Chapter 228: The Spoiler
After the first game ended, the entire city of Sacramento was swept up in celebration.
But inside the Kings’ meeting room, the mood was strikingly calm.
“Even though we’re ahead right now, we absolutely can’t let our guard down,” Malone said, standing at the front. “Especially in the Finals—if either side shows even the slightest weakness, the other will strike without hesitation.”
What worried Malone most wasn’t tactics—it was overconfidence. If his players started celebrating at halftime, the series could be over before it even began.
But seeing that everyone was calm and focused instead of arrogant, he let out a quiet sigh of relief and continued.
“Our biggest concern now is LeBron. Once he’s cornered, his counterattack can be brutal.”
There was another concern Malone didn’t voice aloud—the league’s attitude.
The Kings’ sudden rise this season, steamrolling the entire league with overwhelming dominance, didn’t exactly fit the NBA’s preferred narrative.
Since 2015, Adam Silver had been trying to shape the Cavaliers-Warriors rivalry into a modern echo of the classic Lakers-Celtics era.
But the Kings’ emergence had completely thrown that plan off balance.
Now, Malone’s greatest fear was that someone up top might panic and start pulling strings behind the scenes.
His fears weren’t unfounded. At that very moment, in a hidden conference room inside NBA headquarters, a tense meeting was underway led by Adam Silver himself.
“I’m telling you—we should just screw the Kings over! An Indian owner, a Chinese president—they’re here trying to take our pie!”
A middle-aged man in a suit slammed the table, his voice echoing with fury.
“Calm down,” said NBA Vice President Mark Tatum, frowning in irritation. “This is the Finals. The whole world’s watching. The talent gap is already obvious—if we tamper with the outcome, it’ll be exposed instantly. Who’s going to deal with the backlash then?”
“Backlash my ass.”
The man sneered. “Even if they’re unhappy, they still have to play in our league. In the end, they’ll bow their heads like everyone else. Admit it—you’re just defending your own kind.”
Mark Tatum, the NBA’s vice president and the familiar face who takes over draft duties after Adam Silver each year, met the insult with a cold, steady stare.
Hearing the conversation veer into racism, Mark Tatum met the insult with a cold, hard stare.
These hypocrites—throwing away their pride for money.
“Enough!”
Sensing the situation spiraling out of control, Adam Silver quickly intervened.
“Shut up—all of you! Cut the divisive talk from now on.”
Once the room quieted, Silver cleared his throat. “Nobody wanted things to turn out like this. The early media investment, the buildup—it’s all gone. Let’s just talk about the Finals.”
“Commissioner!” Mark Tatum quickly spoke up. “We need to be cautious. Ranadivé is a veteran Silicon Valley investor with serious influence in the league. And Chen Yilun—he’s young, but he’s got the entire China market behind him. We can’t ignore that.”
Silver nodded in acknowledgment. “You’re right. We can’t afford to provoke Ranadivé. Last year, he drafted three Chinese players, two of whom made the roster. We’re in a honeymoon phase with China right now. We can’t afford to ruin that over something small.”
But Tatum pressed on. “Still—”
Behind his perfectly polished gold-rimmed glasses, Silver’s eyes narrowed into thin slits.
“If the outcome isn’t going to change anyway, we can make things a little harder for Sacramento during the game. Otherwise, what’s the fun in watching?”
A low, knowing chuckle rippled through the room.
...
“No way! You’re not calling that?!”
Butler’s eyes widened as he glared at the baseline referee.
Just moments earlier, he’d gone up for a layup, only to be yanked down hard by Iman Shumpert. It was a blatant foul—but the officials chose to ignore it.
Seeing Butler’s furious expression, the baseline ref nervously averted his eyes.
It was already the fourth quarter, yet the score remained neck and neck.
The crowd, once electric, began to realize something wasn’t right.
Chants of “Rigged refs! Rigged refs!” grew louder and louder.
“Say something, damn it!”
Ignored, Butler’s temper flared. He stalked after the official, ranting nonstop.
“If you keep disrupting my work, I’ll hit you with a technical foul!”
Annoyed, the ref spun around and snapped, glaring back.
“Hey! You think I’ll just take that?”
Not only had Butler been denied a foul call—now he was being threatened? Fury shot straight to his head.
A few steps away, Gay saw where this was heading and rushed to intervene—but it was too late.
A sharp whistle pierced the air. Butler was slapped with a technical foul. Two free throws and possession for the Cavaliers.
Malone immediately called timeout and pulled Butler off before things escalated further.
“So that’s how it is—they just don’t want us to win,” Malone muttered coldly, watching the referees huddle and whisper to one another.
“They’ve been subtle all game, but now they’re not even trying to hide it.”
Brown stood beside him, his face just as tense.
“Forget them!”
Malone suddenly clapped Brown on the shoulder, then turned toward his players with a half-grin.
“How’s it feel, guys?”
The players looked confused. Malone smirked. “How’s it feel being the Big Monster?”
Before anyone could respond, he went on. “I wasn’t sure before, but after this game—I know. They’re scared!”
He swallowed hard, emotion burning in his voice, and pointed upward.
“It’s not just the other teams—they’re scared of us up top too.”
“You know why? Because we’re too strong. They can’t stop us any other way, so they’ve turned to dirty tricks. And what do we do now?”
With a roar, Malone slammed his fist into the tactics board.
Crack!
The cheap plastic shattered at the corner.
“Get back out there! Show them our strength isn’t something those suits can mess with!”
“We’re going to win this game—fair and square!”
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