7 p. m., Hill's house in the suburbs of Boston.
Hill carefully parked the Land Rover in the garage, turned off the engine, and sat quietly in the car for a minute, taking a few deep breaths of the cool air in the Stephen Curry, trying to pull himself out of that dejected mood.
Pushing open the door, a warm aroma of rosemary and barbecue gravy wafted out, a stark contrast to the pungent disinfectant smell of the rehabilitation center. In the kitchen, his wife Tamia, was wearing an apron and busy at the counter.
"Honey, you're back." Hearing the door open, Tamia immediately put down the knife in her hand, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried over. She skillfully avoided Hill's cane under his arm and gave her husband a firm and warm hug.
But when her chin touched Hill's shoulder, she immediately sensed something was wrong... Hill's muscles were taut like a hard rock.
"How are you feeling today? What did Dr. Lasset say?" Tamia looked up and asked with concern.
"Same as always. All indicators are stable, no decline." Hill forced a smile as he spoke, awkwardly supporting himself on one leg as he tried to take off his coat. He tried to make his tone sound flat, as if he were talking about the weather in Boston today.
But Tamia knew the man she shared a bed with all too well. She reached out to help her husband take off his coat, then cupped Hill's face in her hands, her brow furrowed slightly, her eyes holding a piercing insight that seemed to see into his very soul. " Grant, your eyes don't lie. You look... like you just lost a game by a huge margin in a Game 7. What happened?"
"I'm fine, Tamia." Hill turned his head slightly, avoiding his wife's gaze. He didn't want to pass on the jealousy and inferiority he felt in the spa to her. "It's just that I increased the intensity of the resistance training today, and I'm a bit exhausted. You know, that old man Lasset is a sadist."
"Would you like me to pour two glasses of red wine so we can sit down and have a proper chat?" Tamia didn't back down, still gazing at him tenderly.
"There's really nothing to talk about." Hill shook her head, tucked her cane back under her arm, and walked toward the bathroom with a dull thud. "Sorry, honey, I'm going to take a hot shower first. I just want to lie down and rest now."
Tamia stood there, watching her husband's long, slightly hunched and tired back under the corridor light, her eyes filled with worry and heartache. The man who was once as agile as the wind on the court now looked so heavy, even his back was etched with sorrow.
11 p. m., Hill's bedroom.
Only a dim, warm yellow bedside lamp was lit in the bedroom. Tamia was breathing evenly, but Hill lay stiffly on the bed, her eyes fixed on the dark ceiling.
Those daytime scenes played like a song on repeat in his mind.
The suffocating claustrophobia in the hyperbaric oxygen chamber.
The two useless legs in the pool, powerless to resist the resistance.
Beal Simmons's sarcastic remark, " Hill was on the wrong team at the wrong time," highlights this.
And then there was the joyful chest-bumping celebration from his teammates, separated from him by the glass door...
Do I still have any value?
This fatal problem, like a lump of black sludge, is slowly swallowing him up.
He irritably threw off the covers, sat up, grabbed his laptop from the bedside table, turned the screen brightness to its lowest setting, and, like a masochist, continued scrolling through the sports section.
The screen's bluish light shone on his slightly pale face. A glaring title was prominently displayed on the page.
If the Boston Celtics hadn't signed Hill, what championship pieces could they have acquired with that $93 million?
Hill took a deep breath and clicked on the fan comment section below. Those who hide behind virtual IDs have always known how to use the most vicious language to kill and wound people's hearts.
"To be honest, thank you to the Pistons! If Hill hadn't gotten injured, he would definitely have been dominating the ball, and Pierce wouldn't have been able to play at his current MVP level! This is a blessing in disguise!"
" Rasheed playing sixth man was a stroke of genius. Honestly, the current roster is perfect. Hill coming back would be a locker room disaster because nobody knows what position he should play. He would only disrupt the current chemistry."
"Hilarious! Hill is practically the greatest employee in NBA history, lying in a hospital bed watching his brothers sweat it out on the court while casually pocketing $93 million. What a winner in life, hahaha!"
" Lin Qi must be kicking himself. That $93 million has completely locked up Boston's salary cap for the next seven years. Now he can only be treated like a useless idol on the bench."
"A superfluous useless person..."
"A malignant tumor that disrupts chemical reactions..."
" Lin Qi was filled with remorse..."
These words transformed into venomous serrated knives, piercing precisely into Hill's proud heart, tearing him to shreds. His breathing became rapid, and a fine layer of cold sweat beaded on his forehead. As a prodigy from Duke University, he had always considered himself a professional and cornerstone of the team, but now he was being portrayed as a burden who only knew how to steal money.
He recalled what Lin Qi said to the national media at the signing ceremony in July: " Grant is the rarest ball-handling core in this league. His arrival is the final cornerstone for Boston to rebuild its glory."
That was a few months ago. But the NBA is a world of fame and fortune where even a week feels too long.
"Now they're undefeated, they're invincible, they... they don't need any final cornerstone anymore," Hill cried out in despair.
"Has Lin Qi already regretted it?"
"Will he think I tricked him into signing a big contract? Is the Boston management plotting how to get rid of me, this burden?"
Even if I miraculously survive those hellish 18 months, will there still be a place for me on this team when I go back?
