Dominance Evolution System: Sweat, Sex, and Streetball

Chapter 284: No Protection

"Look, Vargas," Frank said, blowing a slow puff of smoke toward the light bulb. "We trusted you guys long enough. But this kind of crap cannot go on forever." He shifted his weight, adjusting his dirty jacket. "It is time to cut the cord. We are not spending more money on a team of nobodies."The words came out and everything just stopped. The air went completely dead. Nobody even breathed. For the Dust Dogs, this was the end of the world. The realization that their entire lives were about to vanish left a massive, terrifying void in the middle of the room.

Vargas turned pale. He gripped his wrinkled pants with trembling hands as he stepped forward in total desperation, trying to find his voice.

Tylo, who was already on the edge of a breakdown before the game, just stared at the floorboards, his teeth grinding hard. Saya sat completely frozen against the wall. She did not move a single muscle, her phone stuck in her hands as her brain rewinded the scene.

"Frank, come on, talk to me man," Vargas said, looking over at the two bulldozers standing by the door. "We have been drinking together at your bar for years, Frank. We are like family. It was just one bad game today. That Rain kid... he is a freak, he never loses. We just need to fix our defense—"

"I do not care about your excuses, Vargas," Frank cut him off. "Let us look at reality because you idiots are living in a dream. My bar and the other local shops pay for everything here. We pay your small salaries. We buy your cheap jerseys. We pay for the tape, the muscle rubs, and the entry fees just so you can use these public courts since you do not even have your own gym. We even pay for the posters outside the local shops. But guess what? You do not sell tickets. You do not sell shirts. You do not bring in a single cent to my register."

Frank took another slow drag, staring right at Roam, who was sitting on the floor.

"And you know what the worst part is?" Frank continued. "You guys are a joke. My regular customers laugh at my face. They see my bar’s logo on your shirts while you get destroyed 98 to 0 by a pack of brats, and they tell me I am running a charity for bums. It is ruining my business. I am done throwing money at monkeys just to be the laughingstock of my own street."

That was it, Roam lost his mind. Saying that they would lose their sponsor was one thing, but this level of disrespect? Nah, that was on him.

He scrambled up from the floor in a burst of desperate rage, slamming his fist against the rusted locker door with a loud bang.

"Who are you calling a monkey?! You want to complain?? For what??? We are the ones breaking our necks on the court! You sit in your warm bar pouring beers and counting pennies while we take the actual hits! You think you can just dump us like garbage?! We are the ones taking all the insults and the pressure out there, not you and your—"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Vargas yelled.

He screamed with every ounce of air in his lungs, spinning around and throwing his body right between the captain and Frank. He pushed Roam’s chest back with his shaking hands, his eyes wide with panic.

"Just shut your mouth right now!" Vargas yelled, breathing fast. "You’re too dumb to understand that this guy has your life in his hand?? Shut the hell up and let me clean your mess..."

Another heavy silence dropped over the room. Roam stared at the coach, his jaw twitching, but the sheer terror in Vargas’s face finally made him step back, gritting his teeth as he looked away.

Vargas took a deep, shaky breath, quickly turning back toward Frank. His posture was completely broken as he tried to smooth down his wrinkled jacket, his voice dropping into a desperate whisper.

"Frank... I am sorry about him," Vargas stuttered, his hands held up in total submission. "He is an idiot. He does not realize everything you do for us. He doesn’t get it. Look, without your help, the team is completely done. We would have to dissolve by tomorrow morning. Please, Frank. Just give us a chance."

Frank stared at Vargas for a few seconds, letting the cigarette smoke drift between them. A dry laugh came from his mouth. He leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

"Go on, Vargas," Frank said. "Tell me your life story. I am listening."

Vargas swallowed, wiping a fresh layer of sweat from his forehead. He tried to straighten up, desperate to find anything to save them.

"Look, Frank, we can turn this around," Vargas muttered, pointing toward the floor. "We are a real team. We win games. We can exist on this circuit. If we just get past this rough patch, the local bars will get their names back on the screens. We can actually compete with the mid-tier teams if you just give us a little more time."

Frank just shook his head, his smile turning into a cold, hard line.

"Compete?" Frank scoffed, spitting a piece of tobacco onto the concrete. "You guys do not look at the news, do you? Just yesterday, the Iron Claws and the Ravens lost their sponsors, and now they’re struggling to even find enough cash to loan and arena. They’re expected to be completely dissolved by the end of the season, if they’re lucky enough to make it to there. And you know why? Because they stayed at the bottom for too long. Their sponsors walked away, their licenses are threatened, and the league will throw the players into the street without a single cent. And guess what, Vargas? After that pathetic game today, the Dust Dogs are sitting dead last. You are officially among the worst, most useless teams in the whole league."

In her corner, Saya did not hear Frank’s voice anymore. The conversation in the locker room just became a distant noise, completely drowned out by the freezing realization crossing her mind.

She stared blankly at the floorboards, her fingers clenching her phone so tightly the plastic case looked like it could have cracked any second. A heavy weight began to press down on her chest, a slow accumulation of every choice she had made over the last years.

She remembered the old days. She remembered when they actually had a future, back when Nash was still with them, running the floor and securing wins. Back then, she genuinely believed she was at the top of the world.

She thought she was being smart and superior when she abandoned Nash, leaving that frail shrimp behind in the dirt while she chose Roam and the Dust Dogs to climb up. She thought she was leaving the garbage behind to rise.

