted himself at the three-point line, glaring at Ryan. "No screens. Just you and me."

Ryan frowned. If he didn’t put Stanley in his place now, this would drag on.

He dribbled slowly, eyes locked on Stanley. Then, in a flash, he crossed his legs—his signature scissor step.

His right foot planted hard, and he shot forward like an arrow.

Ryan’s explosiveness made the move lethal.

Stanley slid right, but he was a half-step late.

Ryan was already by him. Stanley spun, chasing desperately, but all he could do was watch Ryan’s back as he glided past Omar with a slick step and banked in a layup.

Stanley bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. But he wasn’t tired.

He was rattled.

Two attempts, two stops. And on his first try guarding Ryan, he’d already been burned.

Crawford’s voice cut through. "Alright, enough. Run the sets now."

Kamara jogged over and patted Stanley on the shoulder. "Man’s got starter-level game now. Just facts."

Stanley nodded. He didn’t have some deep vendetta against Ryan—just frustration over his minutes taking a hit since Ryan arrived.

He had his shot during Darius’s suspension—but Ryan took that, too.

But as a bench guy, he didn’t have much ground to stand on.

He wasn’t starting because his explosiveness and shooting weren’t there. That was on him.

He’d always prided himself on his grit, his ability to outwork anyone. But today, effort wasn’t enough. Ryan’s talent was just too much, a wall he couldn’t climb—not yet.

Stanley stood and trotted to the sideline, grabbing the ball for the next play.

Crawford said nothing. He didn’t need to.

You win, you play. You lose—there’s nothing to say.

Unit 2 inbounded the ball, and the scrimmage rolled on.

From there, both teams settled into their plays. Unit 1 stayed sharp and composed—and by the final whistle, they had cruised to an easy win.