Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 97 :The Sleaziest Player In The League

Ryan checked his phone: 9:30 p.m.

He hopped into his K3 and drove straight to his old rundown apartnt complex, the kind of place where shadows clung to every corner. Parking in the dim, grimy lot, he felt a twinge of unease—hope no one sses with the car—but figured a quick visit wouldn’t tempt fate.

He climbed the creaky stairs to Unit 702 and knocked. Jamal swung the door open, his face lighting up.

"Yo, what’s good? You back in the hood?" Jamal hollered over his shoulder, "Kylie, check who’s here!"

Kylie bounced out of her room, her grin wide as she saw Ryan. "No way!" she said, pulling him into a quick hug. Ryan’s smile matched hers—this was his first ti back at Unit 702 since moving out, and the familiarity hit hard.

Once inside, he didn’t waste ti. "Actually, Kylie, I need a favor. I need to cut a quick demo."

"A demo?" she asked, curious.

"Yeah. I wrote a new song. It’s for Selena Hartley. I need a rough version to send over."

That caught her full attention. After all, Ryan’s "Rember the Na" was everywhere right now. And now there was another one?

"Hell yes," she said. "Let’s record it in my room."

Jamal, never one to miss the action, tagged along. Ryan grabbed a pen and paper, scribbling down the lyrics for "Unstoppable." He pointed to the "Porsche" line. "This’ll swap out for a sports car brand later. It’s just a placeholder for now."

Ryan sang the song once through, his voice rough but carrying the lody. Jamal and Kylie’s eyes lit up, jaws dropping. The track was fire—uplifting, anthemic, pure adrenaline.

Then Kylie started working through the vocals, and Ryan jumped in with guidance.

"You’ve gotta bring the energy—make it about strength, defiance. That ’I put my armor on’ line? Push the pitch up there. Really own it."

Kylie soaked it up, her voice growing bolder with each run. Half an hour later, she had it locked in, nailing the song’s soul.

Ryan pulled out his phone to record the real deal. Kylie belted it out, her voice soaring, raw and powerful. When she finished, Ryan played back the file, nodding in approval.

"Want to do another few takes?" Kylie asked, catching her breath.

"Nah, that’s gold," Ryan said. "Real talk, Kylie—you’ve got serious talent. With so pro vocal coaching, you could make waves as a singer."

Kylie grinned, half-shy, half-excited. "Funny you say that. I’ve been thinking about it. If I go for it, you writing a song?"

"Count on it," Ryan said, his mind already rifling through Earth’s classic hits he could "borrow" to launch her. Pick a few bangers, and she’s set.

He sent the recording to Jamal. "Get this to Eddie tomorrow. Oh, and tell him to scout so car brands—see who’ll pay to get their na in the lyrics."

Jamal nodded. That kind of hustle was Eddie’s domain.

Ryan leaned back, reminding himself: he was a pro baller first. Music? Just a side gig, a fun way to ss around. His real focus was the court—always would be.

——

Sunday morning, Ryan was all in at Iron Vault Arena, grinding through drills with laser focus.

Eddie didn’t bug him—his agent contract gave him full rein to handle deals, and these small-fry music gigs didn’t need Ryan’s attention.

Tonight, the Roarers were hosting the Koreya Flaguardians, the West’s seventh seed with a 25-28 record.

The Roarers, sitting at 18-35 in eighth, were seven wins behind.

But with 23 gas still left in the regular season, nothing was locked in.

Still, since Ryan joined, the Roarers were a different beast—leaps ahead of the Flaguardians’ level.

When the final buzzer sounded that night, the Roarers had smoked the Flaguardians 129-117, cruising to their fifth straight win.

Ryan only played 29 minutes, clocking out after three quarters. He shot 8-for-13 from the field, 1-of-2 from deep, and 4-of-6 from the line—ending the night with 21 points, 6 boards, and 8 assists. Clean, efficient, dominant.

Ryan barely got ho, still buzzing from the win, when Eddie rolled up.

"Quick update, then I’m out," Eddie said, leaning against the doorfra. "That ’no brakes’ lyric? It’s two syllables, so I pitched it to three sports car brands with two-syllable nas. Two passed—said it’s just a simple taphor, no big deal."

Ryan smirked. "They’ll kick themselves when this track blows up."

Eddie nodded. "Sypher bit, though. Offered ten grand for the na-drop. I signed the deal."

"Not bad," Ryan said. "They’ll see that ten grand was a steal soon enough."

