Two hours later, the Miami Heat arrived at Boston Logan Airport. The area outside the bus was already packed with reporters.
Pat Riley walked at the head of the group. His signature slicked-back hair was perfectly styled, and his black suit was impeccably tailored, as if it had just been taken out of a shop window. Sunglasses concealed his eyes, and with them, all his emotions.
A Boston reporter shouted Lin Qi's "hockey theory" to Pat Riley. Pat Riley stopped, slowly took off his sunglasses, and a condescending, sneer appeared on his lips.
"Hockey? If the young guys in Boston feel the pain, if they feel they have to wear full hockey gear and helmets before they dare to go inside, that's fine, they can wear them tomorrow night. We don't mind smashing a few more pieces of armor on the rink."
The flashbulbs went off like crazy. Pat Riley spoke slowly, each word sounding like it was stuck in his throat.
"Mr. Lin Qi is very good at talking about business. He can talk about NBC's broadcasting fees, the global market, and what kids want to watch on TV. Unfortunately, the playoffs aren't a Boston board meeting. There are no fancy slides, no market research reports, and no red carpet laid out in advance for the young people."
"If Boston wants to play a game where nobody touches them, I suggest they go to All-Star Weekend. Miami basketball isn't about pleasing anyone; we're only after the ultimate victory."
After saying that, Pat Riley put his sunglasses back on, turned around, and boarded the bus. The doors closed, and the flashbulbs continued to go off. The war of words had officially begun.
That evening, the video room at FleetCenter Arena was brightly lit. The screen repeatedly played Pat Riley's words from the airport. "We only pursue ultimate victory."
Garnett sat in the last row, arms crossed, his face grim. Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals had tormented him, causing him to lose his composure due to the Heat's fouls, physical contact, and underhanded tactics. This was more frustrating for him than the loss itself.
Lin Qi stood in front of the whiteboard, neither in the mood to yell nor intending to comfort them. He picked up Mark and wrote two words on the whiteboard: [Number of Fouls], [Free Throws].
Head coach Rick Adelman's eyes flickered slightly when he saw those two words.
Lin Qi turned around and looked at everyone in the room. " Pat Riley has already made his tough statement. Tomorrow night, he can't back down, and neither can Miami. They will definitely continue to test the referees' limits."
Garnett looked up sharply, gritting his teeth, and asked, "So we just let them keep wrestling?"
"Yes." Lin Qi met his gaze. "But this time, as soon as the whistle blows, no one is allowed to retaliate."
The recording studio fell silent. Adelman stared at the whiteboard and finally spoke, "If they use center court to grab someone again tomorrow night, the referee's whistle will blow faster than in Game 2. Not because the referees are helping us, but because they can't let the national broadcast become a joke."
Adelman walked to the whiteboard and drew a thick line that went straight into the penalty area.
"If the Heat continue to use fouls to cut to the basket in the first quarter, they'll quickly be in team foul trouble. Then, if Hardaway dares to reach out and grab someone in half-court, it'll be a direct shot to the free-throw line for us. Sam Cassell, back down Hardaway in the low post; Finley, cut to the strong side; Kevin, receive the ball high and drive straight to the basket; PJ and Dikembe, dominate the offensive rebounds. Make them pay for every time they reach out."
The breathing in the room began to pick up. Lin Qi walked up to Garnett and patted him on the shoulder.
" Kevin, they beat you in Game 2 not because Miami is stronger. They beat you because they made you angry and then made you hand over the ball. Tomorrow, you're not going to prove you're tougher than Mourning, you're going to prove... you're smarter than Pat Riley."
"If they take you down again in the middle circle, after you get up from the floor, don't glare, don't throw a punch. Look Grant in the eyes, give him your brightest smile, then turn around and keep running."
Sitting next to him, Sam Cassell couldn't help but grin and let out a strange laugh, "Lin, to be honest, having Kevin get knocked over and then smile at someone... that's way scarier than Grant committing a foul."
"Smile, Kevin, smile now and let me see," Sam Cassell egged on.
Garnett gritted his teeth, forcing down the fierce look on his face, trying to force a "bright smile." But the 20-year-old's eyes still burned with anger. When he grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, his sunken cheeks and red-rimmed eyes made him look less like a friend and more like a madman about to pull out a shotgun in the Late Night.
Robert Horry, sitting in the front row, suddenly shuddered. "Stop, stop, stop! Kevin, you'd better not laugh tomorrow. If you keep laughing at Grant like that, the referee might call a technical foul on you for attempting to mentally murder your opponent."
Even the usually serious Adelman couldn't help but rub his temples.
The laughter gradually subsided in the recording studio, and the somewhat relaxed atmosphere was once again filled with a cold and imposing aura.
Lin Qi's playful smile vanished, and he tapped his fingertips lightly on the table twice. The temperature in the recording studio seemed to drop instantly with his movement.
"Tomorrow will be the turning point of the series. Since the Heat want to test the referees' limits, we'll give them plenty of space to do so."
Lin Qi looked at the group of hot-blooded young men, his voice not loud, but it made their necks stiff.
"But there's one thing I'll only say once today... Tomorrow, once we're on the court, no matter how dirty Miami's play is, no matter how chaotic the game gets, everyone on the bench, you better stay firmly on your seats. If anyone dares to step on the court... listen to me, even if you just walk over to break up a fight, you won't be touching a single ball for the rest of the series."
The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and even Sam Cassell had been making a fuss just moments before, had calmed down.
Robert Horry, unusually, stopped smiling, turned to the side, stared intently into Garnett's eyes, and said in a deep voice.
" Kevin, I'm not kidding. David Stern's new rule states that if a fight breaks out on the court, the substitute who leaves the bench is automatically suspended, no exceptions. Pat Riley, that old fox, is a master of this. Tomorrow he might send some reckless fringe player to provoke you, just to lure our bench players in. With just one fringe player, he can cripple our first and second team starters! We're not acting as bodyguards on the sidelines, we're murdering the team!"
This ruthless order, devoid of any human compassion, was like a bucket of ice water, jolting these hot-blooded young men to their senses.
The somewhat agitated atmosphere in the recording studio, which had been stirred up by the "smiling tactic," was completely frozen. Without any unnecessary words, Lin Qi and Horry, working in unison and with the utmost professional rationality, directly cut off all possibilities for Pat Riley to take someone down with him in a desperate situation.