No one spoke in the away team's locker room; only heavy breathing and the sound of water running from the showers could be heard.
Iverson sat in front of his locker, his feet soaking in a metal bucket filled with ice. The physical therapist knelt in front of him, carefully cutting the bandages wrapped around his ribs and right knee with a pair of medical scissors. As the bandages peeled away one by one, the skin, whitened from long-term compression, and the large area of bruises beneath were completely exposed under the incandescent light.
O'Neal Jr. sat on the bench diagonally opposite, an ice pack on his right shoulder, a sports drink in his hand, staring blankly at a crack in the floor tiles.
Larry Bird Brown walked past the whiteboard, patted a few assistant coaches and players on the shoulder in turn, and left without saying a word.
Half an hour later, in the press conference room.
Iverson changed into a baggy black tracksuit and wore a baseball cap pulled low over his head as he walked onto the stage. A flurry of flashes erupted from the audience, the clicking of camera shutters drowning out the static from the microphones.
He leaned back in his chair, staring unfocused ahead.
" Allen, Coach Brown tried to substitute you in the fourth quarter, but you refused. Did you know it might be the last few minutes of the season?" a Boston local reporter asked first.
"No," Iverson pulled the microphone closer, his voice dry and hoarse, "I just don't want to sit here watching other people play, it's that simple."
Another reporter stood up. "How serious are your rib and knee injuries? Has it affected your performance in this series?"
Iverson frowned and sat up slightly. "The fact that I can play means I'm fine. Boston did a better job defensively, and Garnett and Artest dominated the game. That's why we lost, and it has nothing to do with my ribs."
He didn't give reporters a chance to ask further questions. After answering the last few routine questions about the next season, he pushed back his chair and left the press conference hall through a side door.
At the end of the corridor outside the press conference hall, Boston President for Basketball Operations Lin Qi, stood in the shadows.
The side door was pushed open, Iverson walked into the corridor surrounded by several staff members.
Lin Qi stood still, not going up to exchange pleasantries. He simply watched the short guard walk past from a dozen meters away. Iverson's steps were extremely slow, his right leg clearly unable to bear full weight, and the heavy ice pack swayed clumsily on his knee as he walked.
Just as Iverson's figure disappeared around the corner of the corridor, several Boston reporters who had chased after him from the press room spotted Lin Qi and immediately surrounded him with their recording pens.
"Mr. Lin Qi! Boston's defense tonight completely destroyed Iverson! Is this extreme physical pressure the key to the Celtics' determination to win a three-peat?"
Lin Qi stopped in his tracks, his gaze returning from the empty corner of the corridor. His face showed no elation at his advancement, and his voice was unusually calm.
"We won tonight," Lin Qi said calmly, "But you all saw how Allen Iverson left. He's coming back to Philadelphia with at least three new injuries. This level of structural damage is destroying the best talent in the league."
The reporters were taken aback, clearly not expecting the creator of this "defensive meat grinder" to offer such a reflection on the night of advancement.
"Last month at the Four Seasons Hotel, when we announced the groundbreaking for the ' Brighton Sports Science and Medical Center,' some media outlets privately speculated that it was just a real estate gimmick." Lin Qi folded the technical statistics sheet in his hand and neatly stuffed it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. " Allen Iverson, who just walked by, is the Answer you're looking for."
He turned around and pressed the VIP elevator button leading to the executive suites on the upper floors.
"Of course I want my team to win the championship, but I can't accept my players looking like they've just survived a serious car accident after a win. The era of relying on a few rolls of tape, painkillers, and sheer willpower is coming to an end."
"Bite..."
The stainless steel elevator doors slid open to both sides. Lin Qi walked in and nodded slightly to the still-stunned reporters.
See you at the NBA Finals.
The elevator doors slowly closed, completely shutting out the reporters' questions. Lin Qi's casual remarks would undoubtedly force the entire league to re-examine the superbase under construction in Boston.
It was 11:30 Late Night. in the underground loading and unloading area of New Garden.
The Boston night breeze, carrying the coolness of early summer, blew in through the ventilation openings of the underground passage. The Philadelphia 76ers ' bus was already parked at the exit, its engine humming low. Several staff members were stuffing large black duffel bags filled with jerseys, tactical videos, and medical equipment into the overhead compartment.
The players emerged from the inner tunnel in twos and threes. No one spoke. Snow walked with a slight limp of his left leg, the spot where he had been injured during a scramble for a loose ball in the second quarter.
Iverson was one of the last to come out. He was carrying a travel bag and walked even more slowly than when he was on the court. The bus had only three steps, but when he boarded, he instinctively gripped the handrail with his right hand and used the strength of his upper body to pull himself up.
He walked straight to the last row of the bus and sat down by the window, pulling his baseball cap down even further until it almost covered most of his face.
A few Boston fans who hadn't yet left were whistling and shouting Garnett's name from across the distant barbed wire fence toward the bus.
The bus doors closed slowly, the air pressure valve hissing softly. The vehicle started moving, exited the underpass, and merged into the slightly crowded streets of Boston.
Iverson leaned his head against the cold car window.
Outside the window, the victorious neon lights and celebrating crowds were receding. Inside the bus, it was pitch black.
When the tires went over the speed bump at the intersection, the car shook violently.
Snow, who had been asleep in the front row, let out a painful groan because the jolting had put pressure on his injured leg.
In the back corner, Iverson remained silent with his eyes closed. But he habitually furrowed his brow, and slowly raised his left hand from his bag, pressing firmly against his right ribs through his loose tracksuit.
He tried to use the pressure of his palms to counteract the pain caused by the bus's bumps.
He remained in that position, completely still.
The noise outside the window was gradually left behind.
The bus drove onto the interstate highway, and eventually only the monotonous roar of the engine remained inside the passenger compartment.