Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!

Chapter 145: “System, I decline the spin!”

Tuesday, April 8th. 7:30 PM. The Iron Vault.

The arena was packed.

The Roarers spilled out of the tunnel into a wall of noise, the sound crashing down on them like a wave breaking overhead, thick enough to almost press against skin.

Ryan lifted his head and ran his eyes across the stands — a sea of bodies with no end to it, every step of the aisles crammed full.

"Last time we played the Bullets, this place was this full too," he murmured.

"Nah, this is on another level." Kamara nodded at the sidelines. "They got ’em standing in the aisles tonight."

He wasn’t wrong. The walls, the aisles, every gap jammed with people waving banners, shouting till their voices gave out, feet planted tight against one another.

The Paladins followed them out in white road uniforms, and boos flecked the wall of sound like dark specks on a roaring tide.

Then the camera found LaVonte — and the booing died.

Not drowned out. Just gone. The kind of silence that happens when even the other team’s crowd can’t quite bring itself to boo.

What filled the gap wasn’t silence — it was the Paladins fans, scattered through the stands, finally unleashed.

A few young guys in the home crowd couldn’t hold it: "LaVonte! LaVonte!" The Iron City fans around them turned. Those guys looked down at the blue-and-gold on their own chests, something unreadable crossing their faces, and went quiet.

The league’s best player. The guy half of them had grown up watching.

But tonight, he stood on the other side.

LaVonte lifted his head and swept his gaze across the arena — slow, unhurried. No expression on his face. Or maybe that was his expression.

Ryan stepped onto the floor, and the first thing his eyes went to was the familiar courtside VIP seat — Chloe and her father’s usual spot.

Chloe.

She was already watching him. Beside her, her father Steven Palmer let his gaze travel unhurried over the packed house, taking in the thunder rolling up from every side, unbroken and all-encompassing — and gave a slow nod.

This was why he never cared for the suites up top. Down here in the noise, close enough to feel the floor tremble — this was where he wanted to be.

Chloe caught his eye, too. She drew both fists up in front of her and gave them a hard pump. Win it. No mistaking it.

Ryan tipped his chin back at her.

Last night, at the dinner table, her fork stabbing into her salad, she’d brought it up again — beat the Paladins, for the Zero9 ad.

"Oh yeah?" He’d quirked a grin, ribbing her. "And LaVonte? You’re sure you can lock down his likeness rights?"

"Mm, well, about that—" Chloe scrunched her nose, all mock-serious, then broke into a laugh and stuck her tongue out at him. "I figured I’d have to go beg LaVonte to sign off too. Turns out, after I checked with the legal team — nope! Don’t need to."

She tossed her head, smug. "Just run a group license through the league and the Players Association. No need to chase anyone down."

"Then I’ll bury him guilt-free."

"Damn right."

Beneath his feet, the floor was trembling.

Ryan dropped his head and drifted toward the baseline, dribbling in place.

The system... had been quiet for a long while now.

Didn’t matter. He was long used to it.

What it had really given him was the Westbrook sync rate. That was the foundation — everything he stood on. The occasional rewards? Just icing.

He’d spent this whole stretch of the season leaning on that, and on the skills he’d ground out day after day, carving out wins one game at a time. Reward or no reward, he’d stopped caring a long time ago.

Halfway through his warmup, his eyes drifted to the far half of the court — and met someone looking back.

LaVonte.

Not an edge to his face. He smiled, easy and unbothered, and lifted a hand.

Ryan paused, then nodded back.

...It took him a second to settle into that.

There was no real bad blood between them, when it came down to it. It was just that last time, the thing that had set LaVonte off had come from one source: the system. The Trash Talk Bonus.

Just thinking about it put a chill in him.

What the system handed out wasn’t always a gift. One of these times, it might be there to bury him.

The thought had barely formed—

[THE SYSTEM IS FEELING GENEROUS: ONE FREE SPIN OF THE LUCKY WHEEL.]

[GENERATING...]

[LUCKY WHEEL ACTIVATED.]

Ryan went stiff.

Once, he would’ve been thrilled. This time, a chill crawled up his spine.

No warning.

Before, it was always him doing the begging — and even then the system would demand a valid reason before it gave an inch. Except on milestone nights. Now it was the other way around: it surfaced on its own, no reason offered, forcing a spin on him.

