Chapter 152: Unstoppable Pull-Up, Kobe's Signature Celebration
"Damn it… I'm putting more pressure on that kid in the second."
Kobe sat on the Lakers bench, jaw tight. Watching Chen Yan torch them for 18 in the first had clearly struck a nerve.
"If he tries coming inside, I'll send him back hard," Garnett growled, pounding his fist. The Lakers weren't the Raptors—this was a veteran powerhouse, and they weren't about to let Chen Yan run wild without a fight.
The second quarter tipped off.
Chen Yan stayed on the bench at first, catching his breath. Without him, Phoenix's second unit looked flat. Grant Hill steadied them, but the offense lost its rhythm. The Lakers' bench wasn't dominant either—Turiaf, Vujacic, Radmanovic weren't about to blow the game open—but the pace slowed to a crawl.
At the 7:31 mark, both coaches went back to their starters. The real battle resumed.
The moment Chen Yan stepped back onto the floor, Kobe pressed him full court. He wasn't just defending—he was sending a message.
The sudden intensity rattled Chen. His first three shots of the quarter clanked out, each one smothered by Kobe's relentless defense.
"Chen looks cold here in the second," Kenny Smith said on the TNT broadcast.
Barkley shook his head. "That's not him going cold. That's Kobe. He's ramped it up. You're talking about a guy with five First-Team All-Defense selections. He knows every trick to make life hell for scorers. This is different now."
The scoreboard tilted in LA's favor: 46–45.
Kobe grinned, leaning close as he shadowed Chen. "Go ahead, rookie. Pull out every move you've got. But you're not scoring on me. Not tonight."
Chen Yan didn't answer. He hated missing shots, hated feeling like he'd let the game slip. The frustration built in his chest. And Kobe's words were like gasoline on the fire.
He caught the ball at the top of the arc, took one hard jab step—then rose. No hesitation, no wasted motion.
The release was pure.
"Bang!"
"Swish!"
A dagger three splashed through the net.
The arena erupted. Chen Yan didn't say a word, just raised his arms at Kobe, letting the shot do the talking.
46–48. Phoenix back on top.
The crowd roared louder. They loved the arrogance, loved the duel.
Kobe wanted the ball right back. He muscled Raja Bell into the paint, spun, and pulled up—but Diaw slid in, Chen Yan collapsed from the weak side, and the triple pressure forced the fadeaway to rim out.
Stoudemire grabbed the rebound, pitched it to Nash, and Phoenix ran.
Kobe wasn't backing down. If Chen Yan wanted touches, he'd have to work for them. Kobe chased him all over the floor—cutting him off on curls, denying passes, forcing him to sprint just to get open. It looked less like basketball and more like a track meet between two predators.
Finally, after two sharp stutter steps, Chen broke free. Nash hit him at the left wing, just above the arc.
No dribbles. No adjustments. Just rise and fire.
Kobe launched with him, hand stretched high, but Chen's pull-up was already gone.
"Swish!"
The net barely moved.
46–51.
Back-to-back pull-ups. The crowd lost its mind.
Chen Yan turned, cool as ever, and raised his fingers into a mock pistol, firing a celebration straight at Kobe.
The place went insane.
Kobe clenched his jaw, fury flashing in his eyes. The rookie had just hit him with his own medicine—a cold-blooded shot followed by a cold-blooded celebration.
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