Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 20 :Postgame Presser"30 Or 40 , i can do it, no prob

Minutes Played: 11:03

Points: 35 Assists: 7 Rebounds: 7 Blocks: 3 Steals: 4

Field Goals: 14/15

Three-Point: 4/4

Free Throws: 3/3

Plus/Minus: 41

In just over eleven minutes, Ryan delivered a rookie debut for the ages.

Nearly every "rookie debut" record the league ever kept—he shattered them.

If you just looked at the box score, you’d think he was a seasoned All-Star. Maybe even an MVP.

Thirty minutes after the final buzzer – Press Conference Room.

Post-ga press conference.

A long table. Two chairs. A black backdrop branded with the silver "ABA" logo.

Bright lights blasted down from above. Red lights on the caras blinked awake.

Head coach Crawford sat on the left. Ryan took the seat to his right.

Microphones were already live. The dia row was packed.

A staffer gave the signal. Hands went up.

A reporter with a Basketball Pioneer badge got the first question.

"Ryan," he stood, "Congrats on what might be the greatest rookie debut we’ve ever seen. Did you know you just beca only the sixth player in league history to score 30 in a single quarter? And do you know which records you broke tonight?"

Ryan had watched countless NBA post-ga press conference in his past life—especially Westbrook’s. So he knew exactly how to handle questions like these.

Ryan picked up the mic.

"Thanks. No idea. Didn’t check. When you lose, that’s not really what you focus on."

Another reporter raised his hand: "When you entered the ga, your team was down by 46. Did you ever think about completing the coback?"

Ryan paused.

"Not at first. When I stepped on the court, I just wanted to make the most of whatever ti I had. Maybe close the gap a little. Maybe bring back so pride."

"And when the ga got close?" the reporter pressed. "Especially in the final two minutes?"

Ryan nodded slowly.

"At that point... yeah. We saw a chance. We felt that fire. Thought we might pull it off. But—"

He stopped himself. Shook his head.

"—it wasn’t enough."

A woman in the third row raised her hand.

"You said yesterday in Iron Vault that you were going to win Rookie of the Year. A lot of people thought you were joking—or just cocky. Any thoughts on that now?"

Ryan cracked a grin.

"Yeah, I found out later there are all these rules about minutes and gas played..."

He glanced over at Crawford.

"Guess that’s up to coach now. But honestly? I think what I did tonight speaks for itself.

People who laughed at ? They can shut up now."

The room buzzed - "shut up" was definitely headline material.

Next question ca from a white-haired veteran reporter—an old friend of Coach Crawford’s.

He smiled and said, "Bobby, congrats on unearthing another basketball prodigy. Is Ryan officially part of your regular rotation now?"

"We’ll see," Crawford replied. "He’ll get so minutes moving forward."

"So next Wednesday, road ga against the Noze Boulders—he’s playing?"

"Most likely, yes."

Another reporter turned to Ryan: "Ryan, do you think you can follow this up with another big performance?"

Ryan smirked. No hesitation.

"Why not?"

Westbrook’s old mantra. Delivered with the sa swagger.

The reporter pressed: "Can you drop another 30-plus?"

"Basketball’s a team ga," Ryan said. "I’ll play the right way. But if the team needs to score, 30-plus Or 40-plus, i can do it, no problem."

And right then—

[DEBUT GA BONUS: WESTBROOK 100% EXPERIENCE MODE UNLOCKED (TRIAL VERSION) ENDED]

[WESTBROOK SYNC RATE: 100% → 98% → 93% → 88% → 75% → 72.4%]

Ryan’s face stiffened.

Damn. I forgot about the system.

That trial version was only good for one ga?

"That was a joke," he added quickly. "I an—I’ll do my best to help the team. That’s what I ant."

But the room had already erupted.

Too late. No one heard the backtrack.

Tomorrow’s headline was printing itself:

"Ryan Drops 35 in Debut, Tells Doubters: ’Shut Up’ — Guarantees 40 Against Boulders"

"ABA’s 6th Ever with 30 in a Quarter — Ryan Says ’Shut Up’, Claims 30–40 Anyti"

Crawford cornered Ryan in the hallway after the post-ga press conference.

"What the hell was that?" The coach massaged his temples, exhaustion bleeding into his voice. "First Darius, now you—just can’t stop running your mouths, can you? Trying to put in an early grave this season?"

Ryan kept his head down. That "30 or 40 , i can do it, no problem" line had been reckless, especially now that the Westbrook Trial Mode had expired. Regret prickled his neck.

Crawford took a deep breath, then let out a sigh and dialed it back a notch. "Look, I don’t hate confidence. You can back it up? You help this team win? I’ll take attitude over silence any day. Marcus was a loudmouth too, but he brought banners."

Then, with a wave of his hand: "Go pack up. We’re flying out tonight."

No hotel stay. The team boarded a private jet for a red-eye flight straight back to Iron City.

Up front, the starters sat like ghosts. No chatter, just the hum of engines. Their plus-minuses were carcasses on a stat sheet—numbers so rotten, you’d think the five rookies who finished the ga were the real first unit.

Especially Omar, the end-of-bench center who averaged one damn minute? Just by sharing the floor with Ryan, his plus-minus had skyrocketed to 41.

By the ti they landed, Iron City was slick with rain, the streets shimring under the glow of streetlamps.

At the Roarers Training Center, Malik offered Ryan a ride ho. He didn’t say much—just kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight. The scoreboard was still replaying in his head.

"Appreciate it, man," Ryan said as he got out in front of his apartnt building.

Malik just lifted a hand, eyes hollow. His plus-minus had been -30.

Inside, the unit 702 was dark and still. Jamal and Kylie were asleep. A note sat on the kitchen table:

"Lasagna’s in the fridge. Congrats on your debut—35 in a quarter! We watched the whole thing. Even the interview."

Ryan peeled back the plastic wrap and dug in with his fingers. The tomato sauce had gone gelatinous, but right now it tasted like a Michelin-starred al.

He polished it off, made his way to the bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress.

The whole day felt like a dream.

A 46-point coback that fell short. A record-breaking debut. A slip-up at the mic. A middle-of-the-night flight ho.

But finally, he was in his own bed.

And for once, no early morning practice—Coach had given the team the day off.

He could actually sleep.