January 9th, San Antonio, SBC Center player tunnel.
Forty minutes before the game, Artest came out of the locker room and walked onto the court.
Bruce Bowen was walking back from the venue. The two passed each other in the middle of the tunnel.
"Want to get together for dinner?" Bowen said. " Bohanan's Steakhouse, 9:30. I've reserved a table."
Artest nodded and continued walking towards the court.
That evening, in a private room on the second floor of the Bohanan's Steakhouse.
Sitting at the table were Pierce, Garnett, Big Ben, Artest, and the Bowen.
Bowen's wife smiled and pushed a small tin box in front of Artest: "The recipe for the Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. You mentioned last time you wanted your mother to try it, so I wrote down the proportions clearly."
Artest took it and put it directly into the inside pocket of his coat.
Pierce raised his glass of soda and gently clinked it towards Bowen. The glass made a crisp sound. All night, the conversation at the table revolved around Texas barbecue and the kids' schools; no one talked about the game that night, nor did anyone mention the trade that brought Bowen to the Spurs.
On January 10th, on a flight to Dallas.
The cabin was dimly lit, with the window shades pulled down. Big Ben, wearing an eye mask, was catching up on sleep with his arms crossed in the front row. Garnett leaned back in his seat, his gaze peering through the crack in the window at the desolate, flat Texas plains outside.
Pierce sat next to him, idly flipping through an outdated Sports Illustrated.
" Bruce went to the Spurs. Steve, Michael, Dikembe went to the Mavericks." Garnett looked out the window, his voice low, as if talking to himself.
Pierce turned a page, his finger pausing on the paper, but he didn't say anything.
"So many people couldn't stay." Garnett turned his head, his tone revealing a sense of loss and change.
Pierce closed the magazine and casually stuffed it into the mesh pocket behind the front seat.
"Speaking of which, you're the most senior player on this team now, right?" Pierce turned to look at Garnett.
Garnett looked away, a smile playing on his lips that was hard to decipher—it was hard to tell if it was self-deprecation or nostalgia—and nodded slightly.
" Robert ( Parish ) hadn't retired yet back then; I played with him." Garnett's gaze drifted into the distance. "Back then, Lin was just the president of basketball operations..."
January 11th, Dallas, noon during a training day at American Airlines Center.
Kevin Garnett walked alone in the white corridor outside the visitor locker room. Not far ahead, Mutombo was filling a paper cup with water at the water dispenser. The two stopped at the same time, about five meters apart.
" Kevin." Mutombo's voice still carried its signature deep, resonant tone. " Dikembe." Garnett smiled and went to greet him.
Mutombo finished the warm water in the paper cup in one gulp, then flicked his wrist, accurately tossing the cup into a trash can two meters away. He strode over, his broad hand enveloping Garnett's entire arm, and gave his old friend a tight hug.
"Come to my place for dinner tonight," Mutombo patted Garnett on the back. "My wife made West African peanut chicken stew, and the kids have been talking about you for ages."
That evening, at Mutombo's home in the northern suburbs of Dallas.
On the spacious living room sofa, Steve Nash and Michael Finley sat side by side chatting. On the carpet, several children were crawling and laughing.
The doorbell rang, and Pierce, Garnett, Big Ben, and Lin Qi, who was bringing up the rear, filed in.
Lin Qi's appearance created a momentary awkwardness in the room. As the one who had personally seen this group off, he was clearly somewhat embarrassed to be standing there.
But Nash still stood up, walked over and bumped shoulders with Pierce, then patted Garnett on the back. He then looked at Lin Qi, smiling as he handed him an ice-cold beer, "Lin, long time no see."
Here, no one calls him "boss" or "Mr. Lin Qi," which is completely different from the atmosphere at Celtics dinners now. Stripped of the hierarchical working relationship, they still retain the purest forms of address they used in the Boston locker room.
Lin Qi took the beer, clinking glasses with a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, long time no see. I hope you didn't poison the food tonight."
Everyone laughed, and the awkward silence instantly melted away.
Mutombo carried a steaming enamel pot out of the kitchen and placed it directly in the center of the table. "Don't be shy, everyone."
January 13th, Houston, Four Seasons Hotel lobby.
At six o'clock in the morning, just as dawn was breaking, Big Ben Affleck, wrapped in a thick hoodie, went downstairs to buy coffee. Just as he reached the revolving door, he bumped into Stephen Jackson, who had just finished his morning exercise and was sweating profusely as he pushed open the door to return to his hotel.
"Where did you and Ron go last night?" Big Ben took the black coffee from the receptionist and glanced at him sideways.
"Nowhere," Jackson said, wiping the sweat from his neck with a towel and panting. "I'm in my room watching matchup tapes. Lin Qi gave the order before he left: if anyone causes trouble on this away game, they're out in the G G League."
Big Ben didn't ask any more questions. He blew on the steam from his coffee, picked up the cup, and turned to go upstairs.
On January 14th, on the flight back to Boston.
The plane roared as it pierced the clouds and began its steady ascent.
Artest sat in the corner of the back row, slowly pulling the small tin box from his pocket. It was the pumpkin pie recipe that Bowen's wife had given him before they parted. He placed the tin box on his lap, opened the lid to look at it for a moment, then closed it again and stuffed it back into the deepest pocket of his coat.
Garnett took off his black noise-canceling headphones and hung them around his neck. He unbuckled his seatbelt, stood up, and walked a few rows down the aisle.
Lin Qi was sitting in a private seat near the front of the cabin, flipping through a scouting report on young Europe players. A cup of black coffee, now completely cold, sat on the small table beside him.
Garnett leaned against the empty armrest next to him, gazing at the boundless sea of clouds outside the window, and remained silent for a few seconds before speaking.
"Lin, is there any chance they can come back?"
Lin Qi didn't look up immediately; his gaze remained fixed on the paper. "Who are you referring to? Bruce, or Steve and Dikembe?"
"Everyone," Garnett's voice was low, tinged with a rare weariness and nostalgia, "I kind of miss the old days. Back then... not so many people called you boss."
Lin Qi stopped turning the page. He looked up, his eyes showing little emotion.
" Kevin, professional sports isn't a place where you can keep everyone forever." Lin Qi put down the report in his hand, his tone calm but clear. "I made those trades to ensure Boston remained competitive. Making decisive moves is my job."
Garnett opened his mouth, but didn't say anything.
"But I can't guarantee anything, it doesn't mean the door is completely closed." Lin Qi noticed the disappointment in Garnett's eyes, and changed the subject slightly, "If a suitable opportunity arises in the future, if the salary cap allows, and... if they're willing to wear a Celtics jersey again, there will be a chance."
Garnett paused, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly. He looked at Lin Qi, and after a moment, suddenly asked a seemingly unrelated question.
"So... will you trade me away in the future too?"
Lin Qi paused for half a second, then couldn't help but chuckle. He picked up the now-cold cup of coffee on the table, took a sip, and half-jokingly tried to smooth things over.
"So insecure? You don't actually think Tyson Chandler ( Chandler ) was chosen to replace you, do you?" Lin Qi looked up at him. "Don't get the wrong idea. I'll give you a veto right on any trades in the next contract extension."
Garnett chuckled too. He straightened up and patted the back of Lin Qi's chair hard.
"That's enough," Garnett said. "Alright, go look at your report. I'm going to go chat with Chris Paul for a bit."
Watching Garnett turn around and walk back to the back row, Lin Qi picked up the scouting report on the table again.