The next morning, at 6:30.
In Lin Qi's office in South Boston, the telephone on his desk rang shrilly.
Lin Qi answered the receiver almost as soon as the phone rang, leaning back in his large leather chair.
On the other end of the phone came Doc Rivers' voice, which was even hoarser than the night before, and even carried a hint of fatigue, yet remained unusually clear-headed.
"I had my lawyer review all the terms in the contract overnight."
Lin Qi rubbed his dry eyes with one hand. "And what's your answer, Doc?"
There was a brief two-second silence on the other end of the phone, followed by Doc Rivers's final, crisp command before hanging up.
"10:00 AM, FleetCenter Press Conference Hall. I will be there on time."
Hearing the dial tone from the receiver, Lin Qi slowly closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath of stale air that had been accumulating for several days.
Welcome back, Doc.
At 10:00 AM sharp, in the press conference hall of the Boston FleetCenter.
When Lin Qi, dressed in a sharp suit, walked leisurely onto the stage with Doc Rivers, who was wearing a brand-new Celtics uniform jacket, the sea of Boston local reporters and national sports media below almost instantly erupted in a frenzy.
The flashes of light created a blinding white blur, and the rapid clicking of camera shutters filled the hall like a torrential downpour. The questions that followed were increasingly harsh and confrontational.
"Mr. Doc Rivers! You have never served as a head coach in any division, not even a single day as an assistant coach. What makes you think you are qualified to coach an Eastern Conference powerhouse that won sixty games last year?"
"Mr. Lin Qi! After Pitino left, did the Celtics management find no experienced and renowned coaches willing to take over, and thus had to resort to hiring any random commentator from the TV station to fill the role?"
Does this mean that the Boston management has proactively given up on Garnett and Gary Payton's prime years, completely closing the traditional championship window?
Doc Rivers on stage didn't rush to interrupt the agitated reporters. Instead, he sat quietly until the uproar subsided before slowly bringing the microphone closer.
"I know what the outside world is questioning right now; it's nothing more than experience, experience, and more experience."
As soon as Doc Rivers opened his mouth, his signature husky voice resonated throughout the entire arena through the speakers.
"These questions are entirely reasonable. I don't need to sit here today pretending I've been coaching for twenty years. Nor will I presumptuously tell everyone that I'm going to teach Gary Payton how to steal the ball or Dikembe Mutombo how to block shots. That would be foolish. They are already among the best players in the world."
The cameras and microphones below the stage were all recording the former All-Star guard's speech. Doc Rivers' hands, which were resting on the table, tightened slightly, and his expression became serious.
"The reason I accepted Boston's offer is because last season's results proved one thing... talent doesn't equal a winning culture. In the playoffs, when real trouble came, the team's chain of trust broke down. People started to distrust the coach and each other."
As he said this, his gaze slowly swept across the faces of the reporters in the front row.
"My job isn't to teach them how to play, but to rebuild the Celtics ' culture. I want them to relearn how to be patient with each other and how to listen to one another. When the door is closed, whether we're up by twenty or down by twenty, the five players on the court must trust each other unconditionally."
In the audience, a veteran reporter from the Boston Globe immediately stood up and asked a somewhat provocative question.
"Mr. Doc Rivers, from your description, it sounds more like some kind of vague psychological preparation than the work of a head coach in the traditional sense."
Doc Rivers gave the reporter a cold look, slammed his hands on the table, and threw out his final retort.
"If you've ever played in the NBA, you should understand that what takes you to the end is never just the lines on the whiteboard. It's whether the five players on the court are willing to sacrifice for the same goal when the temptations and pressure on the court become suffocating."
The entire press conference hall fell silent in an instant.
Only the intermittent clicking of camera shutters from the few cameras in the front row could be heard.
Lin Qi sat next to the main seat, without picking up the microphone to add any perfunctory remarks.
Looking at the Boston reporters below the stage, exchanging bewildered glances, he knew very well that his trip to Atlanta had not been in vain.
Doc Rivers ' words have given rise to a sense that the long-lost, familiar Celtics culture in Boston is making a comeback.
At 1:30 p. m., two all-black luxury buses, without any official Boston Celtics logo, discreetly drove out of the FleetCenter's underground parking garage and sped south towards Cape Cod, a resort town south of Boston.
Officially, this was an unofficial gathering initiated privately by the players and had nothing to do with management.
With only four crucial days left before the major shutdown on July 1st, Lin Qi, in order to deal with the league's strict investigation into his alleged enticements and illegal training, chose a somewhat old motel by the sea as the meeting place.
There are none of the luxurious amenities found in five-star luxury resorts here.
Pushing open the window, you're immediately hit by the salty, damp sea breeze. Downstairs is an old-fashioned wooden restaurant with greasy, creaky floors. The backyard connects to a somewhat messy lawn, and beyond that, there's a dilapidated wooden dock and the gray, white-waved North Atlantic Ocean.
At this moment, the long wooden table in the restaurant was already filled with food that suited the appetites of high-intensity athletes. Plates of sizzling, oily charcoal-grilled steaks, skinless poached chicken breasts, high-carb black pepper pasta, and a huge charcoal grill specially prepared for the big men in the paint were emitting an enticing aroma.
Gary Payton was the first to step off the bus with a dark expression. The superstar point guard was wearing a black baseball cap backwards and had his hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie. As soon as he reached the dock, he caught sight of Doc Rivers leaning against the railing, and his eyes and mouth twitched uncontrollably.
"Hold."