NOVEL NEXT Chapter 115 :Victory on Court, Storms Beyond
The party's buzz faded past midnight, the garden exhaling its last bursts of energy. The bar packed away its final bottles of champagne, and the lanterns dimmed one by one, their soft glow swaying in the breeze like fading embers. Laughter and clinking glasses grew sparse, the crowd thinning as guests drifted off in twos and threes, their voices swallowed by the Iron City night. The estate's grandeur settled into quiet, the pool's ripples stilling under the weight of the stars.
Ryan hadn't forgotten Palmer's words. As the party wound down, he led Chloe to his black K3, her silk dress brushing his arm as he opened the passenger door. He drove her home through Iron City's neon-lit streets, the city's pulse a low hum beneath their silence, her hand resting lightly on his. The skyline flickered like a promise, steel and dreams woven into the night.
——
Tuesday morning, Iron City woke beneath a faint veil of mist, but online the city was anything but quiet. The news hit like a backboard-shattering dunk: Crane had sold the Roarers to Steven Palmer.
It spread everywhere at once, a headline detonation no one could ignore.
The media had been circling; with Crane inviting the entire Roarers organization and Palmer himself showing up, someone was bound to leak. Crane's public announcement didn't shy away from it—he knew the press would've sniffed it out in days anyway.
Ryan blinked awake and reached for his phone. The screen flared to life, stacked with notifications—Atlantis Today, The Iron City Post, and half a dozen others.
He tapped open Atlantis Today. The headline hit like a hammer:
PALMER TAKES THE ROARERS. A NEW ERA BEGINS IN IRON CITY.
The piece beneath it read:
"Last night, at a private gathering at his estate, team owner Daniel Crane confirmed the sale of the Roarers to business magnate Steven Palmer. The deal is expected to close within weeks. Crane will retain a minority stake and continue on as an operations advisor. Palmer, for his part, promised no changes to personnel, assuring that the roster remains intact as the franchise moves forward."
The internet felt like Iron City's streets at rush hour—loud, alive, impossible to ignore. Every comment cracked like a three-pointer snapping the net, sparks flying with each take.
Ryan scrolled through, shaking his head at the frenzy.
"Palmer's got the money and the brains. The Roarers are finally taking off!"
"Without Crane, what happens to the team's soul?"
"Forget the team—Ryan Carter's practically Palmer's son-in-law now. Guess we're signing a championship roster next season!"
Ryan snorted at that last one, laughter slipping out despite himself. His mind flashed back to Palmer's words from the night before—I'll build you a championship-caliber roster.
His pulse kicked like a foot pressing the gas.
Of course, all that would come later.
For now, the Roarers still had business to handle—practice in the morning, and a home game the next night against the Eastmoor Vipers, the bottom-feeders of the East.
——
Morning – Training Center.
Sunlight spilled through the wide glass panes of the Iron City Roarers Training Center, bouncing off polished wood and the faint gleam of sweat already on the floor. The air carried that familiar cocktail of disinfectant and rubber, the soundtrack a steady rhythm of basketballs slamming the hardwood.
Ryan pushed through the doors, duffel slung over his shoulder. He hadn't made it ten steps when Kamara's booming voice cut through the noise.
"Well, if it isn't the future son-in-law! Ryan, what's it like having the boss as your daddy-in-law?"
The gym erupted. Whistles, laughter, even Malik chiming in with a grin:
"Man, once you and Chloe tie the knot, maybe the salary cap's gonna magically bend for us, huh?"
Ryan rolled his eyes, hands lifted in mock surrender, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile.
"Come on, fellas. Can we not turn practice into TMZ?"
The teasing might've gone on forever if not for the sharp bark that followed.
"Enough!"
Coach Crawford strode in from the locker room, playbook under his arm, eyes sweeping across the court. The chatter died instantly, the silence thick enough to feel. His gaze lingered on Ryan for a beat, the faintest twitch at the edge of his mouth betraying amusement before he snapped back to business.
"On the floor. Let's work."
Just like that, the session locked into rhythm.
——
At one o'clock, the team meeting room went dark, heavy curtains blocking the sun as the projector lit up with footage of the Eastmoor Vipers.
