Fisher stood at the shower room door, water still dripping from his hair.
He paced back and forth through the locker room twice, unsure where to sit. In the end, he leaned against the wall with both hands in his pockets.
He had played twenty minutes tonight, making two of six shots with no assists.
Whenever he was on the court, the Houston Rockets' offense always found him—not because his defense was poor, but because they were too smart.
Cassell found him after pick-and-rolls, Pippen backed him down in the post, and even Barkley drove at him from beyond the three-point line. Every possession told him the same thing: you weren't tall enough, fast enough, or old enough.
Then there was Kobe.
Kobe sat in the innermost corner, his regular spot at Staples Center—the third locker from the left, against the wall and directly across from the tactics board. He had already showered, though his hair had not fully dried. He wore a black tracksuit jacket, zipped all the way to the top.
His expression was the calmest of anyone's, but that calm made the locker room feel even colder. If he had slammed lockers like O'Neal or paced like Fisher, everyone might have found it normal. But he merely sat there, perfectly still, as if waiting for something.
He waited a long time.
Finally, he stood up.
His chair slid back half a meter, its metal legs scraping against the floor with a harsh sound in the silent room. He walked to the center of the locker room and faced everyone.
"We lost." His voice was quiet but clear, each word seeming carved with a knife. "We lost at home. We let three old men score 102 points over our heads."
It was as if all the air had