But now? Nash was a superstar, expanding his empire, untouchable in his luxury villa, while she was sitting in a damp, foul-smelling locker room, right on the edge of losing everything.

Every single sacrifice she had made began to burn in her throat like pure poison. She thought about all the times she had to humiliate herself just to keep this incompetent team of cowards alive. She thought about how many times she had surrendered her own body to Vargas just to get small favors, extra funding, or better practice schedules. It had happened so often that the coach stopped using protection entirely, casually using her body and leaving his fluids inside her as if she were nothing but his private cum dump.

She thought about the worst humiliations, all the times she had to go into the backrooms of opposing teams, letting rival players treat her like a literal doormat, enduring their hands and their insults just to buy a single dirty win under the table so the Dust Dogs would not sink in the standings.

She had dragged herself to the absolute bottom of the meat grinder. She had sold her flesh, her pride, and her dignity, piece by piece, just to protect her spot on the circuit.

And for what? All of it was going to be for absolutely nothing? She was going to lose her status, her shield, and her future anyway, while the shrimp she had dumped kept rising higher and higher into heaven?

Why? Just why? Why this injustice? Whyat did she do wrong? The questions felt like a physical sickness twisting her stomach.

She did nothing wrong, nothing to deserve such fate. All she did was pretty common in the Underground. You use people until you find better. Others find happiness in it, why did she only find despair?

The grimy red scratch on her cheek throbbed violently, a sharp reminder of the dirt she was currently stuck in, while her eyes stared at the floor, completely petrified by the dark void waiting for her if the sponsors pulled the leash.

In the world of Breakball, it was never a special event. The strong lives and the weak dies. The teams that survive are the ones that bring in results, because results are what attract the fans and the sponsors.

At the top of the food chain, you have the giants like the Colossus who sit on millions of credits. In the middle, you have teams like Blacklist or the Baby-Boom who are actively climbing the ranks. Then, at the very bottom, there are the small street teams.

These bottom teams usually start from nothing, sponsored by a few local shops, corner bars, or neighborhood dealers who put up the money before the roster even qualifies for the official league. If a team starts winning and gets popular, bigger sponsors show up, the money floods in, and the players get to leave the dirt behind.

But if you do not meet with success, the story turns ugly very fast. When a team keeps losing, it becomes a financial black hole. Small-time business owners couldn’t afford to run at a loss forever. If the losses piled up, the sponsors would walk away, the league would then revoke the team’s official license, and the entire roster would be dissolved. Just like that, you would be thrown onto the street with zero value, back to being a nobody sleeping on the concrete.

Vargas was sweating bullets now.

"Look, Frank, just think about it," Vargas pleaded, his hands shaking as he stepped closer. "The regular season is not even finished yet. You have nothing to lose by letting us play out the last few games. Anything can happen on the hardwood. If we actually click and start a real winning streak right now, it is going to be amazing for your bar. Think of the free advertising when our names pop on the screens!"

Frank was not relaxed anymore. At first, it was amusing, but now, he was starting to get genuinely angry because he realized he was trapped: if he cut the cord right now, the credits he had already spent on their jerseys and arena fees were gone forever. If he stayed, he risked losing even more.

"Advertising?!" Frank snapped, as he took a step toward Vargas. "You think people want to drink a beer at a place that sponsors losers? I am losing money either way, Vargas! If I cut you now, I lose my investment. If I keep paying for your entry fees, you just keep dragging my name through the mud!"

"Three matches, Frank! Just three matches!" Vargas yelled back, completely desperate, putting everything on the line. "Give us until the qualifier line! If we do not make the cut, you can burn our contracts right in front of us!"

Frank gritted his teeth, staring at Vargas’s pathetic face for a long second. He let out a harsh, angry breath and pointed a finger straight at the coach’s nose.

"Fine, you ugly bastard," Frank growled. "One last chance. But you make the play-offs, or I swear I will let my boys break your legs before we dissolve the roster."

Vargas’ mouth slightly opened as he slowly lowered his hands. He turned his head and looked at Roam, then at Tylo.

The players looked back at him, their faces completely blank. Nobody moved. Nobody smiled. They all knew the math, and they knew exactly how impossible this was.

The whole system of Breakball was basically a long way too hell for teams as weak as them.

There are thirty teams in total, split evenly into two blocks of fifteen teams. Usually, in those high-bracket leagues, you play out the entire regular season, and the top teams advance to the play-offs to fight for the crown.

But down here in the Underground, misery always find a way, and if a team sits in the bottom four of their conference for too long, the league doesn’t wait for the season to end.

They do not care about player development or next year’s draft. If you stay down there, drowning at rank fifteen, you get liquidated right in the middle of the schedule. The league revokes your license on the spot, the sponsors pull their credits, and the entire team is dissolved by the weekend. It is a brutal, meat-grinder rule made purely to keep the street bums from wasting the fans’ time.

And that was exactly the destiny that was currently staring the Dust Dogs right in the face.

With the first round of the conference block coming to an end, they were sitting dead last at the very bottom of the Western bracket. Making the top four for the play-offs was already a miracle, but surviving the mid-season liquidation line meant they had to win every single remaining game perfectly. There was absolutely zero room for mistakes. One single turnover, one more lost match, and the Dust Dogs would cease to exist completely.