The air in the Knicks' training facility was filled with a peculiar scent.
It was not the sour stench of sweat, nor the sharp smell of floor wax, but excitement—the excitement of a hunter catching the scent of prey.
The news had arrived at noon.
Li Fei had been doing squats in the weight room, the plates heavy enough to make the barbell bend slightly. Stephen Jackson rushed in from outside, still clutching his phone, his expression like that of a child opening presents on Christmas morning.
"The Bulls! The Bulls won!" he shouted. "Jordan scored 31, Malone had 27, and they took down the Heat!"
The weight room fell silent for roughly 0.3 seconds.
Then Sprewell threw the dumbbell in his hand onto the floor, the sound of metal striking the ground echoing through the room.
"They're finally here!" Madman rose to his feet, his eyes gleaming with a nearly fanatical fighting spirit. "I've waited a whole week."
Allan Houston walked over from the stretching area, wearing his trademark gentle smile, but there was not a trace of gentleness in his eyes. "We beat them in the Eastern Conference Finals last year. This year, we'll do it again."
Sabonis sat on a machine, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a towel. The Lithuanian remained as composed as ever, but the slight curl of his lips gave him away. "Jordan is a great player. But greatness exists to be surpassed."
Li Fei racked the barbell and stood up. His training tank was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his body and outlining suffocatingly defined muscles. He picked up a towel and wiped his face, a cold curve forming at the corner of his mouth.
"You all know?" His voice was calm, as if he were asking what they were