Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World!-Chapter 74 :Let’s See You Hook Me Now

Jalen Hardell caught Amin’s pass just beyond the arc. Ryan picked him up in single coverage.

Hardell settled into a textbook triple-threat stance, eyes locked on Ryan.

Ryan lowered his center of gravity, arms wide, and said, "Come on."

But Hardell didn’t move. He froze—completely still, like someone had hit the pause button.

Seconds ticked by. Ryan finally couldn’t help himself—he jabbed forward, trying to poke the ball loose.

Big mistake.

Hardell snaps to life. In a flash, he traps Ryan’s arm, pinning it between his bicep and forearm, then hoists both hands skyward in what might be the ugliest shooting form in basketball history.

What the hell?

Ryan tugs to free his arm, but Hardell’s grip is a vice. Then, still tangled, Hardell lofts the ball toward the hoop. It’s a wild shot, and as it sails, he wheels toward the ref, already selling the foul, claiming Ryan yanked his arm.

The ref, hesitating for a beat, blew the whistle.

The shot missed—of course.

Three free throws.

While Ryan stood frozen, trying to process what had just happened, Hardell calmly stepped to the line.

Kamara sidles up, voice low. "Watch out, man. He’s about to put on a show."

Ryan mutters, "Yeah. I just got a taste of his dirty tricks."

Swish.

Swish.

Swish.

Hardell, whose career free-throw percentage has never dipped below 85%, drains all three.

44–37. The Starships had cut a double-digit deficit to just seven.

Ryan grabs the inbounds pass and dribbles up to the arc.

This time, it’s not Amin guarding him—it’s Hardell.

Ryan fakes, then drives, but Hardell reads it like a book, sliding a step ahead to cut him off.

Ryan tries to nudge Hardell aside with a subtle forearm, slipping past.

The whistle shrieks.

Ryan spins around to see Hardell sprawled on the floor, clutching his side in mock agony.

The ref clenched his fist and thrust his arm to the side: offensive foul.

Then pointed the other way: possession goes to Starships.

Ryan loses it, roaring at the ref. "This is our house! How do you call that?"

The ref ignores him.

Hardell, now helped up by a teammate, flashes Ryan a sly grin, his "pain" miraculously gone.

Ryan stomps back on defense, fuming.

Hardell gets the ball at the three-point line again, settling into that same triple-threat stance.

This time, Ryan’s glued to him, hands disciplined, refusing to bite.

Hardell explodes into a drive.

Ryan stays with him, step for step, not giving an inch.

And yet—somehow—Hardell hooked his arm again.

Ryan wasn’t even sure how it happened.

Hardell rose for a floater, and from the ref’s angle, it looked like Ryan was tugging his arm.

Whistle.

This time, the shot went in.

The ref grabbed his own wrist—holding foul.

And-one.

Hardell sinks the free throw, cool as ice, racking up six straight points. 44-40.

The Starships are now just four points behind.

The Roarers’ next possession ends in a brick. Transition.

Hardell’s back at the arc, and Ryan, fed up, tucks his hands behind his back.

Let’s see you hook me now.

Hardell fakes, then drives.

Ryan sticks close, but Hardell leans in, initiating contact, then rises with the ball, chucking it toward the rim.

Whistle. No bucket. Free throws.

Ryan’s head is spinning. He charges toward the ref, ready to unload, but Kamara grabs his arm.

Before he can say a word, Crawford calls a timeout.

Crawford yanks Ryan from the floor, sending Stanley in his place.

Stanley’s a defensive bulldog, and he’s tangled with Hardell before—enough to know the guy’s bag of tricks. Gibson’s also pulled, with Sloan checking in to replace him.

In the huddle, Crawford lays out the game plan, voice sharp. "Hardell’s shot is off tonight. Give him just enough rope to hang himself—let him chuck it and see if he’s heating up. But lock down his passing lanes. No easy dishes."

He turned to Sloan.

"Secure the glass. Defensive boards, of course—but don’t sleep on second chances. Crash the offensive side too."

As the timeout ends, Crawford slaps Ryan’s shoulder. "Watch how Stanley handles him. You’ll learn something."

Ryan nodded, still simmering, but silent.

Hardell steps to the line to finish his earlier free throws. The first one rattles in. The second clanks off the back iron, and Sloan muscles through the paint, snatching the rebound with authority.

The Roarers storm upcourt on the break. A few crisp passes find Lin wide open in the corner. He lets a three fly.

Clang. freewebnσvel.cøm

But Sloan skied in, snagged the board, and hammered it home with a thunderous putback jam.

46–41.

Starships came down. Hardell dribbled beyond the arc, Stanley shadowing him with laser focus—close, but leaving just enough room.

Hardell hesitated. A glance at the rim.

He didn’t take the shot. He drove.

