Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 91 :At Least Let Me Get One Bucket

Ankle Reaper’s squad was up 8–4.

Ryan brought the ball up, The Guillotine guarding him again.

He didn’t feel like going iso all ga. He swung it to K-Vibe.

It was K-Vibe’s music video, after all—he had to get his mont.

Ankle Reaper stepped out to guard K-Vibe.

K-Vibe blew past him into the paint.

Not because K-Vibe was so elite hooper—nah.

Ankle Reaper barely tried to guard him.

He knew what this ga was about: clips for K-Vibe’s music video.

He could play hard against others, but K-Vibe? Not part of the plan.

K-Vibe gathered the ball, ready to lay it up—then the whistle blew.

He shot a look at the ref, who signaled traveling.

K-Vibe’s face darkened. I didn’t hire you to call fouls on , he thought, storming toward the ref, ready to let him have it.

Ryan saw it coming and grabbed his arm. "Chill, man. That travel was obvious. It’d look whack in the video anyway."

K-Vibe paused, then nodded. "Yeah, aight. Fair."

Up in the bleachers, soone leaned over.

"Yo, who’s that guy that traveled? What’s he doing on the court with these dudes?"

The guy next to him raised an eyebrow.

"You don’t know K-Vibe? Hip-hop artist, man."

"Nah, I’m into old-school jazz,"the other shrugged.

While they talked, Ankle Reaper sank another bucket. 10-4.

Ryan, back on offense, fed K-Vibe again. This ti, K-Vibe shook Ankle Reaper with ease—no traveling, just a clean drive to the hoop. But as he released the layup, a massive hand swatted it out of bounds.

K-Vibe froze, spinning around—furious.

The Guillotine stood there.

"The hell, man? Why’d you block ?" K-Vibe snapped.

"You said play for real," Guillotine shot back, hands up.

K-Vibe grumbled. "Yeah, but at least let get one bucket. How’m I supposed to cut my MV with no highlights?"

Guillotine chuckled. "My bad, my bad. My fault."

Afro Guy inbounded to K-Vibe, who took a midrange jumper.

Clank.

Off the rim.

The next two possessions, Ryan kept feeding K-Vibe.

Two more layups, no travels, no blocks.

Just... missed.

The other team’s center snagged the rebounds, playing just hard enough to keep it real.

Letting K-Vibe score too easy would look staged—no need for a ga if they were just filming layup drills.

In the bleachers, Jazz Guy leaned over again.

"Why are they letting that rapper keep attacking? Nobody’s even guarding him properly, like they’re trying to let him score."

The other guy looked at him like he had three heads.

"You really don’t know? K-Vibe set this whole ga up—for his MV."

Jazz Guy shook his head.

"I just heard there was a ga tonight. Ca early to get a good seat."

As they spoke, K-Vibe got the ball again. This ti, he drove and finally—finally—dropped in a layup.

Applause all around.

He shouted to the ref:

"Tiout!"

Then imdiately ran off to check the footage.

He watched the replay, nodding. The shot was gold—grit on his face, determination in his eyes, the kind of raw vibe you couldn’t fake without a real ga.

Now that he had at least one mont, he waved over Jamal.

"Your turn. I’m taking a break."

He was legit exhausted—dude hardly ever played ball.

Jamal’s eyes lit up. "Bet!"

He looked at Eddie. "Boss, you mind filming ?"

Eddie nodded and pulled out his phone.

K-Vibe yelled toward the court.

"Alright! Ga on!"

Because yeah—tiouts ran on K-Vibe’s schedule.

The players hit the court again. Jamal was buzzing, heart racing. Him, sharing the floor with streetball elite? This was unreal, a dream he’d never imagined.

Back in the day, he lived on the blacktop, holding his own—not quite Roarers’ Garbage Ti Big Four, but solid.

Problem was, he didn’t know pro-level sets or cuts. Just pure street instincts.

Ankle Reaper’s team led 16-6 with seven minutes left in the first quarter.

The ga picked back up, fast and furious. Both sides traded buckets—Ryan and Caron carrying K-Vibe’s squad, while Ankle Reaper, Ballet Bear, and The Guillotine ran the show for the other team. Their two role players were just along for the ride.

With 15 seconds left, the score sat at 40-32, Ankle Reaper’s crew.

Poor Jamal had barely touched the ball.

On defense, he was easy to blow by.

On offense, Ryan had passed to him twice—but Caron imdiately called for the ball, and Jamal deferred.

He knew where he stood. Not his place to take shots.

Still, he was in it. Heart pumping. Loving every second.

