Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 21 : The Agent

By the ti sunlight slipped through the blinds and spilled across the living room floor, Ryan finally stumbled out of his room at 9:30 AM, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Jamal and Kylie were curled up on the couch, hunched over a phone screen.

"Look who’s finally awake!" Kylie grinned, clapping exaggeratedly. "Mr. Big Shot himself! I watched the whole ga last night—your first bucket? I scread out loud."

Jamal practically vibrated off the couch.

"Bro, that was insane! Congrats, man. Told you you’d be a star! Now I get to brag that you live at my place!"

Kylie turned the phone to show him a paused fra: Ryan mid-air, hamring down a vicious tomahawk dunk.

"Thirty-five in a quarter," she said, already angling for a new selfie. "The whole school group chat’s blowing up. I already told everyone you’re my friend, but they won’t believe unless you’re in the shot."

Ryan laughed. "Of course."

She leapt up, pulled him close, and held the cara high. Ryan ruffled his bedhead as the cara flashed. By the ti he lowered his hand, Kylie was already spamming the photo with fire emojis.

"Breakfast?" Ryan yawned.

Jamal shook his head. "Nah. We were waiting on you."

"Alright then," Ryan said. "Breakfast is on ."

"No way," Jamal jumped up. "My treat. Celebration al—but we’re hitting Joe’s Diner, not so fancy steakhouse."

They hopped on bikes—Ryan took Kylie’s since she rode tandem behind Jamal on his beat-up cruiser—and pedaled a few blocks to a little breakfast spot on the corner. A handwritten chalkboard nu stood outside the door, and the sll of coffee and fried eggs hung heavy in the air.

They grabbed a window seat and ordered eggs, toast, and sausage all around. Jamal got a large black coffee and said he hadn’t gotten to sleep until 2 a.m., still wired from the ga.

"So seriously," Ryan said, halfway through his orange juice, "how do you afford to hang out at the courts all day? You even work?"

Kylie rolled her eyes and clanged her fork against her plate. "He does random gigs. Gas station, car wash, moving furniture—whatever he can find."

Jamal flushed slightly. "That way I can keep my schedule open for hoops..." He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "My real dream was to play in the ABA."

Ryan blinked. "Wait—how old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"What?!" Ryan stared at Jamal’s mature-looking face. "I thought you were at least twenty-seven."

Jamal laughed, a little bitter. "Yeah, yeah. I get that a lot."

He wiped a runny yolk with a crust of toast and shrugged. "I know I missed the rookie window. And let’s be real—I don’t have the talent. Not like you. I’m probably gonna get a real job soon."

The words tumbled out before Ryan could stop them: "You could be my agent."

Jamal’s spine straightened like he’d been electrocuted. "Seriously?"

Before Ryan could answer, Kylie groaned. "He’s ssing with you. You don’t just beco soone’s agent. You need a license, connections, negotiation skills, actual math skills—you can’t even do basic math."

The light in Jamal’s eyes dimd almost instantly.

He looked down, nudging his scrambled eggs with his fork.

"Sorry, man," Ryan said, reaching over to tap his wrist. "I didn’t know about all that. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you."

Jamal mustered a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. "Nah, it’s cool. I know my lane."

————

It was technically an off-day, but Ryan still found himself back at the Roarers Training Center

By 2:30 p.m., the gym was deserted—just the soft echo of clanging weights lingering in the air. He finished his final bench press set, sweat dripping from his chin onto the steel fra. With a swipe, he pulled up his interface:

[WESTBROOK CURRENT SYNC RATE: 72.6%]

The gym door creaked open.

Coach Crawford leaned against the fra. "Miles told you were in here."

Ryan grabbed his towel and wiped down his face. "Didn’t want to break the routine. Figured I’d get a session in."

"You done?" Crawford glanced at Ryan’s sweat-soaked tank top. "Good. Co by my office—after you shower. Don’t soak my chair."

