Chapter 127: Reunion
Just as Butler predicted, the Grizzlies seemed to have spent the last of their fighting spirit in Game 3. Game 4 passed without drama, easily secured by the Kings.
A 4-0 sweep!
The Kings became one of only two teams to pull off a first-round sweep. The other was the Cleveland Cavaliers in the East. Facing the Detroit Pistons, who had barely clawed their way into the playoffs, LeBron James showed no mercy, cutting them down in swift fashion.
“Look at that, look at that. They’re already resting, just waiting for us.”
Buford teased with a sly grin.
Across the table, Popovich wore a look as if he’d just swallowed something bitter. “Look at the opponents he gets compared to mine. You expect me to sweep too? I’ll sweep your ass!”
For all his foul mouth, Popovich was secretly pleased.
After all, Chen Yilun had carried out his task perfectly.
“Another year of successfully hunting down Memphis!”
Now Popovich finally had reason to relax. The Spurs had just won Game 5, toppling the Clippers to take a 3-2 lead in the series.
But if that was all, it wouldn’t explain why Popovich was so at ease.
The real turning point? Our dear Chris Paul—injured. Again.
During Game 5, Paul strained a muscle in his left thigh on a layup and would miss Game 6.
What’s the definition of a gift from heaven? This is it!
Everyone knew: without Paul, the Clippers were nothing more than a toothless tiger. All bark, no bite.
So Popovich even had the leisure to banter with Buford.
“So, what about it? This is your first playoff clash with them. Got the fire for it?”
Buford leaned back, crossed his legs, and lit a cigar, utterly relaxed.
His tone carried no hint of worry about the games ahead.
This year’s Executive of the Year, Buford, brimmed with confidence. In his eyes, no Western team besides the Warriors was worth worrying about.
“Of course there’s fire.”
Popovich chuckled. “That little brat’s been shooting up like a rocket. It’s only his second year and he’s already in our face.”
“We’ll need to teach him a lesson—knock him down a peg, so he doesn’t think he can keep strutting around.”
“The team’s good?” Buford asked casually.
“No problems,” Popovich replied firmly. “We started load management at the end of the season. This playoff run has been carried by Kawhi and LaMarcus up front. The Big Three? That’s my parting gift to the kid!”
The two old foxes exchanged a glance, then broke into a sly, conspiratorial grin.
...
...
“Malone, Malone!”
Chen Yilun knocked rhythmically on Malone’s door.
“What the hell?”
Coach Malone opened the door, grumbling. “Whoa! Chip? What are you doing here?”
Seeing Chen Yilun and Chip standing together outside his room, Malone froze. “What’s this setup supposed to be?”
“San Antonio’s practically our second home,” Uncle Chip said with a warm smile. “The least we can do is show you some hospitality. Come on, let’s eat.”
“No way!”
“Malone shook his head furiously, like a bobblehead.”
“I haven’t even finished the playbook yet.”
“Cut it out!” Chen Yilun interrupted sharply. “The game’s in two days! Why are you still clinging to that playbook? Even if you came up with a new tactic right now, the team wouldn’t have time to practice it. Trust me—I’ll show you what San Antonio’s really about.”
With that, Chen Yilun and Chip—one young, one old—grabbed Malone and started dragging him out.
“Hey, hey, hey! Wait! I’m not even wearing pants yet!”
As the three stepped out of the elevator into the hotel lobby, several people immediately recognized them.
“Hey, look! Isn’t that Chen Yilun?”
“It really is him! And he dares to stay in this hotel?”
“Yeah, wasn’t it just last year? Right here in this lobby, Popovich pinned him to the ground and gave him a beating! It even trended on social media, remember?”
Hearing the whispers, Chip rubbed his nose awkwardly, but Chen Yilun kept his composure, leading the two out of the hotel without a flicker of embarrassment.
“San Antonio’s most famous for its Latin flavors.”
Inside a small street-side eatery, Chen Yilun expertly unfolded a slightly yellowed napkin. “You won’t find this kind of flavor in high-end restaurants. For that, you have to come to little places like this.”
Malone looked around curiously. “This place is really out of the way. How’d you even find it?”
“Well, of course...” Chen Yilun began, but his words caught in his throat.
How did he know? It was obvious—his food-and-wine-obsessed old man had brought him here.
It could be said that nearly every memory Chen Yilun had of San Antonio was tied to Popovich and Buford.
Seeing him falter, Malone instantly understood the reason. He sighed deeply and didn’t press further.
“Too bad I can’t visit the old man these next few days. Otherwise, having a drink with him would be pure bliss.”
Though the league had no written rule, there was an unspoken understanding: during the playoffs, even coaches with close ties avoided private contact before games, wary of outsiders twisting it into something scandalous.
“Such a stupid rule,” Chen Yilun muttered, tugging the corner of his mouth into a dismissive smile.
If someone wanted to collude, they had a thousand ways to do it. Why single out face-to-face meetings—the simplest, most direct thing—for restriction?
“I’m planning to use our second playbook in the game,” Malone said over dinner.
“The second playbook? Can Butler handle the load?” Chen Yilun asked, spearing a piece of beef drenched in reddish-brown sauce and chewing it slowly.
“No problem,” Malone answered, sipping his lemonade. “I’ve only had him doing the basics lately. His energy should be overflowing by now.”
The three enjoyed their Latin-inspired dinner, laughing and chatting until it was time to pay. But when the check came, the restaurant manager—who knew Chen Yilun—approached.
“Yilun, RC already covered your table.”
“Pfft!”
Chen Yilun, who had been rinsing his mouth with lemonade, immediately sprayed water everywhere.
“RC was here too?”
“Yep. He and Old Man Popovich were upstairs at their usual spot before you arrived.”
“Looks like we scored another free meal,” Chip chuckled, wiping his mouth.
“Oh, and Coach Popovich asked me to pass along a message.”
The manager paused for effect before quoting him.
“His exact words were: ‘Hope you guys play well the day after tomorrow. Don’t raise the white flag too soon—it ruins the fun!’”
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