Inside the Auerbach training center's main stadium, a half-time five-on-five defensive rotation drill was forcibly interrupted.
A sharp, cracking sound echoed through the hall.
Artest took the tactical clip from Rick Carlisle's hand and folded it in two at his knee. The white tactical magnets and spring clips rolled to the ground, making a clattering sound.
"Switch! Switch! What were you looking at just now?!"
Artest, shirtless, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his collarbone, roared at Tyronn Lue, who was left in the corner, "Are you waiting for God to come down and cover for you?!"
Tyronn Lue took a half step back, his back hitting the thick foam padding of the basketball hoop. He pursed his lips and didn't dare to utter a sound.
Garnett stepped onto the sideline and wiped the sweat from his bald head with a large towel draped over his shoulder. He had just taken a step when Gary Payton grabbed his green wristband from his forearm.
"Don't go, Kevin," Gary Payton said, chewing sugar-free gum in a low voice. "That kid's been acting strange these past two weeks. He's probably forgotten to take his medication; the fuse in his brain is about to blow. If you go up and say anything to him now, he'll flip the table right there in the arena."
Rick Carlisle glanced down at the broken plastic clip at his feet, his expression unchanged, not even raising an eyebrow.
Rick Carlisle was already used to Ron Artest's antics. During his years in Boston, Artest would have a fit every now and then. Sometimes it was cutting his shoelaces before practice, sometimes it was kicking down the door of his hotel room because he thought the air conditioning was too loud. Rick Carlisle knew very well that if he argued with him or acted like a head coach, it would only push Artest's manic episode to its breaking point.
Rick Carlisle pulled a spare silver metal whistle from his pocket, hung it around his neck, stopped the stopwatch with his thumb, and waved his hand.
"That concludes today's halftime and full-court rotation." Rick Carlisle's crisp voice echoed throughout the hall. "Everyone, head to the physiotherapy area for showers and ice packs. Ron, put your clothes on, take a shower, and then go to Lin's office on the third floor."
Artest felt like he'd punched a limp vent, his anger seething with nowhere to go. He kicked the ball, which had rolled to the sideline, sending it flying. The ball hit the iron railing of the second-floor stands, bounced twice, and rolled into the second-floor storage corridor. He grabbed a gray hoodie from the floor, pulled it on, left the zipper undone, and strode out through the thick wooden door of the corridor.
Chris Paul Pierce sat on a folding bench by the court, looking down as he tore at the white tape on his ankle. The sound of the tape tearing was particularly clear in the empty arena.
The blinds in the third-floor office were brightly lit by the winter sun.
Lin Qi sat behind his black walnut desk, a CD scribbled with black marker on the corner, and a crumpled fax sheet next to it. Presti stood in front of the desk, holding a freshly printed copy of the player disciplinary regulations.
A draft swept through as the door opened. Artest walked in, wearing a large white short-sleeved shirt, the thick platinum Cuba chain around his neck swaying with each step. He stood in front of the desk, his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, his heels pounding rapidly on the wool carpet, his expression tense.
"Sit down, Ron," Lin Qi said, his voice steady.
Artest hesitated for three seconds, then pulled out a leather chair and sat down. The leather rubbed together with a dull thud.
"I've read the leave slip." Lin Qi raised his finger and flicked the edge of the CD on the corner of the table. "You want to take your underlings to the Midwest to run radio stations for a whole month."
Artest's apple bobbed, and he repeatedly wiped the sweat from his jeans. "Lin, the car and the Indianapolis recording studio are all booked. I also have interviews scheduled with black underground radio DJs in Detroit and Cleveland next week. I have to go."
"A month is out of the question. No championship-contending team owner in the entire US would let their core wing player take a month off mid-season." Lin Qi leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Artest's face. "But I'll give you fourteen days."
Artest was taken aback, and his previously tense jaw relaxed by half an inch.
"Starting tomorrow, you have a fourteen-day break, right before the All-Star Weekend." Lin Qi opened a drawer and took out a black pen. "You'll miss six regular season games. For these fourteen days, I won't deduct your salary, nor will I put a disciplinary record on your record with the Players Association."
Artest gripped the thick chain around his neck, his lips moving slightly, clearly not expecting Lin Qi to agree so readily.
"But there are conditions." Lin Qi tapped his pen lightly on the table. "You want to sing? Fine. That's your private matter, and I have no right to interfere. But I'm offering you a long-term contract so you can play on the court. I don't want to see a fat guy who's panting and foaming at the mouth after running two shuttle runs. Mike Boyle will give you a fourteen-day physical and cardiovascular maintenance plan, and Brian Du will send a physical assistant with the team bus. Every morning from eight to ten, you'll have to do shuttle runs and anaerobic sprints without fail. Chip Engelland will also give you a spot-up shooting training plan, and the video recordings must be faxed back to the Auerbach Center every night."
Seeing Artest's increasingly frozen expression, Lin Qi added, "Missing one clock-in means your vacation is canceled immediately. I'm not kidding, it really means you'll lose money."
Artest bit his lower lip and replied gruffly, "Training? It's simple, I won't fall behind."
"How many CDs can you sell by wandering around those underground radio stations with only twenty listeners and your cronies?" Lin Qi pointed to the plastic box on the table. " David Fincher is currently in the Los Angeles server room doing the initial cut of ' Kingmaker Part 2.' The film is about our journey after our four-peat and the three championships we won. You were on the float during every championship parade for those three years, and you personally experienced every physical battle in the NBA Finals."
Lin Qi leaned back in his chair, looking at the dazed Artest: "Go back and think about it carefully. Write your true feelings into the song. I'll let the music director in Hollywood hear your demo. If the lyrics are good and the foundation is solid, I'll get one of your songs onto the official movie soundtrack."
Artest straightened up, his eyelids twitching suddenly. "The Kingmaker soundtrack? I really have a chance? A lot of people have told me that if this movie releases an OST, it'll probably go double platinum!"
"The premise is that your singing doesn't sound like that cheap static from Stephen Curry." Lin Qi pushed the CD towards him. "Finish the fourteen-day run, and cleanse your mind. If you fail the physical test after the All-Star Game... you'll be in trouble, understand? If you get it, take your stuff and get to the physiotherapy room."
Artest picked up the CD and stuffed it into his hoodie pocket. He stood up, tugged at the hem of his plain white short-sleeved shirt, stood there for two seconds, muttered "Thanks, Lin," and strode out of the office.
The solid wood door slammed shut.
Only Lin Qi and Presti remained in the office.
Presti rubbed his temples. "Boss, Rick's been giving us a hard time downstairs. If we let him go for two weeks, won't the locker room discipline loosen?"
"We can't let him off the hook. Ron has a childish temper at heart. If we force him on the court, he might just throw a punch and get a flagrant foul on national television tonight against the Pacers." Lin Qi took a sip of his black coffee. "That'll free up some space. Tayshaun Prince has been very efficient defensively this season. Gerald Wallace is also itching to play. Give them each an extra fifteen minutes of rotation time."
" The Charlotte Bobcats are going to do an expansion draft in June, and we'll use these two weeks to figure out how to fill out the minimum eight-man protected roster."