Stanley slides with him, refusing to give ground. Hardell leans in, fishing for contact, but Stanley’s wise to it, sidestepping the trap.

Hardell freezes for a split second—caught off guard, no foul drawn. But the move leaves him with a clean lane to the hoop. He glides in for a layup, only for Malik to swoop in, swatting the ball into the stands with a thunderous block.

The game turns into a slog. Both teams trade possessions, but the rims are unforgiving, shots clanking left and right. The score creeps along.

Hardell, though, works his magic again, drawing a foul on a crafty drive.

The home crowd erupts in boos, some fans screaming "Ref, you’re blind!" as they smell a hometown screwjob.

Hardell steps to the line, but his touch is fading. He splits the pair, missing the second—his free-throw stroke, usually money, betraying him.

The first half ends with the scoreboard frozen at 57–55, Roarers holding a razor-thin two-point edge.

Both teams trudge through the tunnel to their locker rooms.

In the Roarers locker room, Crawford’s voice cuts through the chatter. "Keep playing like this, and we’ve got this. Hardell’s off tonight—way off. We stay disciplined, we lock up this W and make it six straight."

The second half opened with Ryan still on the bench.

He sat, watching. Studying.

Stanley stuck to Hardell like paint, avoiding every trap. He showed how to guard without giving him bait—how to frustrate him without fouling.

Hardell’s game is unraveling—his shots keep bricking, his rhythm gone.

The refs, stung by the crowd’s earlier jeers, have their eyes peeled on him now. Hardell tries his usual tricks, flopping and fishing for calls, but the whistles stay silent.

The Starships burn possessions, coughing up the ball with nothing to show for it.

Six minutes into the third quarter, the Roarers catch fire. Lin buries a corner three, and Sloan muscles in for a tough layup.

The lead balloons to double digits: 73–63.

The Starships’ coach calls timeout, desperation creeping in.

Hardell slumps on the bench, a towel draped over his head, looking spent.

Crawford glances at him, then turns to his own bench. "Ryan," he barks. "You’re in."

Ryan checked in.

Hardell was still on the bench catching his breath, but Amin remained on the floor—and the Starships weren’t second in the West for nothing. Even without their alpha, their defense held strong.

But offensively? Without Hardell—their top scorer and floor general—they sputtered. The ball stuck. Movement stalled. Possession after possession died on the vine.

Still, their defense kept them within reach.

End of the third: Roarers 85, Starships 73.

Fourth quarter. Hardell returned.

He came in hungry, eyes burning with intent, ready to spark a comeback. But Ryan was waiting—locked in, having learned from Stanley’s blueprint.

Hardell tried his old tricks, leaning into contact, baiting whistles. Ryan slipped past each attempt.

Then, midway through the quarter, Hardell drove right—again. Hooked Ryan’s arm—again.

But this time, Ryan beat him to the call.

"He’s hooking me!" Ryan shouted, raising his free hand high.

The whistle blows—offensive foul on Hardell. The ref finally sees through the act.

The arena erupts in cheers, fans clapping like they’ve been waiting for justice all night.

Hardell’s rhythm never returned. He disappeared in the fourth. With three minutes left, he’d only taken two shots—both bricks. Zero points in the final frame.

110–91.

The Starships wave the white flag, calling timeout and emptying their bench.

On the Roarers’ side, it was time: The Garbage Time Big Four.

DeShawn. Brent. Jalen. Omar.

Joined by Sloan.

Yup, Crawford’s running that wild experiment again—Sloan at point guard.

Ryan sat, toweling off, watching the bench mob jog onto the floor. For a moment, he envied them. Back when he wasn’t starting, garbage time had been his playground.

Three minutes fly by, and the buzzer sounds.

Roarers cruise to a 119–102 rout.

Six straight wins.

The arena’s a madhouse, fans roaring like they’ve just won the championship.

Up in the VIP seats, Roarers owner Victor Crane flashes a grin, chatting with Steven Palmet, all handshakes and laughs.

On the court, Ryan goes through the post-game ritual, dapping up the Starships with friendly hugs.

When he gets to Amin, they embrace, and Amin smirks. "Man, if my big bro was on tonight, we’d have smoked you.

Ryan opened his mouth—but a voice cut in from behind.

"You better not be talking smack about me, punk."

It was Hardell, walking up, grinning.

Amin laughed sheepishly.

Ryan turns, chuckling, and pulls Hardell into a quick hug.

Hardell’s all smiles now, the game forgotten. "Hey, we’re done here. You hitting the club with me tonight?"

Ryan blinks, caught off guard. "Don’t you guys fly back right after?"

Hardell’s grin widens, all swagger. "I got a hall pass. Flying solo tomorrow."

Ryan claps his shoulder, shaking his head. "Nah, man, you have fun. I’m good."

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