Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 82 :Take the Road Test

1:00 p.m. – Film session.

The Roarers sat scattered in the darkened video room as footage of the Vega Tigers flickered across the screen.

Coach Crawford stood up front, arms crossed, voice firm.

"No question who their engine is—Shael Grant-Alexis."

Ryan didn’t need Kamara’s comntary to know that na. Shael had been an All-Star this year. They’d even shared the floor during All-Star Weekend, going head-to-head in the Skills Challenge. Shael had taken ho the trophy that night.

The mory made Ryan grin—and it had nothing to do with Shael.

He was thinking about Chloe.

About that night, when he scooped her up under the basket, hands firm around her waist, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

She held the ball, reached out, and slamd it in. The crowd went wild.

His smile returned before he even knew it.

Kamara caught it and leaned over, smirking. "Yo, why you grinning like that at Shael’s highlights? You sweet on him or what? You into guys now?"

Ryan flushed. "What? No! I was thinking about... sothing else."

Crawford cleared his throat loudly, shooting them a look to pipe down. "Shael’s just like Hardell—one of the best in the league at drawing fouls. You need to be smart when guarding him. Especially you, Ryan."

Another foul-drawing artist? Great.

Ryan gave a quick nod. "I’ll be careful."

Crawford continued. "Locking up Shael won’t be enough. The Tigers sit atop the West because their starting five is a problem. All of them."

He clicked to the next clip.

"Colter Frye. High IQ. Polished ga."

Every head in the room swiveled toward Ryan. Frye had been the runaway favorite for Rookie of the Year—until Ryan crashed the party. Their stats were neck-and-neck, a two-man race now. But Ryan had a problem: to hit the league’s 50% ga participation rule, he couldn’t miss a single ga from here on out.

Crawford moved on. The screen lit up with a bald player hitting a corner three.

"Aaron Russo. Elite 3-and-D," he said.

This ti, eyes drifted toward Stanley.

Russo and Stanley had co into the league the sa year. Both were defensive dogs, known for their toughness and grit. Back then, the dia constantly compared them. But Russo had evolved—his three-point shot was dependable. Stanley’s? Still inconsistent. And that was the difference.

Russo was now starting for the best team in the West.

Stanley... was a backup.

Under the table, Stanley’s fists clenched tight.

Crawford pressed on. "Isaac Hartzell, seven feet. Colt Halvorsen, seven-one. Both centers, but Halvorsen’s shifted to power forward. That twin-tower combo makes the Tigers’ defense elite—top of the league. They win by choking teams out."

The room glanced at Malik and Gibson, the Roarers’ bigs.

Ryan’s mind raced.

Twin towers?

The last ti they faced the Yurev Crows’ pair of 6’10" forwards, it was a grind. Now they were staring down a seven-foot duo. Taller. Stronger. Tougher.

Crawford dove into the Tigers’ playbook next, breaking down their sets with surgical precision.

Ryan scribbled notes furiously, his pen racing to keep up.

The second the film session wrapped, he bolted out, hopped into his K3, and floored it to the Iron City Departnt of Motor Vehicles.

He had a road test scheduled for 2:30 p.m., and he wasn’t about to be late.

Ryan pulled into the DMV lot with minutes to spare, the sleek lines of his K3 catching a few stares.

He stepped out, nerves buzzing, just as the examiner erged—a middle-aged guy with a clipboard and a Roarers cap pulled low.

The examiner checking his clipboard. His eyes landed on Ryan—and widened.

"Wait... Ryan Carter? No way. I saw the na on the schedule and figured it was just so guy with the sa na."

Ryan gave a sheepish smile. "Nope. That’s ."

The examiner laughed, a little stunned. "Man, I’m a Roarers fan! Can’t believe I’m giving you a road test."

The examiner caught himself—realizing he was getting a bit too excited for a professional setting. He quickly composed his expression.

"Alright, let’s do this. You got your own car?"

"Yup," Ryan said, nodding toward the K3.

The examiner’s jaw dropped as he eyed the glossy sports car. "A sport car? For a road test?"

Ryan’s heart skipped. "Uh... is that not allowed?"

The examiner chuckled, waving it off. "Nah, it’s fine, long as it’s not modded out the wazoo."

"Totally stock," Ryan said quickly. "No mods at all."

The examiner gave a short nod. "Alright, let’s start with a quick safety check."

