"Did they start fighting?"
"Not yet, but the Suns might be in trouble!"
Roderick Craig wore an expression that suggested he was an authority on NBA rules.
"What kind of trouble?" asked Darryl Dora, who had already stepped down from the varsity team and was busy preparing for graduation exams and his future career.
Seeing his teammates looking at him for answers, Craig could not resist flaunting his NBA knowledge. "Back in 1997, a massive brawl broke out between the Knicks and the Heat in the playoffs..."
"I know that one!"
Martin Zeno, the incoming team captain, chimed in eagerly. "Jeff Van Gundy was photographed clinging to Alonzo Mourning's leg during the scuffle. I've seen that picture."
"That brawl led to multiple suspensions for the Knicks, which ultimately got them eliminated. Because of that, the league instituted a rule: if an altercation breaks out on the court, any bench player who leaves the bench area will be suspended." Craig grinned. "I just saw Stoudemire and Diaw leave their seats. They're in deep trouble."
"But they didn't fight..."
"A rule is a rule."
The others remained skeptical, but early the next morning over breakfast, Xu Ling learned from the television that Stoudemire and Diaw were indeed suspended for the pivotal Game 5.
"What a stupid, terrible, sickening piece of garbage rule."
It was the first time Xu Ling realized he knew so many derogatory English words. He couldn't help it; the situation was simply too absurd not to vent about.
First, consider the context: the Suns had pulled off a massive comeback on the road, tying the series and reclaiming home-court advantage. Horry had hurled Nash into the scorer's table with pure malice at a point when the outcome was already virtually decided. In their outrage, Amar'e and Diaw had merely taken a few steps off the bench before being ordered back. Just like that, they were suspended.
"Yeah, that's why people say the NCAA is purer," Craig chuckled. "I promise you, if anyone ever dared do that to you on the court, I'd be the first to charge out and stick up for you!"
His words cut straight to the core of the NBA's problem—or more accurately, the underlying flaw planted during the David Stern era, which his successor, Adam Silver, merely perpetuated.
Under Stern's stewardship, the NBA had transformed competitive basketball into an entirely different beast. It was still basketball, but like hard liquor cut with water, its innate wildness and blood-pumping clashes were gradually fading away inside a meticulously engineered commercial script. The league sought to spin a utopian fairy tale: here, the world's premier athletes were expected to battle fiercely while maintaining the polished manners of gentlemen; to compete at the highest level while suppressing the urge to roar; to engage in intense physicality while minding strict boundaries. As a result, the league was destined to grow increasingly artificial.
Returning to the rule itself, the more Xu Ling thought about it, the more he felt it made no sense; it ran completely counter to human nature.
Imagine being Amar'e, or Diaw. Naturally, you would love playing alongside a teammate like Nash—the heart and soul of the locker room, the leader guiding you toward the Finals, the consummate partner in everyone's eyes, the person who made you feel grateful every single day you stepped onto the court. He was pouring everything he had into winning a championship.
As early as Game 1, Nash had suffered a badly broken nose. Bowen did everything he could to shove and trip him on every possession, yet Nash never stopped moving, and everyone naturally followed in his wake. Even in Game 4, when the game seemed on the verge of slipping away and their season appeared on the brink of ending, he had reignited everyone's fighting spirit, dragging hope back into reach through sheer will.
Then, out of nowhere, a completely unnecessary, malicious foul sent him flying. You were right there on the sideline. Your body reacted before your mind could—that was your best teammate, crumpled on the hardwood—and you took two steps toward the perpetrator before suddenly remembering the league's ban: bench players were forbidden to leave the bench area. So you stepped back, helplessly watching everything spiral out of control. And twenty-four hours later, you were suspended—all for acting on your instinct as a teammate.
It was utter nonsense. What kind of league punished players for displaying a normal human reaction after their franchise cornerstone was viciously assaulted? Yet the NBA was obsessed with crafting a fairy-tale utopia, attempting to excise grit and instinct from players' DNA—akin to a cruel form of chemical castration. How ironic, and how pathetic.
