He stood up and draped his towel over his shoulder. "I don't have many years left to play anyway. Having Li Fei score over me is an honor in its own way. At least it proves I'm still on the court, still competing against the best."
He walked toward the showers, his steps still heavy, but his back straight.
Hanburen watched him go without saying a word.
Outside the locker room, there were no stars in Chicago's night sky. This Windy City was waiting for its old warriors to suit up one last time. They were old. They were tired. Plenty of people had already written them off.
But they had not fallen yet.
At the end of the hallway, Jordan stood by a window, looking out over the city. His expression was calm, but something hotter than fire burned in his eyes.
Malone walked up beside him without a word.
Jordan did not turn his head, but he knew who was beside him.
"Carl," he said. "The coach talked to you?"
"He did."
"What do you think?"
Malone was silent for a moment. "I think he's lost his mind. Asking a thirty-four-year-old power forward to play small forward and guard a twenty-three-year-old monster."
"And?"
"And I agreed."
Jordan finally turned to look at her.
Malone met his gaze. "It's the last time anyway. One more series against Li Fei isn't a bad way to close out my career."
Jordan looked at her for a long time. Then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly—not a smile, but a kind of recognition.
"Let's go," he said. "We still have a lot to do."
The two walked toward the locker room side by side. The hallway lights cast long shadows behind them, like two old trees about to shed their leaves.