Twenty minutes later, Ryan sat across from Crawford. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, laying faint bars of gold across the coach’s furrowed brow.

"You know," the coach began, tapping a pen against his mug, "my phone’s been blowing up all morning. Agents, brand reps... everyone’s trying to get a piece of you."

Ryan’s eyebrow lifted—uncanny timing, given breakfast conversation.

"Let’s table the endorsent vultures. That’s agent territory." Crawford tapped his desk. "So. Representation plans?"

Ryan shrugged. "Honestly? I don’t really know how that world works."

"Let break it down for you." Crawford took a slow sip of coffee. "You’ve got the big agencies—and the small fish. Big shops have teams of agents, each juggling five, maybe fifteen players. They’ve got PR people, legal guys, deal makers. Slick and efficient."

Ryan nodded. "Sounds pretty good."

"It is. But players like you? You’d be lucky to land in the top ten of their client list. They’ll prioritize their stars first. You’ve played one ga—an incredible one, sure—but they’re not betting the farm on that."

He gave Ryan a pointed look. "And for the record, none of the big nas calling this morning were sending their A-listers."

"Small agencies—or solo agents—typically handle only one to three clients at a ti. That allows them to focus more on personalized, one-on-one service and build a closer working relationship with each player."

Ryan leaned forward slightly. "So you’re saying I need an agent who can focus on directly—one-on-one support, right?"

Crawford nodded. "I have soone in mind."

He hesitated, then added, "My nephew."

Ryan blinked. "Go on."

"Eddie Crawford," the coach said, tapping the table now. "Used to represent Marcus."

Ryan’s spine straightened.

"Don’t give that look." Crawford’s chuckle held no humor. "The guy’s far from hot shit now. Went all-in on Marcus, then..." He pulled a photo from his drawer—an old one. Marcus, young and grinning, had an arm draped around a man in a cheap suit. A chain-link fence and rundown court stretched behind them.

"After Marcus passed, Eddie tried to get back in the ga. Signed two young players—one flad out, the other tore his Achilles and retired. Neither lasted long. He hasn’t signed anyone since."

Crawford slid the photo away. "He lives modestly off the royalties from Marcus’s deals. Hasn’t been the sa since. But he’s loyal. Smart. And when he believes in soone, he gives them everything."

Crawford looked Ryan in the eye. "But this isn’t a guilt trip. I’m just putting him on the table—an option. You pick what fits."

Ryan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the quiet ripple of the coffee in his cup. He wasn’t rushing—this was a significant decision.

Coach Crawford stayed silent, sipping his coffee—no pressure, no pitch. This was the kind of choice that could shape a career, and they both knew it.

Ryan didn’t take long. He had his answer.

"Let’s go with him," he thought.

There wasn’t one reason—there were a few.

First, he didn’t know anyone else. In his last life, he’d heard too many horror stories of athletes falling out with their agents. At least Eddie was family to Coach Crawford. That ant so degree of trust. And this man—this coach—had pulled strings to bring him here. He wouldn’t screw him over.

Second, there was sothing undeniably cinematic about it. Marcus Bryan’s washed-up agent, clawing his way back with the next big thing? Hell, that was the kind of second-act twist even Hollywood would greenlight.

Third, and maybe this was cynical, but—having Crawford owe him a favor might co in handy when it ca to fighting for more minutes on the court.

"I’ll talk to him," Ryan said.

Coach Crawford didn’t show much emotion, but a flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes. He reached for his phone. "So—where do you want to et? A restaurant? A hotel? Just so you know, he’s a Crawford too. eting here at the training center isn’t really ideal."

"My place," Ryan said.

Crawford nodded. "Works."

"I’ll head back now. He can co by in thirty minutes."

Ryan handed over the address. Crawford was already dialing, trying to keep the pleased tone from his voice, but it bled through anyway.

After the call, he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"He’ll be there. Thirty minutes, sharp."