NOVEL WEB Chapter 113 :A Party for the Roarers
Crane's mansion sat on the western slope of Iron City's hill district, in a neighborhood where every house seemed designed to keep the rest of the world out. The road climbed in slow curves through sculpted trees, the kind that probably had their own gardener on salary.
Compared to Chloe's palatial estate, Crane's place wasn't quite as vast, but it had the kind of precision that money and pride could build. The double gate—steel framed with polished hardwood—stood open just enough for a valet to wave them forward.
"Park just past the fountain," the man in the black suit said, gesturing them along the circular drive.
Ryan eased the black K3 coupe into a space near the front steps. He stepped out, walked around to Chloe's side, and offered his arm. She slid hers through his, her silk dress brushing his sleeve.
A deep-blue sports car purred up the drive, its engine breathing like a beast in the night. Ryan didn't need to check the plates—he knew it was Kamara.
Ryan waited where he was as Kamara slid out from behind the wheel, flicking the cuff of his midnight-blue designer suit jacket.
The passenger door opened, and a tall brunette stepped out. Silver slip dress, cool under the entry lights, the hem swaying with her stride—like moonlight spilled across Iron City asphalt. Her presence was poised, a little runway glamour wrapped in the casual rhythm of the street.
"Well, well," Kamara's gaze swept to where Chloe's hand was looped through Ryan's arm, and his grin widened. "Iron City's golden couple."
He led his date over, eyebrows lifting in mock suspicion at Chloe. "Damn, holding him that tight? Afraid he's gonna bolt?"
Chloe only smiled, offering nothing more—she didn't know Kamara well enough to play back.
Kamara slid an arm around his companion, grinning even wider.
"Check it out—meet Talia, my model queen."
Ryan gave her a nod, keeping it cool. "Nice to meet you."
Chloe smiled warmly, stepping forward for a quick hug—a light, friendly embrace, the kind that's all Iron City charm without the awkwardness. "Hi, Talia. Love the dress—it's killer."
Talia returned the hug with a grin, her voice smooth. "Thanks. You two look like you're owning the night."
Kamara chuckled, slapping Ryan on the back. "See? Told you she's got that vibe. Now, let's crash this party before they run out of good drinks."
A staffer in a crisp black vest appeared, gesturing for them to follow toward the back garden where the party was in full swing. They'd barely taken two steps when the slow roll of tires on the drive caught their attention.
A yellow, old-model cab rolled in through the front gates, its boxy silhouette and weathered paint looking almost defiant against the gleaming row of sports cars. It came to a stop a few yards behind them.
Ryan and Kamara turned instinctively as the rear door opened.
A woman stepped out first—mid-fifties, hair silvering at the roots, a plain gray sweater hanging loose over worn jeans. She kept one hand wrapped around the smaller fingers of a girl who could've been ten, maybe eleven. The kid had a round face and wide, watchful eyes, dressed in a clean pink T-shirt and denim shorts. Both wore the same scuffed canvas sneakers.
They looked like they'd just stepped off a city sidewalk, maybe from a grocery run, dropped straight into the floodlit grandeur of the estate's driveway—a jarring little slice of the ordinary against the gloss of Iron City wealth.
The woman's gaze flicked between the towering arch, the sculpted hedges, and the glowing windows beyond—nervous, a little stiff in her step.
Ryan knew her instantly.
Mary Hernandez, the cleaning lady at the Roarers Training Center. He'd chatted with her plenty—on cold mornings, after practice, even the day she told him to drink more water when he had a cough. Mary always said he didn't carry himself like some big-shot pro.
Tonight, Crane had invited every last Roarers employee to the party. Even Mary.
When she spotted Ryan and Kamara, the tension in her eyes eased just a notch. She gave them a polite, slightly awkward smile.
"You guys go on ahead," Ryan told Kamara. "I'll catch up."
Kamara shrugged, draping an arm over Talia's shoulder. "Alright, man." They headed off toward the back garden.
Mary came closer, her daughter's fingers hooked in hers. The girl studied Ryan and Chloe with open curiosity. Mary gave Chloe a small nod—recognition, but with that quiet air of someone who doesn't think they belong in your orbit.
"This your daughter?" Ryan asked.
Mary nodded. "Yeah."
