Chapter 90: Eight Straight Wins to Start — Report Chen Yan for Showing Off
After wrapping up the press conference, Chen Yan didn't stick around. He headed straight to the airport with the team.
The NBA schedule? Brutal. Especially during a road trip like this.
But at least the Suns traveled in style.
Their private jet, a customized Boeing 757, had been heavily modified. What was once a 160-seat passenger plane had been gutted and rebuilt to hold just 40. The space? First-class luxury all the way.
The aircraft was split into three sections:
Front cabin — 15 wide seats, reserved strictly for the players.
Mid cabin — 12 seats with a square table in the center, where Coach D'Antoni and the staff held team meetings.
Rear cabin — Seven rows for the remaining personnel and staff.
Even the bathrooms and cabin entrances had been remodeled to accommodate NBA-sized bodies.
Up in the player section, the vibes were light. Laughter, card games, some trash talk. The Suns had handled the Clippers with ease tonight, and it barely looked like anyone had broken a sweat.
Feeling the good energy, Chen Yan suggested they all play some cards.
After all, he was a natural at this kind of stuff—cards, chess, calligraphy, even painting. Real Renaissance man energy.
They started with a few rounds of Texas Hold'em and Bridge. But then, out of nowhere, Chen had a spark of genius: Why not teach them "Fight the Landlord" (Dou Dizhu), Chinese-style?
At first, the guys were skeptical.
But the moment Chen Yan hit them with a 3-1 combo, followed by a 10-J-Q-K-A straight and finished with a King Bomb?
Yeah, the whole team's eyes lit up. They were hooked.
Chen even pulled Barea and Azubuike into the fun. These off-court moments were huge for team chemistry, especially for newer players trying to fit in.
Barea had been on a roll lately—he'd scored double digits in back-to-back games.
Azubuike, on the other hand, was still a bit of a question mark. He played timid, both on and off the court. Never spoke up, barely made eye contact.
But Chen made it a point to encourage him every chance he got.
"You gotta believe in your game," Chen told him more than once. "Confidence makes killers on the court."
After about half an hour, most of the team had a solid handle on Landlord. Chen let them run the tables while he chilled to the side, texting Taylor Swift.
The plane had WiFi, and Chen's Landlord skills were so good, it wasn't fair to the others if he kept playing.
Naturally, the convo with Taylor shifted to the recent gossip swirling around them.
Tabloids were in a frenzy.
Taylor joked, "At this rate, even if we weren't dating, we'd have to start just to keep up with the rumors."
Chen grinned as he replied. Their chats were flirty, borderline ambiguous. Neither had made anything official.
But it was getting harder to call it "just friends."
Still, Chen kept his focus locked on the game ahead.
Court first. Always.
---
Their final stop on the road trip: Seattle. The Suns were set to face the Supersonics.
Seattle had entered full rebuild mode. Rashard Lewis? Gone last season. Ray Allen? Traded away this summer.
They were betting everything on their young guns now—Al Horford and Devin Harris.
Both had flashes of All-Star potential, but they needed time to grow.
Chen knew Horford well—they'd battled back in college. Horford was a steady post presence. Skilled, tough, low-risk. His athleticism wasn't elite, but he had a strong foundation.
Devin Harris, though?
Acquired from Dallas in the Ray Allen deal. 6'3", 185 pounds. Fast as hell, crafty, shifty. He could get to the rim with ease, but his jumper was still suspect. No real three-ball yet.
That said, the kid was averaging 20.3 points and 5.1 assists this season—a huge leap.
Seattle was clearly grooming him to be the face of their backcourt.
And Harris was loving the freedom. Unlimited green light? That's every guard's dream.
---
After a day of rest in Seattle, it was game time.
Key Arena was about 70% full—by Seattle's standards, that was rocking. Most nights, they barely cracked 50%.
No wonder the ownership kept floating relocation talks. Business-wise, the writing was on the wall. Oklahoma was calling.
Coming in, the Sonics were sitting at 1–6. Dead near the bottom of the West.
Meanwhile, the Suns were 7–0 and feeling themselves a little too much. Guys were already joking about postgame plans and which club to hit up after.
Bad sign.
And it showed early.
The Suns came out flat. Sluggish. Out of sync.
Seattle punched them in the mouth with energy and fast breaks.
After one quarter: Suns 19 – Sonics 28.
Stoudemire didn't even score until nearly the three-minute mark.
Phoenix was dragging. No rhythm. No urgency.
Meanwhile, the Supersonics' young core looked hungry as hell. They played like they had something to prove. For a while, it was like they swapped jerseys with the Suns.
In the second quarter, Phoenix found a bit of rhythm. But their shooting was cold.
They went 3-for-12 from beyond the arc in the first half.
Brick city.
It was like the whole team caught a case of bad shooting.
Contagious as hell.
Halftime score: Seattle 56 – Phoenix 49.
The home crowd was fired up. Beating the top seed in the West, even early in the season, would be a massive morale boost.
In the Suns' locker room, D'Antoni wasn't throwing chairs—but he was pissed.
Not because they were down seven. That wasn't the issue.
The reason D'Antoni was pissed? The Suns played way too casually in the first half.
