Lin Yi's hard work had finally paid off. The Tough Shotmaker badge hit diamond level.
For him, it fit perfectly.
"If your core holds up, everything else follows," Lin Yi muttered.
On his system panel, the badge now glowed with that clean diamond finish. His second one.
Tough Shotmaker
Grants elite shot-making ability on tough attempts.
Random, off-balance shots receive a boost in accuracy.
Lin Yi rubbed his nose. "So this is your way of telling me to take more contested shots?"
The upgrade came earlier than he expected. Lately, he had been leaning into that Kobe-style shot diet more often, and now it showed. With this bump, his scoring ceiling moved again.
At this level, the gap between players becomes simple. Good players need space. Stars create space. The very top ignore it and score anyway.
Lin Yi was stepping into that last category.
Before the playoffs, he had added another reliable weapon. Something he could fall back on when everything else stalled.
His numbers already told the story. Close range twos, 60.5 percent. Mid-range, just over 55. Long twos, nearly 50.
People focused on his three-point shooting, but that was only part of it. In truth, he lived in the mid-range. Pull-ups, turnarounds, fades. That was where he did the most damage.
And in the playoffs, that kind of scoring mattered.
Driving into traffic wears you down. Creating space for a clean jumper saves energy and keeps the offense steady.
. . .
The next day in practice, the difference was obvious.
Every pull-up felt smoother. Every fadeaway held its balance a fraction longer.
Draymond Green was the one guarding him, and he could only shake his head.
There's a difference between good shooters and players who feel automatic. Plenty of guys can hit mid-range shots, but some make it look inevitable.
Kevin Durant had that feel. So did LaMarcus Aldridge in his prime, though in a different way.
Part of it was rhythm. Part of it was the touch. But the added stability from the upgrade pushed him into that "Nothing you can do, I'm gonna score" territory.
The badge came with a small bonus, too.
Whenever he hit a difficult shot, he gained a boost in presence.
It reminded him of the presence boost in his old Kobe shoes.
He paused, thinking about it.
So now the fadeaway is supposed to look good, too?
Not bad.
. . .
On the 10th, the Knicks picked up their 70th win in Chicago.
Before the game, Joakim Noah didn't hold back.
"You got to respect the guy. That I understand. Best player in the league," he said. "I don't understand why everyone is making him some kind of monster."
"He wins and loses like everyone."
That attitude got him some respect around the league. Coaches liked that edge.
Noah doubled down.
"If we meet them, even without Derrick, we'll show them some steel. Regular-season records don't mean anything here in Chicago."
A reporter pushed back. "Lin's taken some of the hardest contact in the league this season."
Noah scoffed. "That's not defense."
Then he went further, describing a version of defense that sounded closer to a fight than a game.
Lin Yi heard about it later and kept a straight face.
"He's not wrong," he said. "Home court helps, but if you look at the Finals format, there are arguments both ways. It's interesting."
The reporters blinked.
"So… you're already thinking about the Finals?"
Lin Yi raised his hands. "No. That's you, not me."
Still, he couldn't resist one thought.
If Noah really wanted that matchup, the Bulls could always drop to eighth and meet us in the first round.
Then again, New York wasn't dropping anywhere.
That night, Lin Yi took 28 shots at the United Center.
He made 19.
With threes and free throws added in, he finished with 48 points and 16 rebounds.
Knicks win.
Without Derrick Rose, Chicago just didn't have enough.
As for Noah.
He walked off frustrated.
"This isn't basketball," Noah said after the game. "He won't even come at us."
Some fans backed him up, though the frustration was obvious. New York was closing in on Chicago's old record.
Lin Yi heard the comments and smiled.
"Wait," he said. "The fadeaway… that was made iconic by Michael Jordan, right?"
He let it sit for a second.
"And he played here."
That was enough. No need to say more.
. . .
Later that night, at Rose's place.
Rose glanced over as Lin Yi sat with ice packs across his waist and arm.
"Want me to talk to Joakim?" he asked. "He went after you all game."
Lin Yi exhaled quietly. His body was covered in bruises. Scratches down his arm too.
"No need," he said. "We're friends off the court. On it, we're not."
Rose nodded.
After a moment, he spoke again.
"I get it now," Rose said. "Why, you're so good."
Lin Yi looked up. "What do you mean?"
Rose leaned back.
"Even under that kind of defence, you play your game."
Lin Yi went quiet for a couple of seconds.
Then he gave a small nod.
That night, after dinner, Rose drove him to the airport.
There was a pause before Lin Yi got out of the car.
Rose leaned back in his seat, looking at him.
"Make the Finals," Rose said. "I'm serious."
Lin Yi smiled. "That's the plan."
Rose nodded, then added, more quietly, "Next season, when I'm back… I'll show you."
He pointed at Lin Yi.
"And don't lose to anyone before that. I'm not having it."
Lin Yi raised an eyebrow. "You planning my schedule now?"
Rose shifted gears. "Just don't mess it up."
As the car pulled away, he looked up at the night sky.
"…I'm really collecting frenemies like Pokémon at this rate," he muttered.
After a second, he added under his breath, "Might as well go all the way."
. . .
On the 12th, the Knicks swept the Cavaliers and moved to 71 wins.
Charles Barkley could barely sit still on the broadcast.
"One more. That's it. Just one more," he said. "We're talking about a record people thought would never be touched."
The 72–10 mark set by Michael Jordan's Bulls was right there.
Five games left. Two wins would break it.
Lin Yi was still leading the league in scoring at 37.5 points per game, beyond the reach of Jordan's 37.1 record.
Next to Barkley, Scottie Pippen looked like he had somewhere else to be.
He wasn't enjoying this.
Coming back to television had made one thing clear to him. If Lin Yi locked in a third straight MVP, his place in history would jump fast. Titles would be the only thing left to argue.
At that point, comparisons would get uncomfortable.
"Relax," Barkley said, still excited.
Pippen cut in, calm but firm. "Win the title first. Then celebrate."
Barkley paused. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I am talking facts."
He turned quickly. "Shaq, what do you think about Dwight's comments?"
Shaquille O'Neal leaned back with a grin.
"Look, I played with Kobe Bryant," he said. "I know how he operates."
Kenny Smith teased. "We all know."
Shaq shot him a look, then continued.
"Kobe's not asking for much. Just run the pick-and-roll, play with the team."
He shrugged.
"Dwight's 27. At some point, you've got to grow up and adjust."
Then he added, more bluntly, "Kobe's even cutting down his shots. You don't see that often. If anything, Dwight's the one holding them back right now."
. . .
Out in Los Angeles, things were getting tense.
After Jerry Buss passed, the Lakers were trying to hold things together, but it wasn't smooth.
Kobe wanted structure. More pick-and-roll, more shared offense.
Dwight Howard wasn't convinced.
"I'm a low-post guy," Howard said one day in practice, smiling. "You want me setting screens all game?"
Steve Nash had already explained it to him more than once.
Didn't matter.
Howard saw himself as the focal point. In his head, everything should run through him.
Inside the locker room, though, most of the team leaned toward Kobe.
They could see the shift.
Kobe was trying to adapt, trying to lead differently.
They just needed everyone on the same page.
. . .
Back in New York, none of that noise mattered.
On the 14th, the Knicks hosted the Pacers.
Madison Square Garden was ready.
Every seat was filled. Every fan wore the same shirt.
72 Wins.
All they needed was one more.
When Lin Yi stepped out for introductions, the arena exploded.
"MVP! MVP! MVP!"
The sound rolled through the building, wave after wave.
Lin Yi jogged onto the court.
He could feel it.
One more step.
. . .
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