Chapter 216: Duncan's Smile, Point Guard Chen Yan Is Online!
After a streak of convincing wins, the Suns received both good news and bad.
The good news came first—Barea and Azubuike had officially returned from their brief injuries. Both joined full team practice, moving well and looking sharp.
The bad news followed quickly. Nash only managed fifteen minutes of practice before leaving the court with the team doctor. His back injury, worsened by the heavy workload of recent weeks, had flared up again.
It was the price of D'Antoni's notorious six-man rotation. Over the past week, Nash had averaged nearly 41 minutes per game. Even for one of the league's toughest veterans, that kind of mileage eventually takes its toll.
When the human body is pushed beyond its limit, it always finds a way to push back.
After practice, Chen Yan headed straight for the locker room to check on him.
Inside, Nash lay face down on the treatment table while the team trainer, Aaron Nelson, worked carefully on his back.
"Steve, how're you feeling?" Chen asked, walking over quietly.
Nash gave a wry smile without lifting his head. "Not great. My whole back's locked up. The doctor says I'll need two weeks of rest."
His tone was calm, but there was frustration behind it. No player wants to sit out when the team's in rhythm—especially not the captain.
Chen didn't know what to say. Nash wasn't just another player—he was the Suns' brain. The entire offense ran through him. So much of Chen's own scoring came directly or indirectly from Nash's passes. Without him, the team's flow would inevitably suffer.
"Don't worry about me, Chen," Nash said, forcing a light smile. "This back's been giving me trouble for years. I'll manage. I'll find a way to get back early."
His eyes were calm but determined. "This year might be our best shot at a championship. I can't sit around too long."
And he was right. Despite his age, Nash was playing some of the best basketball of his career. He led the league in assists at 11.9 per game—the highest average of his entire career.
With Nash orchestrating the offense, the Suns' run-and-gun rhythm had reached perfection. Chen Yan's addition filled their half-court gaps, giving Phoenix a balance it had never had before. Chemistry was strong, morale high, and even the team's payroll situation was stable.
This was the Suns' moment—and Nash knew it.
"Steve," Chen said seriously, "take care of yourself first. Don't rush back. The playoffs are what matter. We'll need you healthy when it counts."
Nash nodded slowly. As a veteran, he knew it was the smart choice. But deep down, Chen could see it in his eyes—if the team started struggling, Nash would force his way back. That was who he was.
The next few games would decide how long he stayed out.
---
On March 10, the Suns faced their old rivals—the San Antonio Spurs.
Nash appeared on the bench in a crisp suit, offering advice to teammates before tip-off. For the first time since joining the Suns, Barea would start at point guard.
He showed up two hours early to warm up, determined to make the most of his chance.
The first quarter went well enough. Barea played aggressively, scoring six points and dishing three assists, showing flashes of the energy that made him such a valuable backup.
But as the game progressed, the difference between him and San Antonio's Tony Parker became painfully clear.
Parker controlled the tempo like a conductor—attacking, dishing, pulling up, and probing the defense with ease. His court command was elite, and his timing near perfect.
Barea, for all his effort, wasn't built to run an entire offense. He could attack, shoot, and drive, but orchestrating a team wasn't in his wheelhouse.
By the third quarter, the Suns had fallen behind by double digits. Their fast-paced offense looked lost. Without Nash, the crisp ball movement was gone.
Chen Yan fought hard—scoring 31 points through three quarters—but every bucket felt like a solo mission. There was no structure, no rhythm.
Even Stoudemire's 20 points came off forced isolations, his efficiency plummeting without Nash feeding him in stride.
Barea tried his best, and D'Antoni knew it. The young guard wasn't at fault—he simply wasn't Nash.
By the end of the third, the Spurs led by 23. D'Antoni waved for the bench unit. The Suns' starters sat down early, their frustration evident.
On the other side, the Spurs were all smiles. Tim Duncan, now resting comfortably on the bench, cracked a rare grin.
And somehow, even that earned him a whistle.
The referee spotted Duncan's grin and, mistaking it for mockery, called a technical foul.
Duncan looked bewildered, pointing to his face. "For smiling?"
Even Popovich couldn't help but chuckle from the sideline.
The Spurs closed the game easily, winning 99–85.
The loss snapped Phoenix's winning streak, and the locker room afterward was unusually quiet. No one wanted to talk.
For D'Antoni, though, the concern went beyond a single defeat. He knew the next stretch of the season would test them. Without Nash, their system was missing its engine.
Later that night, he called Chen Yan into his office. The mustached coach didn't waste time.
"Chen," D'Antoni began, "I want you to take over as point guard while Steve's out."
Chen blinked. "You mean… full-time?"
D'Antoni nodded. "For now, yes. Barea's not ready to lead yet. But you—you've shown great passing instincts. You understand the flow of the game. I think you can connect this team."
There was a moment of silence. D'Antoni expected hesitation, maybe even resistance. But Chen nodded immediately.
"No problem," he said simply.
The coach froze for a second, surprised by how quick the response was. He'd been ready to convince him—but Chen didn't need convincing.
It wasn't that Chen was being overly agreeable. He simply understood the situation.
With Nash out, someone had to take the wheel.
If he refused, the Suns' offense would collapse completely.
Of course, Chen preferred playing as a scorer, the free-flowing assassin who could torch defenses at will. But that luxury was gone for now.
For the team to survive, he'd have to become something else—
not just a scorer, but a leader.
The kind of player who could make everyone around him better
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