Xu Ling's mind lingered on the issue so much that he didn't even have time to feel disgusted with the Spurs.
Ironically, though he knew the Spurs would win the championship this year, it wasn't because he followed them; it was simply because this Finals had been mentioned relentlessly across media outlets as the historical footnote where "James led his team to the Finals for the first time, only to get swept." It was hard not to know about it.
Still, looking at the underhanded tactics the Spurs had pulled, they ought to thank their lucky stars for an era where the media landscape was still relatively innocent. Had this taken place more than a decade later in the height of social media, the backlash against the Spurs wouldn't have been much better than what the 2025 Thunder received.
In the end, the Suns never truly recovered from the incident. They dropped the pivotal Game 5 and subsequently lost Game 6, crashing out of the conference semifinals. In the East, meanwhile, the Cavaliers, led by James, pulled off a surprising victory over the Nets to advance to the Eastern Conference Finals. On that achievement alone, James had earned himself a place in the Cavaliers' hall of fame.
After all, reaching the conference finals was the franchise's best postseason result to date.
Perhaps because they shared the same agent, James had repeatedly invited Xu Ling to watch him play in person. But Xu Ling had been overwhelmed by a blizzard of endorsement proposals, putting it off until late May. Finally, on the day before the NBA draft lottery—which coincided with Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals—he flew to Detroit alongside Leon Rose.
LeBron James sat on the sofa of his hotel suite, a stack of documents piled on the coffee table in front of him. These were no ordinary playbooks or stat sheets, but draft contracts from sponsors such as Nike, Coca-Cola, and McDonald's.
The suite he occupied was vastly different from the rooms where the other Cavaliers players stayed. Typical players stayed in standard business rooms, simple and practical; James was lodged in a luxurious penthouse suite. Inside the spacious living room, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Detroit skyline, with custom massage chairs and therapy equipment arranged along one side.
Beside James was Maverick Carter, a key member of his inner circle. Carter was on the phone with an agent, his voice boisterous and confident. Yet James's mind was neither on the documents nor the phone call. Every so often, he glanced toward the closed door, awaiting the arrival of a young man named Eli Xu.
He was curious to see what kind of person this player—described in scouting reports as "calm to the point of cold-blooded"—really was. He had seen too many young "phenoms" who shone brilliantly under the spotlight, yet when face-to-face with him, their eyes invariably revealed awe and a flicker of nervousness.
The young King remained silent. The recent stretch had been a rollercoaster for him: when his team won, he was praised as the player who elevated his teammates; when they lost, doubts rained down upon him. He had nowhere to hide, for his destiny was to escape the shadow of the Chicago ghost hovering over everyone.
Now, ahead of a crucial Game 5 that could determine the course of their season, meeting a young prospect about to enter the league and become a future rival was a rare distraction.
Wait, young?
James nibbled at a fingernail. Wasn't he young, too?
The doorbell chimed, and the corner of James's mouth turned up slightly. Rather than rising immediately, he raised a hand toward Carter, signaling him to pause his call.
When the door opened, a slender, calm-faced young man stepped inside. Dressed in a simple hoodie, he walked with measured, unhurried strides, his eyes clear and serene. Behind him followed a stocky young man who looked somewhat ill at ease. Finally, the man who connected them all—Leon Rose—entered the room.
As the door opened, James had already stood up. His gaze bypassed Rose, landing squarely on Xu Ling—the young man who had sunk that legendary shot in the NCAA final now stood right before him.
"Eli," James said, offering his signature smile and extending a hand. "Good to finally meet you."
Xu Ling shook his hand. "It's my honor to be kept in mind by the great 'a King.'"
It was spoken in a calm tone, carrying neither a fan's giddy excitement upon meeting an idol nor any deliberate, aloof pretense of coolness—just like greeting an ordinary acquaintance.
James froze for half a second. The smile remained on his face, but a subtle ripple stirred in his heart.