Last possession before halfti.

Ryan turned to Jamal. "Yo, Jamal, I’m going to the rim. Set up in the right corner for a three."

Jamal nodded. "Got you."

Afro Guy inbounded to Ryan, who pushed the ball up fast.

A few quick crossovers, a spin, and he sliced into the paint. Three defenders sward him as he went up.

Perfect.

Ryan kicked it out to the right corner, where Jamal was parked, wide open.

He hadn’t been living on the courts since becoming Eddie’s assistant, but he still played after work. Still practiced threes now and then.

He took a deep breath.

Released.

The arc was rainbow-smooth.

Clang.

Off the rim.

But—

Bounce. Drop.

In.

40–35.

The whistle blew. End of the first quarter—but for this ga, that ant halfti. They were only playing two.

Jamal was ecstatic. He wrapped Ryan in a hug.

"I made it!"

Ryan laughed. "Nice shot, man."

Jamal ran straight to Eddie. "You get that on cara?"

Eddie shrugged.

"You didn’t touch the ball all quarter. I was getting tired holding the phone."

Jamal’s face fell in horror.

"Bro! How could you?!"

Eddie grinned.

"Kidding. I got the last minute."

He handed over the phone.

Jamal clutched it like treasure, already rewatching it with a huge smile.

During the halfti break, the wiry old announcer took over the sound system, pumping out high-energy hip-hop that rattled the bleachers.

Smart guy—he was spinning K-Vibe’s classic hits, and the crowd was all in. The vibe was electric, the bass pounding through the asphalt like a heartbeat, everyone feeding off the rhythm like it was a sumr block party.

Then, out of nowhere, a stocky, muscular dude shoved his way through the crowd and stepped onto the court. The place went wild—shouts, whistles, the whole deal.

Ryan squinted at him, scratching his head. The guy looked familiar, but he couldn’t pin it down. Then the crowd started chanting, "Jalyn Bryson! Jalyn Bryson!"

His eyes widened.

Jalyn Bryson, the point guard from Orvara Eclipse—Ryan’s opponent two nights from now.

Bryson sauntered over to K-Vibe’s side first, throwing a polite nod at K-Vibe and Ryan. They were strangers, but respect was the code out here.

Then he turned to Caron, Afro Guy, and the center, pulling them into quick, easy bro-hugs.

Caron had played a few seasons with Orvara Eclipse. Although he was gone by the ti Jalyn Bryson joined, the two still knew each other sohow—basketball circles always ran tight.

After that, Bryson jogged over to Ankle Reaper’s crew, dapping them up with big grins, then flopped down on their bench like he owned it. No surprise there—he was tight with that squad, way more than K-Vibe’s.

The announcer’s voice crackled back to life, hyping the crowd for round two. The air buzzed with anticipation, raw and alive.

Not long after, the second half kicked off—on K-Vibe’s cue, of course. He subbed himself back in, sending Jamal to the bench.

But really, the ga only felt alive when Ankle Reaper’s crew had the ball, it was fireworks—smooth handles, nasty crossovers, the works.

When K-Vibe’s team was on offense, things got... weird. Ryan kept feeding K-Vibe possession after possession. And now that K-Vibe had already gotten his one layup on cara, he didn’t bother driving anymore. He just kept chucking mid-range jumpers.

All bricks.

To be fair, bricks are easier to rebound than missed layups.

But Ryan was getting worked under the boards.

Ballet Bear used that heavy fra to pin him down hard, sealing him off every ti,

and The Guillotine cleaned up the glass with zero resistance.

Ryan couldn’t even sniff a board.

After K-Vibe clanked five in a row, the scoreboard read 48–37. Ankle Reaper’s crew up by eleven.

Then ca shot number six. Sa spot. Sa form. This ti? It dropped.

"YES!" K-Vibe shouted, fists clenched like he’d hit a buzzer-beater.

He imdiately called for a tiout and sprinted to check the footage.

His defender had barely lifted a hand—no contest, no pressure—but K-Vibe was all smiles. Looked good enough for the edit.

Two solid clips in the bag. That was plenty—and his legs were already turning to jelly.

He waved Jamal over. "Yo, finish it out. I’m done."

Jamal lit up like a kid at recess. "Say less!"

K-Vibe called off the tiout. Players made their way back onto the court.

The Guillotine strolled over to Ryan and grinned. "K-Vibe’s out. Guess you can actually hoop now."

Ryan glanced at the scoreboard. 7:29 left on the clock. Down by eleven.

Doable.

He smirked back. "Cool. Hope you’re ready to get cooked."