Back in Los Angeles, at the hotel where the Knicks were staying.
Two hours after the game ended, the players gradually returned to their rooms.
Li Fei sat on the edge of the bed with an ice pack on his knee, holding his phone. On the screen was a message from Angelina Jolie: "You scored 36 tonight, but the team lost. Don't overthink it. Get some rest. You'll win Game 4."
The corner of Li Fei's mouth lifted slightly as he typed back: "I know. Good night."
He put down his phone and closed his eyes, replaying every possession from Game 3 in his mind—the slow start in the first quarter, the comeback in the second, the collapse in the third, and the helpless failure to turn things around in the fourth.
He wondered whether the outcome would have been different if he had taken over from the start of the first quarter, if he had not let Horry drain so much of his energy, or if he had put less effort into defense.
But he stopped thinking about it, because what was past was past.
The doorbell rang.
Li Fei opened the door. Sabonis stood outside, holding a bottle of water, his expression calm.
"Can't sleep?"
Li Fei asked. Sabonis nodded.
"My knee hurts, my back hurts, my ankle hurts. But my heart hurts more. We lost."
Li Fei stepped aside to let him in.
Sabonis sat on the couch and set the water on the coffee table.
"I didn't play well in Game 3. Six points, seven rebounds, three assists—that wasn't my level. O'Neal put too much pressure on me in the low post. I couldn't get the ball, and even when I did, I couldn't turn around."
Li Fei sat across from him.
"It wasn't your