But Coach D'Antoni wasn't the type to overreact. With 82 games in the season, he knew better than to expect laser focus every single night. Still, he needed his guys to wake the hell up. The mustached maestro didn't chew them out—he simply wanted them to lock in, shake off the distractions, and bring that W back to Phoenix.
Then came the third quarter.
Chen Yan opened the half like a man possessed. Two straight strong drives to the basket—one a clean and-one finish. That quick 2+1 shifted the momentum in a snap. In the first half, Chen had played more off-ball, relying on catch-and-shoot opportunities from midrange and deep. But his rhythm was off. So he flipped the switch.
More ball-handling. More cuts. More physicality in transition.
Since stepping into the league, Chen Yan hadn't just improved his raw attributes—his feel for the game had leveled up too. The way he read defenses, adjusted mid-game, and controlled tempo? That was growth.
Under his lead, the Suns went on an 11-3 run to open the third quarter, forcing the Supersonics to call a timeout.
But the bleeding didn't stop there.
Coming out of the timeout, the Suns unleashed a fast-paced barrage. Nash was slicing the defense apart with precision passes. Stoudemire, Hill, and Chen Yan took turns slamming down dunks like it was a damn highlight reel. Once the paint was cracked open, the shooters found daylight. The Suns' offense—fast, fluid, deadly—was in full effect.
Chen Yan high-fived his teammates, hyped but focused. The energy was back. The rhythm? Pure Phoenix basketball.
With 4:07 left in the third, the scoreboard read 74–63. Just like that, the Suns had flipped an 11-point deficit into an 11-point lead.
The Supersonics looked stunned. Their defense collapsed—and it spilled into their offense. In nearly eight minutes, they'd only managed 7 points.
Then came this wild sequence.
"Bang!"
Devin Harris crossed half-court and instantly jacked up a three—no setup, no pass, no rhythm.
Young guards do that. When the game gets away from them, they start forcing shots trying to play hero ball.
Chen Yan snagged the rebound with one hand and took off like a bullet.
Harris stuck to him, shoulder-to-shoulder.
Time for a speed test.
Devin Harris was no slouch—he once clocked a 10.39-second 100m and held a 3.9-second full-court dribble record. But he wasn't dealing with a track meet here.
Chen Yan had the rock, and with the ball in his hands, he controlled the pace.
As they neared the free-throw line, Chen made his move—explosive acceleration followed by his signature move. A blur. One dribble, sharp shift, and boom—Harris was left reaching at air.
In the blink of an eye, Chen glided into the lane and soared for a silky smooth reverse jam.
"BOOM!"
Harris watched from behind, helpless.
Straight-line speed? He could match. But nobody expected Chen to execute such a vicious direction change at full speed with the dribble. That kind of control was special.
On the very next possession, Harris got trapped in a double-team from Chen and Nash, coughed up the ball, and Chen cruised in for a wide-open layup.
Harris didn't even chase. His confidence was fried.
By the end of the third, the Supersonics had completely unraveled. It was a damn domino collapse.
Final score: Suns 107, Supersonics 91.
The Suns had stormed back from a sluggish start to dominate the second half—and keep their perfect record alive.
8-0.
The only undefeated team left in the league.
Chen Yan logged 33 minutes, finishing with:
30 points (9-19 FG, 2-5 3PT, 10-13 FT)
4 rebounds
3 steals
Steve Nash kept it steady with 20 points and 11 dimes.
Stoudemire chipped in 16 points and 11 boards.
Grant Hill had 11 points and 4 rebounds, while Boris Diaw added a solid 8/6/5.
Chen Yan felt blessed. Not only was the Suns' system a perfect fit for his style, but his teammates were elite too. Most rookies either got the green light for stats or played winning basketball—but rarely both.
Chen? He was doing both.
The last rookie who walked that line this well? Magic Johnson.
For the Supersonics, Devin Harris put up a team-high 21 points and 5 assists, though 16 of those came in the first half.
Al Horford delivered an efficient double-double: 11 points and 10 rebounds.
Earl Watson and Chris Wilcox added 10 and 12, respectively.
After the game, Horford was honest in his postgame interview:
"He's not the same guy from the NCAA. He's improved again. Smarter with the ball, way more decisive at the rim. Tonight, he shredded our defense like a damn blade."
Even Devin Harris gave props:
"He's fast. Faster than I expected. But it's not just speed—he knows how to shift defenders with the dribble. His direction change at top speed is insane. That's tough to guard."
There are two kinds of speed in the NBA.
One is track speed—guys like Usain Bolt.
The other is functional speed—being fast while dribbling, while thinking, while reading.
Chen Yan? He had the second kind. Some players were just as quick on a stopwatch—but they couldn't combine it with the ball like he did. That's why his fast breaks looked so smooth—like he had the cheat codes.
In the locker room, a reporter threw him a question:
"Why the shift in playstyle in the second half? More drives, more rim pressure—was that a coaching adjustment?"
Chen shrugged.
"Felt like I wasn't in rhythm tonight and the team needed a spark. So I just tried something different."
Not in rhythm... and still dropped 30?
Elsewhere, his fellow rookies saw the post-game stats and silently hovered over the "report" button.
Reason: Excessive showboating.
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