Their offense tore through the screen—drives, pull-up jumpers, lightning-fast breaks—but their defense was a gaping hole, players jogging back like they'd already cashed their checks.
Crawford sat up front, remote in hand, his laser pointer dancing across the screen. "See this? Top-five scoring, dead-last defense. You know what that means."
Darius, crunching an energy bar, leaned back with a smirk. "They're stat-chasers. All offense, no D."
Crawford nodded, his eyes glinting. "Anarchist ball. Everybody wants to be the hero, so they're a mess."
The Vipers were the only team the Roarers had swept this season—three straight wins, even with Darius's ejection last game for throwing hands, earning a five-game suspension.
Kamara leaned back in his chair, throwing a sly glance at Darius.
"So, you gonna 'beat them down' again, big fella?"
Laughter rippled through the room.
Darius didn't flinch. "That's a given. Doesn't need saying."
"Yeah, just don't use your fists this time," Kamara shot back.
The room broke into full-on laughter now, even Crawford allowing himself a rare smile.
"All right, that's enough. Keep the tempo, suffocate them, finish the job. Simple as that."
No one argued. Facing the Vipers, pressure wasn't exactly part of the equation.
——
Game Night – Wednesday.
Iron City was alive by tip-off. The arena packed to the rafters, neon signs waving, chants thundering even before the ball went up.
And the game? Over before it really began.
The Roarers jumped ahead by double digits in the first, stretched it past twenty by the third, and by the time the fourth quarter rolled around, the starters barely logged two minutes before clocking out.
The Garbage Time Big Four—Omar, DeShawn, Brent, and Jalen—hit the court with fire in their eyes.
They knew Palmer's promise of "no personnel changes" didn't apply to them. That line had been about the front office and coaching staff. Players were always expendable.
The four of them were already long shots to make next season's roster. Tonight was about survival—every possession a plea for Palmer's approval. One word from him, and they might just buy themselves another year in Iron City.
For the four of them, every second was an audition.
Omar in particular played like his life was on the line—ten minutes, eleven points, four boards. He'd been grinding in silence: footwork ladders and drop-steps on the low block, touch shots and high-arc floaters with either hand—and lately, threes. Corner reps by the hundred until his shoulders burned. The stroke had started to fall at a high clip—yes, wide-open, no hand in his face—but real all the same. He'd stopped inviting Ryan—Ryan had outgrown the rookie bench mob—but Omar kept at it alone.
What he didn't know was that Crawford had noticed. On more than one late night, the old coach eased the main-court door open a crack and watched Omar work, saying nothing.
When the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard glowed: 133–111. Another easy win over Eastmoor, streak intact.
Ryan barely broke a sweat—29 minutes, 33 points, 12 assists, 7 boards. Nearly a triple-double. Darius piled on 35, the backcourt duo dismantling the Vipers with surgical ease.
Ryan got the first on-court interview, sweat still dripping as he caught his breath.
"Ryan, another thirty-plus night, another blowout win. What's clicking for you and the team right now?"
He smiled, calm and deferential.
"This is all about us as a unit. They can score, but we trusted each other defensively, kept the pace, and that opened everything up for us."
Later, in the press room, the spotlight shifted.
Crawford fielded the opening barrage, reporters hammering him with questions about the ownership shakeup.
"Coach, will Palmer change the team's style of play?"
"Does Crane stepping back affect locker room chemistry?"
The old fox didn't blink.
"Ownership doesn't rebound. Ownership doesn't run sets. My guys play basketball. That's all that matters."
Then came Ryan. The flashbulbs burst like fireworks as soon as he sat down.
"Ryan, about you and Chloe—does this relationship mean you'll have more influence in Palmer's long-term vision?"
"Some say Palmer is building this team around you. What's your response?"
For a split second, his smile stiffened. Then he leaned in, steady.
"My only focus is basketball. Whatever personal stuff you want to speculate about—I'd appreciate some space. Palmer's the owner. I'm the player. My job is to win games."
He gave a polite nod, the smile returning just enough to disarm the room. Staff cut the questions short before anyone could press further.
The night belonged to the Roarers, the streak, and to Ryan—whether he liked it or not.