Chapter 143: A Passionate Confrontation and Trash Talk!
The ball dropped through the net, and Chen Yan lowered his eyes at Pierce, who was left half-kneeling on the hardwood.
No words needed. Just a look.
"Shit," Pierce muttered under his breath, yanking off his headband and flinging it toward the sideline.
Next possession, TJ Ford had barely crossed half court when Pierce stormed up, waving for the ball.
"Pick-and-roll! Run the set!" Raptors coach Sam Mitchell barked from the bench, sensing Pierce was already losing his cool.
But Pierce wasn't listening. He wanted the ball, and he wanted Chen Yan.
Anthony Parker came up to set the screen, but Pierce's only goal was clear—he was going to answer back, one-on-one.
Chen Yan slid in front of him. The matchup was set.
Pierce: 6'7", 235 pounds.
Chen Yan: 6'6", 207 pounds.
On paper, it was pure mismatch. Pierce had size, mass, and that old-school, grind-it-out physicality.
Pierce grinned, talking under his breath as he shuffled his feet, hips squared. "You're quick, kid, but I'm about to back you down all night."
He dropped his shoulder and went to work.
Bang.
Bang.
Each bump sent Chen Yan sliding back a step. From the arc to the free-throw line, Pierce bulldozed him with that trademark "big butt" post game.
The crowd buzzed. On the forums, fans were already clowning:
"Pierce backing down from the three-point line—this is vintage old-man ball."
"Bro literally offered his butt to Chen Yan, what am I watching?"
"Tell me that thing's got bounce, 'cause Chen just got launched five feet."
"Taylor Swift better not see this… passionate collision of men!"
"Not gonna lie… kinda sus."
Despite being shoved back, Chen Yan kept calm. He knew Pierce wouldn't have enough time to bully his way all the way under the rim. The clock was ticking. The only move left was the turnaround jumper.
Sure enough, Pierce spun, leaning back into his signature fadeaway.
Chen Yan was ready. He didn't bother trying to block it straight up. Instead, he extended his massive hand and palmed it right over Pierce's eyes.
"Fxxk!" Pierce cursed midair, blinded.
Chen Yan's hand was so wide it blacked out Pierce's vision completely. For a split second, it felt like the arena lights had gone out.
The shot clanked off the front rim. Diaw scooped the rebound and instantly fired an outlet.
Chen Yan was already gone.
The engine revved, and in a blur, he rocketed downcourt. Pierce turned, lumbering after him, but it looked comical—like a tired big man chasing a sports car. The gap only widened.
Two strides into the paint, Chen Yan launched, soaring for a clean one-handed dunk.
The crowd erupted.
As he jogged past Pierce, Chen Yan smirked. "Nice try. You almost caught me."
Pierce snarled, sweat dripping. "Softie! Guard me next time. I'll show you real contact."
Chen Yan shot back without missing a beat. "I came here to hoop, not to warm up with you."
Pierce tried to get closer, jawing in his face, but Chen Yan spread his arms and stepped back. "Damn, your breath stinks. Keep your distance."
The two shoved lightly as they headed back down the floor, their tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
The refs weren't having it—stepping in quickly, warning both players.
Fans in the arena and online were eating it up.
"Yo, these two are about to throw hands."
"Forget basketball—I want the pay-per-view boxing match."
"Horry got knocked out in two punches. With Pierce's fat frame, maybe three?"
Every possession between them was gasoline on the fire. And everyone knew the spark could blow at any second.
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