*A King? Not The King?*
It sounded like a compliment, yet that unexpected indefinite article inevitably invited another interpretation. It acknowledged that he was formidable, but hinted that he was not singular. It was like saying: *You are merely one of the kings.* His grip instinctively tightened, though his smile only grew brighter.
Rose chimed in smoothly to fill the silence. "LeBron has wanted to meet you for a while, all the way back since March Madness."
"Of course," James said with a chuckle, motioning for everyone to take a seat. "That logo game-winner you hit against Florida—I must have rewatched it at least twenty times. Absolutely insane!"
"I hope it didn't distract you from your playoff prep," Xu Ling said half-jokingly.
"Quite the opposite," James replied, a sharp spark flashing in his eyes. "It reminded me that basketball is always full of possibilities."
On the other side of the room, James's close friend Maverick Carter put down his phone, scrutinizing Xu Ling with a sharp gaze.
"Bron called you guys two weeks ago," Carter said, clear displeasure in his voice. "I thought you weren't coming."
Hearing this, Rose smoothed things over. "Eli has been tied up with commercial obligations lately..."
"Understandable," James cut Rose off, offering Xu Ling a friendly smile. "Commercial obligations are part of professional basketball. But you came at just the right time tonight—Game 5 against the Pistons starts shortly. Care to watch it in person?"
"Wait, LeBron... aren't the media passes all spoken for tonight?" Carter interjected unexpectedly, referring to the prime press seats that were rarely filled to capacity and often given to players' personal guests.
James shot Carter a warning look, then smiled back at Xu Ling. "No problem. Front-row seats are better anyway—you'll get a clearer view."
"Then I gladly accept," Xu Ling nodded, meeting Carter's gaze with a placid look of his own.
Small talk followed. James touched upon the Cavaliers' season; Xu Ling shared behind-the-scenes stories from their NCAA title run; Carter pretended to check his phone. Only Rose maintained a professional smile throughout, steering the conversation when needed.
On the whole, the meeting could be considered a cordial success. In the end, Xu Ling rose to take his leave. "We won't take up any more of your pregame preparation time."
James walked them to the door. "See you tonight. Hope you enjoy the game."
Once Xu Ling's group had left, Maverick Carter couldn't hold back. "What's with the attitude on that kid? Dragging his feet for half a month before bothering to see you! Does he really think he's some big shot?"
James's amiable expression revealed little as he simply said, "Mav, I set up this meeting for you."
Carter stared at James in astonishment. "For me?"
Within the inner circle of the James camp, there were four key figures. James was the centerpiece, and Carter was one of the other three. Serving as his bridge to Nike, Carter had joined the company back in 2003, where he was meant to learn everything he needed to know. One day, James intended to put him in charge of far bigger things.
That was the real reason behind today's meeting.
"I don't care about some kid named Eli," James said, casually adjusting his cuffs. "But Nike wants to sign him."
Carter scoffed. "Nike can sign anyone."
"True. Money makes the world go round," James laughed. "Do you remember? Back then, Reebok offered me a hundred-million-dollar deal, while Nike only put up eighty million."
How could Carter ever forget? Reebok hadn't just offered a hundred million dollars; they had thrown in an additional ten-million-dollar signing bonus. That meant the moment James signed on the dotted line, he would have pocketed ten million dollars in cash right then and there.
Yet James had still chosen Nike. He knew it wasn't just about the money—Nike's platform, sneaker design, and global influence were things Reebok simply couldn't match.
"Now it's Eli's turn to make a choice," James's voice suddenly sharpened. "Nike won't offer the highest bid, but they still want him. When the time comes, they'll send you to negotiate—representing both me and Nike."
Carter's eyes lit up. He understood all too well what that meant: this would be a golden opportunity to build his leverage inside Nike.
"What should I do?"
"Talk plenty about our 'friendship,'" James said, a satirical smirk touching the corners of his lips. "And emphasize Nike's superior platform."
"Got it," Carter said with supreme confidence. "Leave it to me."
Chapter 47