Sunlight slashed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Iron City Roarers' front office like a blade.
Robert "Bobby" Crawford sat behind a deep walnut desk on the nineteenth floor, staring down at a resignation letter.
The cheap paper reeked of defeat—just like the Roarers themselves, who had finished dead last in the ABA regular season standings for five straight years.
He sealed the envelope and pressed it flat, ready to hand it to his assistant.
Then—
A thunderous cheer erupted from somewhere outside.
It sounded like a goddamn crowd going wild—like game day at the old steel mill arenas.
Bobby frowned, stood, and walked to the window.
Three hundred meters away, behind the Roarers' training complex, a crowd was forming at the outdoor court. Looked like a streetball game—noisy, raw, packed.
He leaned closer, took off his reading glasses, and squinted.
A lanky figure exploded into the air.
BANG!
A bone-rattling tomahawk dunk. The backboard rattled.
The tomahawk dunk hit with such violence, Bobby's arthritic fingers dug into the windowsill. The kid's form was raw, but the explosive hip extension, the kinetic chain, even the way he stabilized on landing—
"Goddamn impossible," Bobby whispered.
It was too familiar. Uncannily familiar.
Marcus Bryant.
Fifteen years ago, Bobby found him on that very same court. Bloodied white shirt. Smiling like a lunatic. Took down five players in a row. Collapsed from cramps, but smiling all the way.
Bobby bet everything on Marcus. Signed him on the spot.
Three championships in eight years. The stuff of legend.
Until the fucking drunk driver, seven years ago.
Bobby swiped at his eyes. Dust, obviously. Always dust in this rustbelt shithole.
He was supposed to be out. Done. Retired.
But that kid—
Scissor step. Cross.Another dunk rattled the backboard. A spin move into a euro-step, then a two-handed hammer job that nearly tore the rim off. The crowd lost their minds as the boy hung from the bent iron like some conquering warlord's banner.
Bobby stared. Then looked at the envelope in his hand.
He tore it in half. Then again. Tossed the pieces in the trash.
"MILES!"
His voice shook the damn windows.
His assistant burst through the door. "Coach?! What's wrong?"
"Get that kid! Now!"
"What kid?!"
Bobby jabbed a finger at the window. "The one still fucking hanging on the rim!"
"Yes, sir!"
Miles took off like his shoes were on fire, nearly taking out a ficus on the way.
Bobby put his glasses back on and watched as the kid finally dropped down, basketball still spinning on his fingertips.
Quietly, Bobby muttered to himself:
"Another Marcus? Hell. I'll gamble one more time."
---
Concrete shimmered in the midday heat. Ryan sat slumped at the base of the hoop, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin.
The guys who'd called him "cracka" ten minutes ago now circled around him like pilgrims.
The leader, broad-shouldered with tight cornrows, stepped forward—Jamal.
"Yo," he said, voice like sandpaper on rusted steel, "I was outta line. My bad, man."
He extended a hand, rough and calloused, palm open.
Ryan raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.
"You cooked us, man. Straight up."
Ryan held his gaze for a second, then nodded and took his hand.
The rest of the crew crowded in. The mood had shifted—from hostile to something like respect. Brotherhood, even.
Jamal plopped down next to him, their shoulders brushing.
He grinned.
"Guess it's payback time."
Ryan blinked. "The hell?"
"You won. I owe you." Jamal lunged, tongue out like a fucking lizard going for Ryan's crusted nosebleed.
"Hell no! Back the fuck up!" Ryan scrambled back, sneakers screeching. The whole court howled as Jamal collapsed laughing.
Tension: gone.
"Be real," Jamal said. "You a pro?"
Ryan wiped his nose. "Nope."
"Bullshit," said a tall dude behind them. "With moves like that, you could start in the ABA tomorrow."
Ryan paused.
Fragmented memories surfaced: the ABA—Atlantis Basketball Association. This world's version of the NBA.
Could he really…?
Before he could finish the thought, a man in a navy tracksuit came sprinting toward them, sweat glistening on his forehead.
Jamal let out a whistle. "Oh damn, bro. Looks like you really got next."
He elbowed Ryan. "You see his jacket?"
Ryan turned. The man was wearing a patch: a black lion's head mid-roar.
IRON CITY ROARERS.
Ryan's mouth went dry.
That was the city's pro team.
The man skidded to a stop, eyes locked on Ryan, panting like he'd run a mile.
"You—That was you, right? That dunk?"
Ryan's Adam's apple bobbed. "Yeah. Why?"
The man straightened. "Coach Crawford sent me. He wants to see you. Now."