Ten grand was pocket change for Ryan now, but for one lyric ntion? Compared to selling "Rember the Na" to K-Vibe for the sa price, it was a sweet deal.

Eddie continued, "Now, Selena’s team. They’re offering thirty grand flat for the songwriting and composition rights. You’ll also retain lifeti royalties on the publishing side. You want to look over the contract?"

"Send it to ," Ryan said. "I’ll check it when I get a minute."

"Cool," Eddie said, heading for the door. "One last thing—don’t get too caught up in this music stuff. Your ga’s the priority. Keep balling."

Ryan grinned. "I got it under control. Writing songs barely takes any effort."

Because I’m not writing—I’m just pulling hits from my old world.

——

A new week ant a brutal stretch for the Roarers—four gas in seven days. Monday night, they were already in Vellix City, prepping for battle.

Tuesday’s matchup against the Vellix City Phantoms, the East’s eighth seed, kicked off their week.

That evening, the team huddled in a rented hotel conference room for a film session. Coach Crawford broke down the Phantoms’ sches, dissecting their plays and system.

No standout nas ca up. Just another bottom-tier team with no stars to worry about.

But then—

Kamara piped up, half-grinning. "Coach, what about Devin Maddox? No breakdown on him?"

The room erupted. So Roarers chuckled, others rolled their eyes with exaggerated disgust.

Ryan glanced around, confused. What’s the deal with this guy?

Crawford raised an eyebrow, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. "What am I supposed to analyze about him?"

Kamara leaned in, smirking wider. "You know—his dirty moves. The way he uses his junk to guard people?"

The team lost it again, laughter bouncing off the walls.

Crawford glanced around the room, then back at Ryan—the only one who still looked confused.

Crawford’s smirk deepened, but he waved it off. "I don’t have tape on that. Go dig it up online for Ryan. eting’s over."

The team scattered, and Kamara tagged along with Ryan back to his hotel room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Ryan couldn’t hold back. "Alright, what’s the deal? Is Devin Maddox so kind of beast?"

Kamara laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, he’s decent—solid defender. But he’s infamous, man. The ABA’s sleaziest player."

"Sleazy?" Ryan echoed, brow furrowed.

"Yeah, check this out." Kamara pulled out his phone, already scrolling for clips.

Kamara found the clip and passed his phone to Ryan.

"Here. Just watch."

Ryan hit play—and instantly recoiled.

The footage showed Maddox guarding the post. But instead of playing it straight, the guy kept driving his hips—his crotch—right into the other player’s backside. Again and again, like so twisted parody of a basketball move.

It wasn’t just awkward—it looked almost... sexual.

Ryan blinked. "Yo, what the hell—"

Ryan’s mind flashed to his old world, to the NBA’s Dillon Brooks , that notorious pest who’d made headlines for his own brand of dirty tricks.

Brooks had gone viral for bumping LeBron Jas with his junk, a clip that lit up X and sparked endless s.

Ryan wasn’t sure if Brooks had pulled that move on anyone else—he’d never gone digging for more clips—but Maddox?

This dude was on another level. The video was a montage of Maddox’s greatest "hits," victimizing at least a dozen

Victims ca and went—LaVonte, Lamar, a few faces Ryan recognized from around the league, their faces twisted in annoyance as Maddox’s hips did their dirty work. Then, at the end, there was Kamara himself, caught in Maddox’s trap , looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but in that post.

Kamara snatched the phone back , his face a mix of embarrassnt and mock outrage. "Yo, skip mine," he said, shaking his head. "Real talk, getting hip-checked like that by Maddox? Nasty. Felt like I needed a shower after. I swear, I don’t even try backing him down anymore."

Ryan cracked up , leaning back on the creaky hotel bed, the Vellix City skyline flickering through the window like a neon pulse. "Good thing I’m not big on post-ups," he said, grinning , already picturing himself dodging Maddox’s antics with a quick crossover instead.

Kamara smirked, but his tone got serious. "It ain’t just that, man. Maddox has a whole bag of cheap tricks —elbows, sneaky grabs, whatever throws you off. And he’s always running his mouth, spraying trash talk like it’s his job , the kind that gets under your skin and stays there. Dude’s all about ssing with your head. Watch your back out there."

Ryan nodded, taking it in , his mind already mapping out how to handle Maddox on the court tomorrow. "I got you," he said , his voice steady with the confidence of a baller who’d faced worse and co out on top.