"What’s the reason?" Ryan asked, low.

Fine. Two can play that game.

No response.

"...You’re popping up to screw me over, aren’t you."

[REASON—]

A pause.

[SINCE YOUR DEBUT, HOME ATTENDANCE HAS EXCEEDED 100% CAPACITY FOR THE FIRST TIME.]

Ryan stared.

Last time against the Bullets, the place was packed just the same, and the system hadn’t made a sound. Now they cram in a few rows of standing room and it comes crawling out of the woodwork?

"The hell kind of reason is that," he spat inwardly. "No need to wonder — you’re here to screw me, plain and simple."

The system paid his cursing no mind.

That familiar massive wheel bloomed into the air before him.

He glanced across the segments—

*WESTBROOK SYNC RATE 100% (3 SEC)

*REFEREE’S BLIND SPOT (1 UNDETECTED FOUL)

*FREE THROW ACCURACY +1%

*THANKS FOR PLAYING!

*THANKS FOR PLAYING!

...*THANKS FOR PLAYING!

And then his eyes landed on one segment in particular — and his eyelid twitched.

*TRASH TALK BONUS.

That thing. Again.

"I decline the spin," he said flatly.

[REASON.]

The whole thing was a trap. Nine times out of ten he’d land on that same segment again — sure, he could just decline to use it, but that would waste the spin for nothing. So he reached for the angle most likely to land:

"I’ve already claimed the Trash Talk Bonus once. By rights, it shouldn’t be back in the pool."

A pause.

[REASON ACCEPTED.]

[REGENERATING WHEEL REWARDS...]

Across the wheel, the text on every segment flickered and rolled, too fast to follow. Before Ryan could make out what they’d settled into—

[SPIN COUNTDOWN: 5 SECONDS. FORFEITED IF TIME RUNS OUT.]

[5]

[4]

[3]

"Spin!"

The wheel whirled, clicking through a long rattle, slowing... and stopped.

[OPPONENT’S FATAL MISJUDGMENT]

The wheel vanished. A line of text hung in the air:

[A single fatal misjudgment can turn the course of a game. Use this reward to make one ball-handling opponent commit a fatal lapse in judgment. One-time use only. To activate, whisper: "System, use."]

Ball-handling? Misjudgment?

Ryan’s brow furrowed. A bad read on a shot? A pass?

"Be more specific," he said inwardly.

[Take it at face value. Work the rest out yourself.]

"..."

Nothing more came.

Forget it. Ryan let out a breath. At least this one wasn’t like the Trash Talk Bonus — a trap you could spot a mile off. He’d hold onto it, see how things played out before deciding how to use it.

The buzzer cut through the arena. Game time.

Tonight’s starting five for the Roarers — Ryan, Darius, Malik, Kamara, Gibson.

At the scorer’s table, Mad Dog had his notes spread out in front of him.

"Ladies and gentlemen watching at home —" Mason’s voice jumped, excitement creeping in, "— tip-off is just seconds away!"

Mad Dog closed the folder, leaned back, and shot him a look. "You that hyped?"

"Haven’t called a Roarers game in a while." Mason shrugged with a grin.

"We haven’t done one together either," Mad Dog said.

"Ha. Fair enough." Mason glanced at the court. "Floor’s clearing."

"Mm." Mad Dog adjusted his headset. "Both teams are set."

Malik walked to center court. Across from him, Treston Thorne — the Paladins’ center — settled into position and waited.

Mad Dog: "We’ve got the tip coming up — Malik for the Roarers against Thorne —"

Mason: "I’ll bet Malik wins this one."

Two men standing seven feet tall, give or take — Malik with the stillness of a veteran, thirty-six years of having seen everything behind his eyes; Thorne young, wide-shouldered, built like a wall, arms hanging loose at his sides, palms already open, already waiting.

The referee stepped into the circle, ball in hand. Both men bent at the knees at the same moment.

The noise inside the Iron Vault pulled tight — not quieter, just denser, like the air being compressed into a single point, sharp and ready to burst outward.

The ball went up.

Malik rose, fingertips grazing it — and tapped it cleanly back into Ryan’s hands.

Mason: "Ha — called it."