Chapter 142: Chapter 142: The Internet’s Most Devoted Cat Dad

The film session let out a little before noon.

Eddie had called the night before to set up lunch.

By the time Ryan pulled up to the restaurant, he could already see the two of them inside: Eddie in a crisp suit, head down over his phone; beside him, Jamal, who spotted Ryan and threw up a hand.

Ryan dropped into a chair. Eddie and Jamal had gotten there first, a coffee and a basket of fries on the table to tide them over. The waiter came around and the three of them put in real orders—Ryan swiping a fry off Jamal’s basket as he did.

"Been a while since we all sat down like this," he said, leaning back.

Eddie took a sip of his coffee, unhurried. "Good timing, actually—got something to tell you. That ad of yours is airing tomorrow night."

"Which ad?"

Before Eddie could answer, Jamal set down his fry, cleared his throat, and—suddenly all soft eyes and tenderness, crooning to no one in particular:

"Clean game. Clean box."

Ryan went still.

A memory he’d all but scrubbed from his mind came hauling itself back—the orange cat, the set, that director who kept calling out gentler, Ryan, you love this cat, and him, cradling a dead weight of a fat orange tabby, gazing into the lens as he delivered that achingly tender little line.

He couldn’t even remember what the cat had been called.

"...Oh. That thing." He pressed a hand to his forehead, caught between a wince and a laugh. "I’d honestly forgotten it even existed."

"Two months, man." Jamal was doubled over. "I figured it died in a drawer somewhere."

Two months. Ryan turned it over—he’d shot it around All-Star weekend, and a single ad had sat from wrap to air all the way till now.

"There’s a reason for that," Eddie said, setting his cup down. "That company—family business. Old man passed a while back, and his kids have been clawing at each other over the estate ever since. Better part of a month of chaos—nothing getting signed, nobody calling the shots."

He shrugged.

"Last month they finally sorted out the pecking order. New head’s settled in, and the place is running again."

Ryan nodded. That explained it—the holdup, right there at the root.

"So when’s it actually airing? What channel?" A flicker of curiosity now. "I shot the thing and never gave it another thought."

"Bunch of channels, all kinds of slots, scattered across the day." Eddie let the words hang, leaning in a touch. "And tomorrow night’s broadcast—your game—it’s on there too."

Ryan looked up. "The game broadcast?"

"Mm." Eddie said. "Twice, even—once right before tip, once at halftime."

Ryan pressed a hand to his forehead and didn’t say anything for a while.

"Picture it." Jamal could barely contain himself. "Whole country sitting down to watch the game, waiting for tip-off, and—boom—there’s you, cradling a cat, whispering sweet nothings. Halftime rolls around? Surprise, there it is again."

But out of nowhere, one person surfaced in his mind—Chloe.

She’d be watching the broadcast tomorrow night too.

He could picture it almost too clearly: Chloe curled up on the couch, catching sight of himself on screen, gazing lovingly at a cat—the blink, then the spit-take as she cracked up.

The corner of his mouth tugged up on its own.

And then, right behind it, the second thought: for the rest of his days, this girl was going to find a hundred different ways to needle him over this.

The grin froze where it was.

"Oh—" Eddie pulled something from his briefcase and slid it across to him. "Lined up a new one for you. Take a look."

Ryan glanced at the name and gave a slight raise of his brows. One of the very top names in luxury watches.

"Not bad," he said.

"Mm. With where your stock’s at now, what comes knocking is a different class altogether." There was a faint, well-hidden pride in Eddie’s voice.

Back at the start, Ryan had signed five endorsements in one swoop; a couple or three had trickled in since. Lately he’d been quiet—a stretch with nothing new. Not for lack of offers—Eddie just guarded the gate tighter and tighter now; anything cheap, anything beneath him, never even reached his ears.

The thought pulled him somewhere else.

Back then, it had been the other way around. He still remembered that night—the Zero9 signing gala, Eddie with a fistful of business cards, working the room one power player at a time, fishing for any deal he could land for a kid who, back then, had no name to speak of.

And that same night, he’d danced the first dance of his life—the woman in the deep burgundy gown had asked if he could, and he couldn’t, but she’d pulled him onto the floor anyway. He stumbled through the waltz, and when it turned to tango and his feet tangled and he tried to flee, a single "Don’t move" pinned him where he stood. She didn’t chase him—she lifted her chin, closed in step by step, and bent him to her lead till the dance was done.

Who could’ve guessed, back then, that the woman who’d dragged him onto that floor would end up being his.

Funny world. This life of his had landed somewhere far better than the one he’d left behind.

好,142下半段完整英文主版(从午餐结束的过渡,到结尾热搜).地道母语,非翻译腔.

Lunch was half-finished when Eddie rattled off a few more bits of business. As they got up to leave, he checked his watch. "Alright—you’ve got a flight this afternoon. Go home and pack."

