"#￥%&*（%?#" Mike Malone mumbled in what he clearly thought was flawless Chinese as he strolled into Chen Yilun's office.
Chen, who had been reviewing documents, immediately pulled a pained expression and lifted the papers to hide his face.
"How come you're here to laugh at me too?" Chen raised his hands in surrender.
The usually stern Mike Malone couldn't hide his grin. "Don't blame me. A chance like this doesn't come around even once in a lifetime—you can't expect me to miss out!" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Seriously though, what were you thinking? You made yourself look like a home shopping channel host in front of all those people."
The truth was, what Chen had done on that live broadcast was just part of his job. A general manager's responsibility is, after all, to boost the value of the team. But most GMs see themselves as elite strategists, staying tucked away in their offices, pulling strings from behind the scenes. Ninety-nine percent wouldn't be caught dead waving their arms and making a spectacle on camera.
Some even claimed Chen's antics made the job look like a joke.
But while some frowned, others celebrated. Overnight, Cousins and CJ saw a huge bump in All-Star votes. Even Rudy Gay—who had been coasting—got a lift, though he was too far behind for it to matter much.
When owner Ranadive heard about it, he called Chen, barely holding back his laughter, and gave him a verbal commendation—calling it a major personal sacrifice for the sake of the team's growth.
Back in his home country, the incident also made waves, drawing a flood of playful mockery online.
"Chen's working too hard—someone hand me a tissue!"
"This feels like when my boss does the Harlem Shake to motivate us at work."
"If Chen doesn't win Best GM this year, I'll be shocked."
Scrolling through the comments, Chen wished he could crawl through the internet and shut every single one of them up.
"But all jokes aside…" While Chen was still grumbling internally, Mike Malone spoke again, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm more and more convinced…"
His smile faded, and he looked Chen dead in the eye. "This team is becoming more and more dependent on you."
...
After Christmas, Arco Arena—quiet for several days—was once again packed to the rafters.
Once the home DJ finished announcing both starting lineups, a spotlight suddenly hit Chen, sitting in the far corner of the bench area.
"And our beloved General Manager… Chen! Yilun!"
The crowd erupted into the loudest cheer of the night—louder even than when Cousins had been introduced.
"Has everyone voted today?" the DJ shouted to hype up the crowd.
"Yes!" came an even louder roar, the arena buzzing with energy.
Chen forced himself to stand and wave, then sat back down with a stiff face, motioning for his assistant GM. "Find a chance to fire that DJ."
The game itself wasn't particularly critical—the opponent was the Suns, currently hanging onto the last playoff spot.
This season, Phoenix had gone all-in on offense, building a "three-headed" backcourt of Bledsoe, Dragic, and Isaiah Thomas in the offseason. Thomas had been poached straight from the Kings.
Offensively, the trio was electric. Defensively… well, let's just say it wasn't pretty.
Normally, if your backcourt defense is shaky, you'd shore it up with a strong defensive forward. But Phoenix's starting frontcourt was Markieff Morris and Alex Len.
Markieff was still in his prime and solid on both ends, but Len was barely even a blue-collar big—he didn't bring much to the table at all.
The game tipped off, and Cousins easily won the jump. He fed CJ, who calmly brought the ball up.
Over on the Suns' bench, a small guard with a baby face watched the familiar court with a complicated expression.
Isaiah Thomas. This was his first game back at the Kings' home court since leaving.
Back then, he'd taken advantage of the Kings' chaotic guard rotation to secure a steady role—becoming one of their most reliable perimeter scorers. But when his rookie deal expired, the Kings hadn't hesitated for a second before letting him walk.
Because he was only 5'9" and had been the 60th pick in the second round—the very last player chosen.
That offseason, walking away from Sacramento, he'd fantasized about the day the Kings would regret not keeping him.
Instead, the team had exploded like they'd strapped on rocket boosters.
And now, returning "home," he felt more like a clown than a conquering hero.
Swish!
Lost in thought, Thomas snapped back just in time to see CJ drive into the paint, pulling three Suns defenders with him before kicking it out to Gay in the corner.
Gay caught it, had time to square up and adjust his form, then rose and drained the jumper.
"Nice pass, CJ!" Gay called as he jogged back, exchanging a high-five with him.
Everything was running smoothly.
Phoenix's leaky perimeter defense soon cost them dearly. CJ and LaVine were slicing through the lane with ease. The Kings' offense was firing on all cylinders—hitting from outside when they had the touch, dumping it inside to Cousins to punish Len when they didn't.
Sacramento ended the first quarter up by 12. Things got worse for Phoenix in the second, when Thomas led the second unit straight into the twin towers of Mozgov and Oden.
Ever since Oden's breakout game against the Spurs, Malone had made him a permanent part of the rotation.
That left the Kings with a crowded frontcourt of Cousins, Mozgov, and Oden—definitely a good problem to have.
For the bench, Malone had borrowed from the Grizzlies' playbook, running a slow, grinding twin-tower set: LaVine and Ray McCallum in the backcourt, Landry at forward, flanked by Mozgov and Oden.
The approach was simple—our offense might not be great, but theirs will be worse.
It made for some funny moments: Thomas using his quickness to slip into the paint, only to find two massive bodies—one dark, one light—waiting under the rim.
Mozgov and Oden, both towering big men, covered so much ground that Thomas had nowhere to go.
Couldn't score. Couldn't defend.
When it was over, the Suns left Sacramento with a 102–115 loss.
...
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