The bus fell silent.
No one spoke, no one moved. Only the roar of the engine echoed through the cabin.
"Later, I found out it was the Celtics fans who did it. They bribed the hotel staff and put something in my food. Not poison—laxatives. They didn't want to injure me. They wanted to give me diarrhea. They wanted my legs to go weak on the court, wanted me unable to run or jump. They wanted me to choke when it mattered." Sprewell's eyes widened like saucers. "You've got to be kidding me."
Li Fei looked at him. "I'm not kidding. That was the most disgusting series of my career. It wasn't that the Celtics players played dirty—it was their fans. But we won that series. Why? Because we wanted to win more than they did. Because we weren't afraid of their boos, their insults, or their curses. Because we knew that the more they acted like that, the more afraid of us they were."
He paused, and his voice grew deeper.
"Now we're in Los Angeles. The fans here won't slip laxatives into our food, tear up roads in the middle of the night, or put broken glass in our meals. They'll only boo us, curse us, and flip us off. That's nothing. They're far gentler than Boston fans. So don't let their boos affect you. Don't let their insults provoke you. Don't let their middle fingers distract you. All we have to do is take the court, play basketball, and win. Not with luck, not with the referees, not with anyone else. With ourselves."
He glanced at Sprewell.
"Madman, don't get into a battle of tempers with them out there. Kobe will provoke you, rile you up, and bait you into fouls. Don't fall for it. The more