"Sorry, sorry—I'm late." Jiang Hai smiled as he greeted Paul Pierce, DeAndre Jordan, Josh Smith, Avery Bradley, Evan Turner, and Isaiah Thomas.
This was meant to be a private get-together. After the charity game, Jiang Hai had joined the cocktail party they organized, and over drinks, they had gotten to know one another better. Jiang Hai's skill in their sport fascinated them, so they invited him to meet again today before returning to their respective teams to prepare for the upcoming season.
Among them, Avery Bradley was the friendliest toward Jiang Hai, while Isaiah Thomas and DeAndre Jordan remained the most wary. After all, that game had left their confidence in pieces. They genuinely believed that if Jiang Hai chose to play professionally, he would become the defining player of their era—like Michael Jordan once was.
In fact, Jiang Hai might even surpass Jordan.
But Jiang Hai had no interest in chasing NBA glory. The salary didn't impress him, and the lifestyle wasn't appealing. An NBA player had to grind through endless games—training camps starting in mid-September, preseason in October, the regular season running from November through mid-April, then potentially the playoffs until June. At best, they got a short summer before starting all over again.
To Jiang Hai, that sounded like a cage. Why spend his time and energy that way? He would rather stay home, relax, and watch others play.
Knowing this, Pierce and the others actually felt relieved. It was easier to befriend Jiang Hai knowing he had no plans of entering the league and turning their world upside down. For Jiang Hai, too, it was exciting—these men were once his idols, and now they were treating him as a friend.
So here they were. Jiang Hai had never been one to rush, and though he arrived within the agreed time, everyone else was already there.
"It's fine," Paul Pierce said with a grin in his deep, raspy voice. "We've been practicing these past few days, so it's no surprise we're early. Come on, let's have some fun. I haven't had a proper night out in Boston in ages."
Pierce had always been known as one of the NBA's more easygoing stars. His nickname, "The Truth," carried weight, but off the court, his reputation was colored by his wild streak. Years ago, he had gone to the wrong party and ended up stabbed eleven times—yet he survived, stronger than ever. It was a testament to the resilience of the human body, and perhaps a sign that Pierce simply loved living on the edge.
"Let's go!" Jiang Hai said, though he wasn't sure where they were headed. Judging from the gleam in their eyes, he doubted it was anywhere wholesome.
Boston wasn't exactly famous for its nightlife. Its academic atmosphere didn't lend itself to nightclubs, unlike New York. Jiang Hai didn't like clubs anyway—too noisy and messy—but he was curious to see what Pierce had in mind.
As a Boston veteran, Pierce knew exactly where to go. Officially, the city center didn't allow many bars or clubs—city and state governments restricted them. But demand creates supply, and tucked away in Massachusetts were hidden blocks where students and young professionals came to unwind.
Following Pierce's lead, Jiang Hai soon found himself in such a place. The street looked ordinary from the outside, but inside, it opened into a lively world lined with bars and clubs. Since it was still early, the crowds were light—perfect for celebrities like Pierce and his friends who preferred to avoid attention.
And as Pierce pointed out, the area was relatively safe. Most of the patrons were students, not the type to cause trouble. Scams were rare, and the alcohol was reliable. For professional athletes, that mattered—one mistake with the wrong drink or substance could end a career.
Jiang Hai followed slowly behind Pierce's car. Each of them had driven separately, just in case they needed to leave with company later. Eventually, they stopped at the back entrance of a bar, where a large man was already waiting.
"Hey, Paul, how's it going?" the man greeted warmly as Pierce approached.
"Not bad, man. How about you?" Pierce replied with a laugh.
"Same old, still working for someone else," the man shrugged.
Pierce chuckled and slipped a Franklin into his pocket, earning a broad smile in return.
"Go on in!" the man said, pulling out a stamp device. He marked each of their wrists, the standard way bars in America distinguished minors from legal drinkers. Entry could start at eighteen—or even sixteen in some places—but alcohol was strictly for those twenty-one and older.
Naturally, Jiang Hai and the others had no issues. They entered easily, thanks in no small part to Pierce's generosity.
Inside, the bar was still waking up. The DJs were tinkering with their equipment, staff polished glasses behind the counter, and a few curious teenagers wandered about.
Pierce led the group into the shadows, then up a side staircase to a private room on the second floor. From there, they had a clear view of the dance floor and atmosphere below without being overwhelmed by noise. The suite was spacious, furnished with sofas, its own bar, and even a snooker table.
Jiang Hai wasn't impressed. He had dabbled in many sports—soccer as a child, basketball later, some tennis, bowling, and volleyball—but he never cared for billiards or table tennis. Seeing his lack of interest, Evan Turner and Josh Smith went off to play while the others settled on the couches.
Pierce handed the drink menu to Jiang Hai.
"I'm not big on hard liquor. Just give me a Bud Light," Jiang Hai said, shaking his head. He didn't know much about spirits and preferred beer.
"Alright then—four bottles of Martell Cordon Bleu, one Bud Light, and a bartender for the night," Pierce ordered smoothly. He was a regular here and knew exactly what to ask for. The waiter nodded and left.
Soon after, a woman in a fitted suit entered with several staff carrying drinks. She looked around thirty, mature and professional, with an elegant air. At Pierce's wave, she stepped behind the bar—assigned as their bartender for the evening.
(To be continued.)