In the locker room, Malone sat in front of his locker, pressing an ice pack against his knee.
After Game 7, his body felt as though it had been run over by a truck, every muscle protesting. But he said nothing. He simply sat there like a silent rock.
Hanburen pushed open the door and walked in, a clipboard in hand.
"Carl, got a minute?"
Malone looked up. "What is it, Coach?"
Hanburen took a deep breath. "I want you to play small forward."
The locker room fell silent for about three seconds.
Malone's expression shifted from exhaustion to confusion, from confusion to disbelief, and from disbelief to an indescribably complex emotion.
"...What?" His voice was so low it seemed squeezed out of his chest.
"Small forward," Hanburen repeated. "Starting small forward. You'll be matched up against Li Fei."
Malone stared at him for a full ten seconds.
"Coach," he said slowly, restraining himself, "do you know I finally got away from having to guard Li Fei?"
Hanburen said nothing.
Malone rose to his feet. The ice pack dropped to the floor with a dull thud. An odd, bitter smile appeared on his face—the smile of an old soldier confronting an absurd fate.
"When I was with the Utah Jazz, I played against Li Fei for three years." His voice was quiet, but every word seemed forced through clenched teeth. "Three years. Every postseason, he destroyed me. Seven foot four, with an eight-foot wingspan, and he could still pull up and shoot over your head. Every time I guarded him, I felt like a high schooler playing against a college varsity team."
He paused and rubbed his knee.
"Then I came to the Bulls. I thought I was finally free. Li Fei went to the Knicks, played small forward, and