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

The band slid into a new number—something slow and honeyed, all brushed snare and upright bass. Around them, couples drifted toward the dance floor, silhouettes merging under the lantern glow.

Chloe's fingers tapped against Ryan's wrist, a silent question.

He groaned. "Don't make me relive the Crown Hotel disaster."

Chloe remembered the way he'd once stepped on her toes and couldn't help but laugh.

Ryan kept up the banter, but his actions betrayed him—he was leading her toward the dance floor, his hand sliding around her waist, fingers finding the dip of her spine through silk. Muscle memory kicked in—this time, his palm stayed at the correct altitude.

"At the time, you swore this was easier than a crossover. Liar."

"It is easy," she said with a laugh, brushing her toe deliberately over the top of his shoe. "—as long as you don't dump all your weight on your heels."

"That time I stepped on you, you didn't even flinch."

"Oh, I did," she teased, her eyes sparkling. "Just on the inside. And while I was at it, I gave you a scorecard: technique, three points. Courage, nine. And one bonus point—for pity."

Ryan let out a low whistle. "Thirteen total? Out of what?"

"One hundred."

They had only taken a few steps when Chloe grinned. "Progress. No casualties yet."

"Relax, I'm not stepping on you this time," Ryan said, his forward step clean, landing exactly where it should—without flattening a single toe. What she didn't know was that ever since their last disastrous dance, he'd gone online to watch tutorials. Late at night, in his room, he'd practiced with nothing but empty air in his arms, rehearsing the steps until they started to feel less foreign.

"You survived." Her hips pressed flush against his on the next turn, a deliberate taunt. "Even managed to look good doing it."

The music swelled. Ryan spun her out, her dress flaring silver like a coin toss, then reeled her back in. No fumbles, no panic—just the heat of her palms and the quiet thrill of getting it right.

When the song faded, Chloe lingered in his arms, her cheek resting against his collarbone. Ryan felt the words before they left her lips:

"Still think dancing's harder than a crossover?"

He kissed her temple instead of answering. Some victories needed no trash talk.

The last notes of the song dissolved into the night, a shimmer of strings fading beneath the garden lanterns. Chloe lingered against Ryan's shoulder, his breath warming her hair, when the ripple of commotion swept through the crowd.

Crane had finally arrived.

At his side walked Steven Palmer. The two men cut a quiet path into the garden, and as the lights caught them, the chatter ebbed away as though someone had dialed the volume to zero.

Crane carried himself with his usual steadiness, neither hurried nor hesitant, mounting the small stage with measured steps. The band set their instruments aside, and in the stillness that followed, the only sound was the hush of a few hundred people waiting.

He took the microphone, smile flickering like a familiar landmark.

"Good evening, everyone. Having a good time?"

"Yes!" the crowd roared back, a mix of players, staff, and families, their enthusiasm edged with anticipation. The air crackled, like the Iron Vault before a game-winner.

Crane nodded, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces—teammates, coaches, office staff, cheerleaders, kids. His voice softened, carrying a depth that pulled everyone in.

"Tonight, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for everything you've poured into the Roarers. The wins on the court, the grind off it, the early morning practices, the late-night road trips—it's all of you that's made this team what it is today."

No one spoke. Then a single clap cracked the silence—old Joe, the strength coach, his massive hands colliding once, twice. Others joined in. Applause spread like wildfire, swelling into a storm that shook the garden lights.

Crane didn't raise his hand to quiet them. He simply stood, patient, until the storm spent itself and fell away.

Then he drew a breath, deep and deliberate, as if it might take with it the last of his hesitation.

"There's something else I need to announce."

The garden went still, the air taut with expectation.

Crane's eyes scanned the crowd, his words slow and clear. "This was supposed to stay under wraps a bit longer, but you know how the media is—they'll sniff it out soon enough. So I'd rather tell you all myself, right here, right now."

He paused, drawing another breath, his gaze steady. "I've sold the Roarers to Mr. Steven Palmer."

The words dropped like stone into still water.

Shock rippled outward. Mouths fell open, eyes went wide; people turned to each other, searching for confirmation they'd heard correctly. Of course Crane had thrown this party. A farewell dressed up as celebration. Rumors had circulated for months, but the reality landing in this moment felt like a punch to the chest.

Whispers rose—bewilderment, disbelief. Players traded looks. Office staff blanched. A few cheerleaders covered their mouths with trembling hands.

