Chapter 134: Desperate Situation
Chen Yilun stared at the glaring scoreboard.
108:86.
The Spurs claimed their second home victory without breaking a sweat, crushing the Kings from start to finish. Butler, who had been sensational in the previous game, was completely lost this time, managing only 8 points.
As Popovich smirked in his direction, Chen Yilun suddenly understood everything he hadn’t before.
They weren’t just trying to win—they wanted to destroy my team!
By this point, even without thinking too hard, Chen Yilun could see through Popovich’s plan.
In the last game, they feigned weakness, elevating Butler’s role. Sure enough, Malone fell for it this time, giving Butler more possessions and control of the offense.
And that was exactly what Popovich wanted.
Back when we could shut down Kobe and LeBron, what made them think a newly awakened Butler could turn the tide?
Now the Kings faced two poisons, and they had to choose one.
Either they doubled down on Butler, hoping he could once again carry the team on his back—but that meant running straight into the Spurs’ well-prepared, suffocating defense.
Or they scaled back Butler’s role and returned to team basketball.
But that was dangerous too. Butler’s emotions had been on a rollercoaster these past few days. Cutting down his touches now, no matter the reason, would be a devastating blow to his confidence.
Plenty of prodigies had crumbled under situations like this, their resolve shattered, never to recover.
Butler stood dazed on the court, staring at the flashing spotlights above and the Spurs’ subdued celebration.
The Spurs did celebrate, but without a shred of excitement. It felt more like a routine gesture than genuine joy.
And it was exactly that attitude that stabbed at Butler’s fragile pride.
Beating us isn’t worth celebrating? Why do they act like it’s only natural?
Butler clenched his teeth so hard his gums nearly bled, his eyes bloodshot with fury.
“Jimmy!”
A voice pulled him back to reality.
Chen Yilun walked over, his face serious. “It’s okay, this isn’t your fault. Hurry and pack up—we’ll head back to Sacramento and settle this with them once and for all!”
But inside, Chen Yilun felt no confidence at all.
They had already swallowed the poison Popovich had carefully prepared. Though the series was tied 1-1, anyone could see it: the Kings had been driven to the edge of the cliff. Without a solution, the collapse was only a matter of time.
“Don’t you think this is a bit too harsh?”
Buford swirled the amber liquid in his glass, speaking with concern. “If those kids can’t handle this move, their two years of hard work could go up in smoke.”
This wasn’t an exaggeration. If the Kings failed to get past this hurdle, the series could become a psychological scar for these young players, one they might never overcome.
“Hmph. If they really can’t recover,” Popovich snorted across from Buford, “then consider it my duty as their mentor to clean house.”
He raised his glass and downed it in one go.
“That kid is one of the rare few with a chance to reach the heavens, RC. But we’re getting old.” Popovich’s voice took on a weary tone. “Especially these past two years since that kid left—I’ve felt more and more powerless.”
He picked up the bottle on the table and poured himself another drink.
“Have you been able to fully understand his moves these last two years?”
“No,” Buford scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “A lot of them seem totally unreasonable at first—completely against standard logic. But somehow, when you look back later, they make perfect sense.”
“Times keep changing.” Popovich took a small sip from his glass.
“Our era is slowly fading. The ideas in your head might not even matter in a few years.”
“I doubt that,” Buford replied, raising his glass as well. “I still feel young enough to keep going for a few more years.” He suddenly shifted the subject. “But anyway... do you think the Kings still have a chance?”
“That’s hard to say.”
Popovich stroked his graying beard. “Those young guys don’t seem that fragile. But talent is talent. Even if they adjust, what do they have to beat us with?”
While Popovich and Buford remained calm and composed, the Kings’ side was dead silent, like still water.
On the flight back to Sacramento, Chen Yilun and Malone sat across from each other without a word.
“Should we just go back to our normal rotation?” Malone finally asked, unable to hold back any longer.
Hearing this, Chen Yilun shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“That’s your call. I’m just the GM—technically, I can’t interfere with the team’s tactics.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re still hiding behind that crap at a time like this?”
Malone snapped, frustrated. “The knife’s already at our throat, and you’re still giving me that nonsense.”
“I’m not!” Chen Yilun raised both hands in surrender with a bitter smile. “I really don’t know what else to do. The old man is still the old man—he’s completely outmaneuvered us tactically.”
The Kings couldn’t match the Spurs’ tactics, let alone their raw strength. After grinding out a win in Game 1, Chen Yilun had thought they could ride the momentum.
But that momentum had been crushed.
Now the Kings were backed into a corner. Without a strong response, this would truly be Sacramento’s last stand.
Hearing Chen Yilun’s words, Malone’s final shred of hope disappeared.
He let out a bitter laugh. “Then I’ll stick to my original plan.”
“Go ahead.” Chen Yilun sat up and folded the blanket off his lap. “Do what you think is best. We’re in this together anyway—if we lose, we’ll all take the blame.”
“My ass!”
Sitting courtside in Sacramento’s home arena, Chen Yilun watched as the Spurs once again dismantled the team he had painstakingly built. This time, he couldn’t hold back from cursing out loud.
“This can’t go on! If we get knocked out this easily, both our jobs are on the line!”
The Spurs slaughtered the Kings again, 96-70, taking a 2-1 series lead. By now, even casual fans could see it clearly—the Kings were truly in desperate straits.
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