Ryan crouched a little, smiling. "And what's your name, princess?"
The girl ducked behind her mom, and Mary answered for her. "Sofia."
Ryan straightened. "You look a little nervous, Mary."
Mary let out a soft laugh, squeezing Sofia's hand. "Of course I am. I've never been anywhere like this. A mansion, a party… Usually I'm just mopping floors at the training center, not walking past marble fountains and statues." Her eyes flicked toward the sprawling lawn as if she were looking at another planet.
Ryan grinned. "Hey, I'm no different. First time for me, too. It's just the boss throwing a get-together. Eat, drink, relax."
Mary smiled. "Then we'll head in. Don't want to keep you and Miss Palmer."
Ryan nodded, and mother and daughter made their way forward.
Chloe and Ryan followed at an easy pace.
"Didn't expect you to know the cleaning staff so well," Chloe said.
Ryan shot her a grin. "What, jealous already?"
"Not even close," she replied. "I like it. Says a lot about you."
"I used to be homeless, remember? First week with the Roarers, Mary even brought me a packed breakfast."
They walked on, the path opening toward the garden. The air shifted—fresh cut grass and faint jasmine mixing with the low thrum of poolside music. Lantern light shimmered across the water, casting ripples of gold over the white stone patio. Servers moved between clusters of guests with trays of champagne and bite-sized appetizers; laughter rose in pockets, mingling with the soft splash of someone diving into the pool. Beyond the glow, the lawn stretched into darkness, the party's heartbeat steady in the summer night.
It was just past eight when Ryan and Chloe finally made it through the garden gates. By party standards, they were late—most of the crowd was already here. Two, maybe three hundred people, Ryan guessed, though the sheer sprawl of Crane's backyard kept it from feeling crowded.
Everywhere he looked, there were familiar faces—teammates, coaches, cheerleaders, front office staff—along with their partners and kids. No politicians, no stiff corporate types, just Roarers people.
The air was warm with the scent of seared ribeye and cedar smoke drifting from the outdoor grills.
At the far end, a raised stage held a live band—horns, bass, and a drummer in a linen shirt—sliding through a lazy jazz groove that somehow made the clink of glasses and low hum of conversation sound like part of the song. White-jacketed servers moved between clusters of guests with trays of champagne flutes and miniature lobster rolls, while a bar under a canvas canopy poured everything from craft beer to thirty-year-old single malt.
Ryan couldn't help thinking Jamal would've lost his mind here—this was the kind of night he'd brag about for the rest of his life.
He kept Chloe's hand in his as they moved through the garden, stopping every few steps to clasp hands or trade quick hugs with teammates.
Only Malik and Gibson had kids, and both had brought them along tonight—Malik with his pair of five-year-old twin boys, all energy and matching grins.
And Gibson's teenage daughter, whom Ryan had seen courtside at Iron Vault more than once. Gibson's son wasn't here—he lived with Gibson's ex-wife, out of Iron City.
Even among the Roarers, the crowd had split into its natural circles. Players clustered near the bar, laughing loud over some inside joke; the coaching staff kept to a long table under the pergola, plates balanced on their laps. Office people—ticketing, marketing, finance—mingled by the buffet, trading stories that had nothing to do with basketball. Off to one side, Mary was with a small knot of housekeeping staff, their posture a little tentative but their laughter genuine, a quiet contrast to the rowdy bursts from the players' corner.
Ryan scanned the garden, eyes skipping over familiar faces. No sign of Crane.
Chloe followed his gaze and smiled knowingly. "He's probably in the front hall with my dad," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as if to seal the thought.
The night hummed on around them. Waiters in crisp black vests wove between clusters of guests, their trays a carousel of champagne flutes, tumblers of amber liquor, and miniature plates piled with lamb skewers, tuna tartare, and seared scallops. From the far end of the garden, the live band rolled through a velvety jazz number, saxophone notes curling into the warm air.
Under the soft amber glow of the string lights, conversations ebbed and flowed. Malik's twin boys darted between tables, their laughter ringing out as they tried to evade an exhausted-looking Gibson's daughter, who had somehow been roped into babysitting duty. At the koi pond, two assistant coaches leaned on the railing, deep in debate about next season's draft prospects.