The evening, so light and joyful just moments ago, suddenly bore the weight of an ending.

Crane lifted his hand, steadying the room.

"I know it's a shock," he said, a rueful smile bending the edges of his eyes. "But don't panic. I'm not disappearing. I'm keeping a stake in the team, and I'll stay on as an operations advisor. I'll still be here. But the Roarers' future belongs to Steven Palmer."

Applause rose again—this time ragged, complicated, stitched together from gratitude, respect, and a grief no one quite knew how to voice.

Crane turned, extending his hand toward Steven, palm up, both invitation and passing of the torch.

"Steven. Care to say a few words?"

Palmer gave a small nod and stepped onto the stage. He took the microphone from Crane, his broad shoulders squared, his smile steady but measured, the kind that could quiet a boardroom or a locker room.

"Folks, the paperwork's still churning through," he began, his voice deep and even, carrying a soothing edge that cut through the tension. "It'll take a few weeks to finalize everything, so I won't bore you with the details tonight."

He paused, letting the words settle, his eyes scanning the faces—Malik by the bar, Mary with the housekeeping crew, the front-office staff clutching their drinks. "But I know what's on your minds, so let me put one thing to rest: when I take over, the Roarers' roster stays untouched. No personnel changes."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd.

For most, the words barely mattered—rank-and-file employees like Mary from housekeeping had never truly worried. A change of ownership didn't usually reach that far. No one fired the cleaning crew when a franchise changed hands.

But for Kevin Buth, the Roarers' general manager, Palmer's words were a lifeline. He stood near the pergola, his tie loosened, a glass of bourbon in hand. Since Crane's bombshell about selling the team, Kevin's brow had been locked in a permanent furrow.

Or more accurately, his brow had been knotted since the moment he arrived at the party. A few days earlier, he'd already learned the Roarers were officially moving through the sale process—after all, as general manager, the paperwork had to cross his desk.

In the ABA, a change in ownership often meant the guillotine for GMs and head coaches—standard procedure, a new boss's way of flexing power. Kevin knew he could be the first card played in Palmer's reshuffle. Palmer's assurance wasn't a lifetime guarantee—nobody was naive enough to think that—but it bought him time. A chance to keep his seat at the table. Kevin let out a quiet breath, his lips twitching into a faint, relieved smile as he raised his glass, the bourbon catching the light like molten amber.

Palmer's gaze swept the crowd again, his presence commanding without trying. "That's all I've got for now," he said, his tone lightening, like a coach wrapping up a halftime talk. "This isn't a press conference—it's a party. So go on, eat, drink, dance. Enjoy the night."

He handed the mic back to Crane, who gave a nod, the gesture heavy with unspoken history. The band struck up again, a playful jazz riff easing the crowd back into motion.

The garden came alive, the clink of glasses and bursts of laughter rising like Iron City's neon veins pulsing back to life. Servers wove through the guests, trays laden with lamb skewers and seared scallops, while Malik's twins darted past, nearly knocking a champagne flute from a waiter's hand. Gibson's daughter sighed, chasing after them, her babysitting duties a losing battle.

Palmer lingered for a while longer, clinking glasses with Crane. Eventually, he rose, signaling it was time to leave.

Before stepping out, he approached Ryan and Chloe. "Mind if I shake your hand?" he said to Ryan, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ryan felt a flicker of nerves. This was the man who now owned the Roarers—and Chloe's father.

Palmer's handshake was firm, confident. "With you on the team, the Roarers have started to see some of their old glory again," he said, his eyes scanning Ryan with an appraisal that was equal parts warmth and calculation.

Ryan shook his head, modest. "It's not just me. The whole team's been working hard."

Palmer chuckled, a low, approving sound. "Keep it up. This year, making the playoffs is enough. Next season? I'll build you a championship-caliber roster, and we'll go all the way."

Ryan blinked, surprised and quietly thrilled by the promise.

They exchanged a few more words before Palmer turned to Chloe. "I'm heading out first," he said, voice firm but not harsh. "When the party's over, you head straight home. No detours, no stops." He cast a brief, almost imperceptible glance at Ryan.

Ryan met his gaze steadily. "Don't worry. As soon as the party ends, I'll see her home."

Chloe gripped Palmer's shoulder, a small smile teasing him. "I'm not a little kid anymore," she said, eyes sparkling.

Palmer's expression softened just slightly, and with a nod, he left.