eurekapd Chapter 134: The Suite and the Floor
Chapter 134: The Suite and the Floor
High above Iron Vault Arena, in a glass-fronted suite, a handful of people stood watching the floor below. The final buzzer went off somewhere beneath their feet, the roar of the crowd surging up through the glass muffled and thick, like thunder heard from underwater.
The scoreboard had frozen at 116–112.
The Roarers had toppled the defending champions.
First out of his seat was Steven Palmer.
Late sixties, balding, built like a man who’d logged far more hours in boardrooms than gyms—and tonight, like every night he came to watch, he had on that same blue checkered button-down. Iron City’s richest man owned half of what you could see from the top of the skyline, but he never wore a suit to a game. In business he was a shark. In this building he was something else entirely—a red-faced lunatic who screamed himself hoarse, argued every call, and came out of his chair for a dunk like a season-ticket holder up in the nosebleeds. Tonight was no exception. He pounded his hands together hard enough to sting, sleeves shoved up past his elbows.
"That’s it!" he shouted at the glass, though not a soul downstairs could hear him. "That’s how you do it!"
Beside him, Victor Crane rose a half-beat slower, whiskey sloshing in his glass. They’d holed up in the suite tonight as a rare exception—the courtside VIP rows were crawling with press, and with the sale still grinding its way through the paperwork, Palmer had no appetite for a microphone in his face for the next month. The glass dulled the noise, sure. But at least nobody was shoving a recorder under his chin.
"You know," Crane said, swirling his drink, a rueful smile creeping over his face, "watching these kids take down the Bullets... part of me regrets selling you the damn team."
Palmer finally dropped back into his seat, chest still heaving. "Too late. It’s already in motion. No turning back now."
"I know, I know." Crane waved him off. "Just talking. Seven years, Steven. Seven years since I heard this place get this loud."
Palmer nodded, his eyes never leaving the kid in the No. 0 down on the floor. "The suite’s easy on the nerves," he said. "But I still like it better down low. Only reason I came up here tonight is I didn’t want reporters hounding me about the sale. Next game, I’m back at courtside. That’s where you actually feel it." He glanced sideways. "Besides—I’m only here to keep you company, sweetheart. Doesn’t matter where I sit."
On his other side, Chloe let out a snort. She had Ryan’s No. 0 jersey on under her coat, her hair gathered into a loose knot.
"Keep me company?" She cut her eyes at her father. "Pretty sure it’s the other way around."
"Oh?" Palmer raised an eyebrow, taking his time. "So if I’d stayed home tonight, you wouldn’t have come down to watch your boy Ryan?"
Chloe’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Just one thought left rattling around in her head: the old man still had it.
She turned back to the glass, sulking, and looked down at the floor. The guy in the No. 0 was standing near center court, chest still pumping—and then he lifted his head, looking up toward their corner of the building.
She smiled. She knew he couldn’t pick out a single face behind all that bright, distant glass. She gave him the little clenched fist anyway.
Down on the floor, Ryan stole a glance up at the lit row of suites along the top deck.
He knew they were up there. Chloe had texted before tip—watching from Dad’s box tonight. He couldn’t make out a thing through that far, glowing wall of glass, but he tucked a small fist against his hip and gave it a shake all the same. Their signal. The one only the two of them understood.
Thirty-three points, ten boards, eleven assists. Another triple-double. But the numbers weren’t what was in his head right now. What was in his head was a hollow, scraped-out kind of exhaustion—the feeling that comes after a war, not a game.
He turned, and there was John Adebayo-Kambon, walking straight at him.
The reigning MVP had hung a monster line on them tonight—forty-two points, twelve rebounds, ten assists—and lost. Those last two free throws, in front of a whole arena counting the seconds out loud, had been the dagger that turned on its own owner. One rattled out. The other never touched iron. An airball. And that was the ballgame.
A loss like that should’ve curdled in a man’s gut. But there wasn’t a trace of sourness on Kambon’s face. He spread his arms and pulled Ryan into a hug hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
"Kid," Kambon said, low, right against his ear. "Hell of a game."
Ryan thumped his back. "Hell of a game? You dropped forty-two. We won on a coin flip."
"A coin flip?" Kambon leaned back half a step, grinning. "That steal at the end—you’re calling that luck? Don’t insult me."
He meant the play with the game on the line: Kambon spinning off Kamara with that signature pivot, a clean lane to the rim opening up in front of him—and Ryan slicing in from the blind side, ripping the ball clean out of his hands, then flinging it ahead to spark the break Kamara hammered home to ice it.
"That move," Kambon said, shaking his head, something close to respect in his voice. "I’ve been doing this a long time. The number of guys who’ve taken it off me clean like that? I can count ’em on one hand."
Ryan shrugged. "Watched you all night. Had to get one eventually."
Kambon laughed and clapped him on the shoulder again—that same blow that nearly sent him stumbling.
"Remember what I told you before tip," he said, dropping his voice. "Offseason. You and me. I’ll tell you about the old days. You’ll love it."
"Sure," Ryan said. "Just don’t make it a two-hour thing again."
"Ha!" Kambon pointed at him, doubling over. "That mouth on you. I like it."
He turned for the Bullets’ tunnel, then glanced back over his shoulder halfway there. "That Rookie of the Year—go get it."
Ryan blinked, then nodded, a smile breaking through.