That afternoon, the team flew out. An hour or so in the air, and it was dark by the time they touched down. Settle in, eat, sleep—nothing worth telling.

The next night, 8:30 p.m. MistBank Arena.

The road stands had filled early, the home crowd’s roar swelling wave after wave. As tip-off neared, the arena lights cut to black, a bass line dropped like a war drum, spotlights raked across the seats, and the DJ cranked the volume to the ceiling.

Both teams spilled out of the tunnels.

In the thick of it, Ryan kept his head down, his expression a little tight, moving fast—deliberately angling away from the cameras chasing him.

He knew exactly what was coming—in a few minutes, the broadcast would cut to its pre-tip commercials.

That ad was about to air, in front of the whole country.

The thought alone made his scalp prickle. He half wanted to bury his face in his collar.

——

Meanwhile, back in Iron City.

Chloe hadn’t been able to make the road trip, but she wasn’t about to miss a single game. Curled up on the couch, she had the broadcast running on the big screen in front of her.

The camera panned across the players coming out, and she found that familiar figure in an instant.

Except... something about Ryan looked off tonight.

Usually, even when he wasn’t playing it up, there was an ease to him out there—sometimes he’d even throw a little gesture at the cameras. But tonight he kept his head down the whole way, brow furrowed, weaving around the lenses, looking like a man with something heavy on his mind.

Chloe sat up a little, a faint crease between her brows.

"...Is he not feeling well?" she murmured, something tugging at her for no clear reason.

Just then, the picture cut—commercial break.

The first ad popped up: a late-night kitchen, a fresh pizza being pulled from the oven, cheese stretching into long strands, the scorching edges still steaming, the camera so close you could practically smell it.

Chloe’s attention was hijacked on the spot.

"...Mm, okay, that does look good." She caught herself licking the corner of her mouth, already half-deciding whether to order one. "This late at night, too. That’s just playing dirty."

Then the second ad came on.

The opening shot—

A door swung open, and a young man walked in carrying a bag, dressed down and casual, looking like someone who’d been at it all day and had just gotten home.

Chloe froze.

That face... was that Ryan?

She came straight up off the couch, eyes wide.

What ad was this? When had Ryan signed this deal? How had she not caught a whisper of it?

On screen, Ryan tossed the bag aside, and a chubby orange tabby came padding up with a meow, rubbing affectionately against his leg. He bent down, his expression impossibly tender, and ruffled the cat’s head.

Chloe: "..."

Then the camera cut—Ryan crossed to the corner, crouched down, solemnly picked up a little scoop, and got to work, cleaning out the litter box with the utmost care.

The corner of Chloe’s mouth was already starting to twitch.

Done, he clapped his hands, leaned down to scoop the fat orange tabby up into his arms, and gave the camera a smile of the deepest, most earnest devotion, crooning softly:

"Clean game. Clean box."

"Pfft—"

Chloe lost it completely, collapsing back into the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter.

That man—wild and ruthless out on the court—was, at this very moment, gazing lovingly into the lens... cradling a cat, purring out a tagline.

The contrast was lethal.

Once she’d laughed herself out, she wiped at the tears in her eyes—and then it clicked.

So that was it. That was why he’d come out looking like a man walking to his execution, like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

This was what he’d been bracing for.

She grabbed her phone, the grin still tugging at her lips, and started typing fast. She knew he was out on the floor right now—couldn’t see a thing. But she couldn’t sit on this one; she had to save it up for him. Once he opened his locker after the game, he was in for it.

——

And that night, Chloe was far from the only one glued to the broadcast.

The second the ad finished, the hottest live social platform going—Nexcord—lit up, that one channel packed with ABA fans erupting all at once:

Anyone watching the Roarers–Mistfoxes broadcast right now?? Oh my God, Ryan’s ad!!!

watching watching HAHAHA I just spat out my drink, was that actually Ryan??

One second I’m waiting for him to go off on the road, next second the man’s at home scooping a litter box... I’m losing it

dying at "Clean game. Clean box." which genius wrote that line, give that man a raise

my Ryan is just too adorable?? I could watch him ruffle that cat’s head a hundred times 😭

As a cat owner, I hereby officially declare: I’m buying this brand. Ryan uses it, I use it

^ we already use this brand at my place, honestly works great, feels classier buying it now lol

not gonna lie, that orange cat is THICC, hahahaha

Someone quick on the trigger had already grabbed screenshots—Ryan bent over ruffling the cat’s head, Ryan cradling the fat tabby and crooning into the camera—turned them into memes in a heartbeat, and flung them out across every social platform there was.

The blaze tore right out of Nexcord. Within the hour, #RyanLitterBoxAd and #CleanGameCleanBox had both shot straight up the trending charts.

That wild, rim-attacking, poster-dunking point guard out on the court had turned, just like that, into the most devoted cat dad on the whole internet.