"Don't think about basketball," she whispered, her fingers gliding across his face. "Tonight, think only about me."
He lowered his head and kissed her neck.
The Manhattan skyline glittered outside the window, but inside the bedroom there was only moonlight.
June 6, the eve of the NBA Finals.
Atlanta, TNT studio.
The lights dimmed, then came back on. Three chairs formed a semicircle, and the two team logos appeared side by side on the screen behind them—the Knicks' blue and orange and the Lakers' Purple and Gold.
Kevin Harlan sat in the middle, with Marv Albert on his left and Bill Walton on his right. Each had a cup of coffee in front of him, and stats sheets lay spread across the table like a military map before a battle.
"Gentlemen," Harlan began, his voice carrying the solemnity of a commentator before the Finals. "Tomorrow night, Madison Square Garden. Knicks versus Lakers. Li Fei against O'Neal and Kobe. Let's get right to it—who's going to win?"
Albert leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table.
"The Knicks will win. I'll give you my conclusion up front. They beat the Bulls 4–1 in the Eastern Conference Finals, and Li Fei averaged 38.8 points, 14.6 rebounds, 6.8 assists, and 4.2 blocks. He's in incredible form, his conditioning is incredible, and his will is incredible. The Lakers have nobody who can guard him—O'Neal is too slow, Kobe is too short, and Horry is too soft. Li Fei will score over 30 points in every game. You can write that into the stat sheet now."
Walton shook his head.
"I disagree. The Lakers have O'Neal and Kobe, two of the top five players in the league. The Knicks have only one Li Fei. Sprewell is a good player, but he's