The locker room fell silent for a few seconds.
Then Kobe raised his hand. "Who guards Li Fei when he's in the high post?"
Jackson glanced at him. "You."
Kobe nodded and asked nothing more. That was exactly the answer he wanted.
New York, Chattanooga Training Center.
Inside the Knicks' practice facility, the atmosphere was entirely different from the Lakers'.
It wasn't more tense or more relaxed, but a delicate balance—serious without being wound tight, focused without being anxious.
The players laughed and chatted as they warmed up. In a corner, Sprewell and Jackson competed to see who could make ten three-pointers first, trading shots and trash talk.
Houston listened to jazz through his headphones as he stretched, his eyes closed and his expression as relaxed as if he were on vacation.
Sabonis worked with light weights in the weight room, moving slowly and carefully, as though he were defusing a bomb.
Li Fei stood at the free-throw line, taking shot after shot. His form never wavered. Every release looked like a copy of the last.
His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes—not nerves, but the silence of a hunter before the strike.
Van Gundy stood on the sideline with a whistle in his hand, though he rarely blew it.
The bags under his eyes were still heavy, but his expression was a little more relaxed than usual.
Not because he didn't care, but because he knew this team was ready. They had won the championship two years running and proved themselves on the NBA Finals stage both times.
They knew how to win, how to play under pressure, how to steal victories on the road, and how to close out a series at home.
After morning practice ended, Van Gundy gathered all the players in