Another Call

The moment the game ended, the fans' cheers reached a fever pitch. Every Blue Team player rushed forward and crowded around Link.

108–90. The Blue Team had crushed the visiting Rio Grande Valley Vipers by 18 points on their home court. Just as Jon Brockman had said before the game, they'd made Houston look bad.

Of course, the result wasn't important. It wasn't what everyone cared about.

All eyes were on Link. The guy wearing a number 0 jersey that didn't belong to him was the real—and only—star of the night.

Yet while everyone else was thrilled and elated, Link stood at the center of the crowd, weeping.

"As a warrior, he has every reason to cry after a night like this. Fifty-two points in a single game—the G League's new single-game scoring record. Facing the Rockets' affiliate, Link must have made Morey regret his decision more than ever. Morey passed on a ticking time bomb, but the other NBA teams certainly won't let him slip away. Maybe one day, that bomb will go off right in the Rockets' faces!"

The commentators all thought Link was crying over his 52-point night. They were wrong. Link didn't care about the scoring record at all. He was crying because from now on, he could only remember Upshaw with longing.

When Upshaw died, Link hadn't cried. When he read the letter Upshaw had written him, Link hadn't cried either. Back then, all he'd felt was anger. He was angry with Carl Jones, angry with Morey, angry at the injustice of it all, and angry that Upshaw was gone.

So he gritted his teeth and kept going, just as Upshaw had told him to. He would take the court in Upshaw's jersey. He would write Upshaw's name on his sneakers. Together, they would face their opponents and put on a game for the ages.

And after Link had pushed forward and done all that, he finally broke.

There was a saying in China: "A man does not shed tears easily; he sheds them only when grief strikes deep." Link had given Upshaw a perfect farewell performance, and now, at last, he was saying goodbye to his friend.

Upshaw, who'd had to play basketball and work at a car wash just to make ends meet. Upshaw, who was always letting Link mooch meals off him. Upshaw, who showed up beneath Link's apartment every day, right on time, behind the wheel.

From now on, Upshaw was gone from Link's life forever.

"Damn it, wipe your eyes. The reporters are here. I don't want our star player showing up in the papers tomorrow with a face full of tears!" Brockman hurriedly handed Link a few tissues. Link held back the tears and wiped his face dry.

But when he looked up at the cameras, his red-rimmed eyes still gave him away.

"Link, congratulations. I'm sure you already know that 52 points is a new G League single-game scoring record. What do you have to say about reaching such a milestone?"

The reporters thrust their microphones toward Link. There'd been a time when a reporter's questions made him nervous. But after a stint in the NBA and his return, he'd gotten used to situations like this.

"I have to thank my teammates and coaches for trusting me and giving me so many chances to shoot. I also have to thank Zeke for giving me strength. And finally, I want to thank my agent, Carl Jones, and the Rockets' head coach, Darrell Morey."

At that, the reporters assumed Link was trying to make nice with the Rockets so he could get back into the NBA. But what he said next left them gaping.

"I'd like to thank them for their false promises and lies. They helped me grow a lot. Of course, this isn't over. Sooner or later, they'll pay for what they've done."

With that, Link, still wearing Upshaw's number 0 jersey, turned and walked away. The reporters were stunned. They hadn't expected an undrafted rookie to have so much backbone. Insulting some unknown agent was one thing, but he'd even gone after the Rockets' general manager.

The Rockets were China's home team? There was no such thing as a home team—only endless self-interest. Link had seen the truth, and from now on, he'd keep doing what he'd done tonight.

He'd keep pushing forward.

※※※

Two hours after the game, the locker room was empty.

Everyone had celebrated wildly for a while after the game. Since it was a G League matchup, there was no postgame press conference. Once the celebrations were over, they all headed home, ready to call an unforgettable day to an end.

Link stayed behind. After showering, he carefully hung up Upshaw's number 0 jersey, then sat in front of Upshaw's locker and gazed at it for a long time.

Now, Link's desire to establish himself in the NBA had grown even stronger. But this time, he wasn't doing it just for the money. He wanted to help Upshaw fulfill his dream, too.

In Upshaw's letter, one line had stuck with Link almost as much as the words telling him to keep pushing forward.

"You're the reason I'm holding on to my dream of making it to the NBA. You're my rock. If you fall, my dream falls apart, too."

Now Link was carrying more than just himself. He wasn't only doing it to make a living. He was doing it for his best friend.

He checked his watch. It was getting late, so he stood up, ready to head home. He'd barely taken a couple of steps out of the locker room when his phone rang.

At first, Link thought it might be Carl Jones or Morey. That greedy bastard Jones would definitely beg him to sign again, while Morey would surely try to squeeze every last bit of commercial value out of him. But no matter what either of them said, Link wouldn't trust them again.

But when he pulled out his phone, the caller ID showed an unfamiliar number. Link pursed his lips, then answered anyway.

"Hello, this is Link."

"Hey, Link. You were incredible tonight. Fifty-two points, exactly 26 in each half, and then you deliberately missed your last free throw. I'm sure Upshaw would be deeply moved by the thought you put into it."

Link frowned. The person on the other end had somehow guessed that he'd only wanted to score 52 points tonight.

"Who is this?" Link asked, curious.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Jeff Austin, an agent with Altus Basketball Agency. I heard you've parted ways with Carl Jones, so I thought you might need my help. A player who just scored 52 points in the G League deserves a contract with an NBA team. And I can make that happen a lot more easily."

When Link heard that the caller was an agent, he nearly hung up on the spot. After what had happened with Carl Jones, he had a strong aversion to agents.

But the name Jeff Austin gave him pause. It sounded familiar, yet for the life of him, he couldn't remember who it was.

"I know that guy Carl Jones made a complete mess of your NBA career. But, if you'll pardon my bluntness, he's an amateur. What you need is professional help from a professional, and that's exactly what I am. You don't have to give me an answer now. Go home and get some rest. Take a few days if you need to. But if you want my help, call this number anytime—yes, anytime. Even if it's four in the morning, I'll get up and answer. All right, I won't keep you. Congratulations, and I hope Zeke is doing well in heaven."

And with that, the call ended. Link stared at his phone, thinking it over for a long while. At last, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Jeff Austin—if this really was the Jeff Austin he thought it was... then the man hadn't been lying. He really was a professional...