He leaned in to inspect the seat belts, giving them a light tug. Then he checked the rearview and side mirrors from outside the car.

"Mirrors are good. Now hop in and start her up," he said.

Ryan climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine humd to life.

"Okay, now lights on. Left signal... right... brake lights—step on it... horn."

Ryan followed each instruction, and the examiner moved around the car, checking each function with practiced efficiency.

When he returned to the driver’s side, he gave a small approving nod. "Everything checks out. You got your papers?"

Ryan handed over the registration and insurance.

The examiner gave everything a quick once-over. "Looks good. Let’s get started."

The examiner buckled his seatbelt in the passenger seat and glanced around. "This thing’s got space," he said, stretching out. "Most sports cars feel like coffins. Comfy as hell."

Ryan laughed. "That’s why I bought it."

"You bought it?"

Ryan hesitated. "Yeah."

The examiner raised an eyebrow. "You drove it here yourself?"

Ryan pulse skipped. Technically, his learner’s permit didn’t allow solo driving.

"Uh, my agent was with ," he blurted. "He’s grabbing coffee nearby."

The examiner gave him a long, skeptical look but didn’t press. "Alright, hotshot. Let’s see what you got. Pull out nice and easy."

Ryan eased out of the lot, hyper-aware of every move. The examiner, still starstruck, kept sneaking glances. "So, you ready for the Tigers? That Grant-Alexis guy’s a beast."

Ryan smirked, keeping his eyes on the road. "We’ll handle him." He signaled, checked his mirrors, and rged smoothly onto the main road.

The test was standard: parallel parking (nailed it, though the K3’s low profile made him sweat), a three-point turn (textbook), and navigating a few intersections with stop signs and traffic lights.

"You’re doing solid. Just don’t get cocky."

Ryan kept it tight, avoiding the urge to gun the K3’s engine at a green light.

The examiner gave him the final task—backing up along a curb for 50 feet.

Ryan handled it with ease. Not like it was his first day behind the wheel.

Back at the DMV, the examiner scribbled a few notes, then looked over.

"You know what? You’re solid. Clean handling. Good mirror use. You passed. I’m a Roarers fan, sure—but this pass has nothing to do with that. You earned it."

Ryan exhaled, shoulders dropping. "Thank you, sir."

The examiner winked.

"Go get that photo for your temporary license. The real one’ll co in the mail in a week or two."

He paused, then added, "And hey—torch the Tigers tomorrow."

Ryan grinned.

"Can’t promise a win, but we’ll give it everything we’ve got."

Inside, he posed for the photo, the DMV clerk barely hiding her excitent as she processed his temporary license. As he walked out, temporary card in hand, the license ordeal finally behind him—he could focus on the ga ahead.

——

Friday night, 9 p.m., Iron Vault Arena buzzed with electricity. The Roarers and Tigers strode onto the court, the prega rituals kicking into high gear. As the intro ceremony wrapped, the arena’s do lights blazed, bathing the hardwood in a white-hot glow.

Kamara scanned the stands, a habit of his. The place was packed—over 90% full. Three reasons for the turnout: one, the Roarers had Ryan now, and their recent hot streak—snapped two nights ago by the Drayport Talons after an eight-ga tear—had fans buzzing.

Two, they were facing the West’s top dogs, the Vega Tigers.

And three, the night’s marquee matchup: Atlantis golden boy Colter Frye versus Iron City’s new king, Ryan Carter, the two frontrunners for Rookie of the Year, squaring off head-to-head.

Kamara grinned, leaning toward Ryan. "Keep this up, and we’ll be sold out every night."

Ryan’s eyes swept the crowd. Fans in his No. 0 jersey were everywhere, rivaling the sea of No. 1s—Marcus’s number.

The truth was, this month, Ryan’s No. 0 had officially outsold Marcus’s iconic No. 1.

For years, the Roarers were buried at the bottom of the standings. Fans wore #1 to honor Marcus—the hotown legend. The King of Iron City.

Everyone else’s jersey? Just didn’t move.

But now? The kid they called Marcus’s heir had arrived. And he was delivering. Naturally, the jerseys followed.

"Look at that," Ryan said, nodding at the crowd. "My zero’s catching up."

Kamara smirked, scanning for his own No. 18. "Mine’s not as common, but check it—most of my fans are straight-up gorgeous."

Ryan scoffed. "Please. Plenty of beauties are rocking my zero."