Sideline reporter Jenna Walsh was already waiting, mic in hand. Tonight’s matchup—the East’s Player of the Week against the West’s, the defending champs on the road—left no question who that microphone belonged to: the man with the game-high points and the dagger steal.
"Ryan!" She elbowed through the scrum. "Thirty-three, ten, and eleven, plus a game-changing steal in the final seconds. What’s it feel like to beat the defending champions?"
Ryan dragged a hand down his sweat-slicked face, still catching his breath, and laughed. "Feels like... these legs don’t belong to me anymore."
Laughter rippled through the scrum.
"Honestly," he said, finding his wind, "this was a team win. Gibson locks up Milton on that last stop. Malik takes the foul at the perfect time so Kambon can’t get the and-one. And Kamara—you all saw the dunk. I just put the ball in the right hands."
"And the steal?" Jenna pressed. "Off the reigning MVP."
"I watched him all night," Ryan said. "That spin’s too quick to stop head-on. So I bet on the ball getting exposed when he came around. Bet paid off."
"Last one." Jenna’s eyes lit up. "Beating the champs adds another Chapter to your Rookie of the Year race with Frye. Anything you want to say?"
Ryan’s smile held for just a beat, then settled.
"I’m only thinking about wins," he said, square to the camera, his voice even. "Who takes Rookie of the Year isn’t up to me—that’s the league’s call. All I can do is play every game the right way."
He gave the lens a nod and turned for the tunnel, the building still roaring behind him.
The locker room was bedlam.
Hip-hop thumped off a speaker streaming Sonique, and Deshawn was up on a bench again, hauling Brent and Jalen into the chaos with him. Somebody emptied half a water bottle over Ryan’s head. He didn’t bother ducking.
Kamara hooked an arm around his neck. "Bro—that steal! My hands were still shaking when the ball hit ’em!"
"That dunk of yours was the ridiculous part." Ryan shoved him off, laughing. "You damn near tore the rim down."
"Damn right I did!" Kamara slapped his own chest. "Steal of the year, dunk of the year. Perfect match."
Crawford drifted over from the corner. He didn’t join the celebration—just clipped the back of Ryan’s head on his way past, light as anything. From the stone-faced old man, that was as high as praise ever got.
The press room was a wall of flashing bulbs.
Crawford went first, and the questions came down on him in a flood—every one of them about the Bullets.
"Coach, how’d you contain Kambon?"
"Contain?" Crawford’s face didn’t move. "He scored forty-two. You call that containing?"
He waited out the laugh. "We never planned on stopping him. We planned on not letting him lift everybody else up with him. Cut the head off, and the snake can’t bite."
"And those two missed free throws at the end—"
"That’s on him, not on us." Crawford waved it off, refusing the credit. "And besides—that was a whole arena counting in his ear. That’s home court for you."
When it was Ryan’s turn, the questions bent, predictably, toward his personal life and the rookie race.
"Ryan, after a win like this, a lot of people are saying Rookie of the Year is yours to lose."
"I don’t see it that way." He leaned into the mic. "Season’s not over. The numbers are all out there—let them do the talking."
He left it there. Nothing more. Staff wrapped it before anyone could push further.
By the time Ryan had showered, signed off on every last piece of media business, and walked out of the arena, it was pushing midnight.
Chloe’s cherry-red K3 idled at the players’ gate, engine purring low. Ryan pulled open the passenger door and dropped in; the leather was cold enough to make him flinch.
"My hero." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Wiped out?"
"I’m good." He sank back into the seat, grinning. "So how was the suite? Living large up there?"
"It was fine," she said, pulling out into the neon wash of Iron City at midnight. "My dad spent the whole night griping about wanting to sit courtside. Says the glass kills the atmosphere."
Ryan laughed. "Your old man and I think alike."
"The two of you." She shook her head, but the corner of her mouth was turned up.
The car swung into a no-name diner, the red vinyl of the booths cracked along the seams. Ryan got a burger. Chloe ordered a salad. They picked over the game—Kambon’s two misses at the line, whatever fresh madness Deshawn had gotten up to in the locker room.
"Oh," Chloe said, setting her fork down like she’d just remembered. "Unstoppable drops a week from Friday. The eleventh."
Ryan chewed his burger. "That’s good."
"That’s good?" She arched a brow. "Could be the biggest song of the year, and that’s all I get?"
He just smiled and let it go.
What was he supposed to say—that he hadn’t so much written the song as remembered it.
"Anyway," she went on, "playoff season’s almost here. That’s peak eyeballs—so Zero9’s running a fresh round of ads with you to ride the wave. Sales tripled the last two months. Striking while it’s hot."
"This brand ambassador of yours," Ryan said, taking a pull of Zero9, baiting her on purpose, "due for a raise?"
"A raise?" She rolled her eyes, mouth still tilted up. "Your girlfriend owns the company. That perk not enough for you?"
He laughed hard enough to nearly choke on it.
Outside, Iron City’s midnight lights drifted past, quiet and slow. The city had just watched a team that hadn’t tasted the playoffs in seven years knock off the defending champions. And right now, its franchise player wanted nothing more than to finish his burger in peace, sit a while with the girl beside him, and let the warmth of the win linger a little longer.
Tomorrow could wait.
Nine games left in the season.
But that was tomorrow’s problem.