After the meeting, the players returned to the court and began training.
After practice ended.
Kobe sat in the locker room, phone in hand. On the screen was a message from Phil Jackson: "Are you ready?"
Kobe typed back, "I've always been ready."
He put down his phone, stood up, and walked out of the locker room. In the hallway, O'Neal leaned against the wall with a bottle of water in his hand, looking as though he were pondering something profound.
"Kobe."
Kobe looked up. "Yeah?"
O'Neal said, "Game Seven. I'll leave everything on the court."
Kobe looked at him. "So will I."
O'Neal held out his hand, and Kobe did the same. Their hands clasped together. Neither said anything more. There was no need to.
At the end of the hallway, the dome of the Staples Center shimmered faintly in the distance.
Game Seven was waiting for them.
Los Angeles International Airport.
The Knicks' charter plane landed quietly on a private runway. There was no commotion, no cheers—only the silence after the engines shut down.
To avoid being surrounded and harassed by Los Angeles fans, the team had arranged a secret route in advance. They kept a low profile throughout and disclosed none of their arrival information to the public.
Li Fei walked at the front of the group, dressed in casual black clothes. He stood straight as a pine tree, his handsome face still carrying that same calm, unruffled expression.
He wore a black baseball cap pulled low, concealing the sharpness in his eyes and revealing only the clean line of his jaw.
Sprewell followed behind him, hands tucked into his pockets, brow slightly furrowed, his gaze carrying a trace of vigilance and impatience.
Houston, Sabonis, Marshall, and the others followed close behind. Every one of them