Sprewell slapped the newspaper onto the table, excitement gleaming in his eyes. He even deliberately stomped his feet, showing off the latest Li Fei Brand sneakers on them.
"Shaq is practically a monster now! I watched their first-round footage—he could dunk with three guys hanging off him in the paint! And that kid Kobe has improved way too fast this year. Those two Spurs idiots who only know how to bank shots can't stop Los Angeles's firepower at all."
Donyell Marshall, seated across from him, shook his head and offered a different opinion.
"I think the San Antonio Spurs are steadier. The Lakers rely too much on their stars playing one-on-one. Once the Triangle Offense stops flowing, they'll bog down. The Spurs' defensive system is too airtight. Popovich won't let O'Neal run wild in the paint."
"Give me a break. Can defense sell tickets?"
"Martial Saint" Stephen Jackson, sitting on the bench, curled his lip.
"Los Angeles has star power and attention. The league definitely wants the Lakers to go farther too. David Stern dreams of seeing the Finals held at the Staples Center. But then again, no matter who makes the Finals, they'll have to kneel and sing surrender when they meet the boss."
Veteran Arvydas Sabonis silently drank his borscht. He did not join the younger players' debate, merely watching the man seated at the head of the table with his deep-set eyes.
Li Fei.
He wore a custom pure-black Li Fei Brand hoodie. Even seated in a broad dining chair, his massive 2.24-meter frame radiated a suffocating sense of pressure.
He focused on the food before him, his movements steady and rhythmic, as though the commotion around him had nothing to do with him.
No emotion stirred on that cold, flawless face, as though it had been