Manhattan, Li Fei's apartment.
On the television screen, the fans at the United Center were filing out in silence. The camera swept over figures in No. 23 jerseys, their faces filled with disbelief.
Leaning back on the sofa, Li Fei looked at the score on the screen and shook his head.
"118 to 88," he said softly. "Those old guys really got blown out."
Monica Bellucci curled up beside him with a glass of red wine in hand. Her eyes were fixed on Reggie Miller on the screen—the lanky shooter was being interviewed courtside, his face openly radiant with joy.
"That man made ten threes tonight?" Monica asked, a hint of amazement in her voice.
"Ten," Li Fei said. "A playoff record."
Monica turned to look at him. "Are you worried?"
Li Fei considered it. "Worried about what? Miller, or the Pacers?"
"Both."
Li Fei fell silent for a moment, then an helpless smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Honestly, what I'm more worried about is—I have to wait through another game."
Monica froze for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"You swept Philadelphia 4–0, and then you just sat here waiting and waiting. The Bulls and Pacers have played six games and still aren't done, the Lakers and San Antonio Spurs aren't done either, and the Houston Rockets still have games to play..."
"That's the price of advancing early." Li Fei spread his hands. "The faster you win, the longer you wait."
Monica set her wineglass on the coffee table and looked at him seriously. "Then you need to train more. I heard that if you go too long without playing and then jump back into a game, it affects your form. Your touch gets rusty, and your rhythm gets thrown off."
Li Fei turned to her,