Hill felt a tightness in his chest, as if an invisible hand was gripping his heart, making it hard to breathe. He couldn't go on like this. This self-torture of uncertainty, this panic of not knowing if he was still useful, was a million times more painful than being told he was laid off.
He glanced at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen: 11:45 PM.
Should I call Lin Qi?
"But it's almost midnight..."
"And what am I supposed to say? Say, 'Boss, I read the comments online, and I'm so afraid I'm useless'? That's fucking cowardly! Like a giant baby begging for candy!"
As a top-paid All-Star, his pride was desperately holding him back. Hill slammed his laptop shut, threw it aside, covered his head with a pillow, and forced himself to sleep.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Outside the glass door, the image of Pierce and Gary Payton bumping chests flashed on my retina once again.
With a "bang," Hill threw off the pillow and blanket, grabbing his phone from the bedside table. His fingers trembled slightly from extreme tension and inner struggle as he scrolled through his contacts, finally stopping at Lin Qi's entry.
The thumb hovers over the green dial button.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Forget it...
Hill closed his eyes in frustration and slowly withdrew his fingers.
"The owner is usually so busy running the team, he's probably asleep or spending time with his family right now. I shouldn't bother him with my damn mental issues at this time. I signed a 93 million contract, so I should take responsibility for everything. I should act like a man and process these negative emotions myself..."
Just as he was about to lock the screen, Dr. Lasset's words from the electrotherapy room during the day suddenly struck his drowsy mind like a bolt of lightning. "More than restoring your ankle, what you need now is to restore your sense of self."
Screw cowardice! Screw pride! I need an the Answer. I need to know what my future means to this team! If I'm really a burden, then I want to hear the death sentence with my own ears!
Hill gritted his teeth and pressed the dial button hard.
The beeping tone from the receiver sounded particularly jarring in the quiet bedroom.
"He's definitely asleep. Hang up now, it's not too late. Don't let him think you're a mentally fragile lunatic..."
Just as the fourth beep was about to transfer to voicemail, the call connected.
" Grant?"
Lin Qi's voice came through steadily and clearly, without the languor or hoarseness of someone who had been woken up in the middle of the night. In the background, one could even faintly hear the "zzzz" sound of a videotape being played in reverse.
"Mr. Lin Qi..." Hill's voice was trembling with tension, like someone about to drown, "I'm so sorry to bother you so late. I..."
"It's alright." Lin Qi's tone was very calm, exuding an undeniable and reassuring power. "I'm still in the office, reviewing the video of tonight's game against the Nets, looking for any weaknesses in our pick-and-roll defense. What's wrong? Does your ankle feel uncomfortable?"
Hill fell silent. His throat felt like it was blocked by a water-soaked sponge, and all the opening lines he had rehearsed countless times in his mind vanished in that instant.
On the other end of the phone, Lin Qi didn't urge him or show any impatience at being interrupted. He simply held the receiver quietly, giving him the most extravagant patience to wait.
"I..." Hill swallowed hard. "Today... I read Beal Simmons' column... and the fans' comments."
"Hmm. The team has had a good start, and the media and fans are certainly celebrating. They always like to create idols, and they also like to destroy them," Lin Qi replied calmly, his tone revealing neither joy nor anger.
"They played so well, unbelievably well..." Hill's voice trailed off, almost pleading, " Lin Qi, I have only one question. I have to ask you myself."
"Ask away, Grant."
Hill took a deep breath, as if using the last of his strength. "18 months from now... after I get through this damn recovery period and come back, where will I be on this team? Will I... still have a place?"
After asking the question, Hill closed his eyes, the veins on his forehead throbbing slightly. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, awaiting the final verdict.
There was a five-second silence on the other end of the phone.
For Hill, those five seconds felt like an eternity, like five whole years playing in slow motion.
" Grant." Lin Qi spoke again, his previously easygoing and calm tone suddenly becoming unusually sharp and firm, carrying the unquestionable authority of the team's leader.
"Come to my office tomorrow at 2 PM."
"But Dr. Lasset has scheduled my lower limbs for underwater surgery tomorrow afternoon..."
"I'll personally call Lasset to tell him it's canceled." Lin Qi interrupted him directly, his tone firm and leaving no room for negotiation. "Your training schedule for tomorrow will be arranged by me."
" Lin Qi..."
"Listen, Grant." Lin Qi's voice, penetrating through the airwaves with a soul-piercing force, struck Hill's ears with each word, "What you need most right now isn't some damn electrotherapy or hydrotherapy. What you really need is to get your 'soul' back."
"I'll be waiting for you in my office tomorrow at 2 PM. Now, close your eyes and get some rest."
"Click." Without giving Hill a chance to continue agonizing, the call was abruptly ended.
Hill stood frozen in the darkness, holding his phone which was beeping, like a statue, motionless for a long time.
After a long while, he slowly put his phone back on the bedside table and exhaled a long, deep breath that had been stuck in his chest for four months. Miraculously, the anxiety and self-doubt that had been coiling around him like a venomous snake, making him feel like he was about to suffocate, subsided by more than half at that moment.
Hill lay back down on the pillow, pulled up the covers, and closed her eyes.
Outside the window, the biting November wind of Boston was pounding against the glass; the night was deep and chilly.
But Hill's heartbeat was unusually steady at that moment.
He knew that the nightmare that had tormented him for four months would finally be the Answer in that office tomorrow afternoon.