Early morning.
Just as the sun rose, Zhou Yuan's phone rang.
It was Lakers GM Mitch Kupchak.
The day before, Zhou Yuan had trained shooting for hours, and at night… let's just say he practiced "ball-handling and breaking double-teams" with a few goddess-tier beauties. Yet he was still full of energy.
His insane physical talent and immense willpower made him feel like a walking nuclear reactor.
"Zhou Yuan," Kupchak said solemnly, "thank you for what you did for this team. Without your game-winner, the championship might've gone to Boston—our greatest rival."
"You'll have a brighter future. There are teams more suited for you. You'll only get better."
The old fox never spelled it out.
But anyone with half a brain could hear the hidden meaning.
Zhou Yuan didn't bother arguing. He exchanged a few perfunctory words and hung up.
He never had deep feelings for the Lakers anyway, and Los Angeles offered him no room to grow.
No nostalgia. No hesitation.
Moments later, another call came in. This time—it was Kobe.
"Zhou Yuan, I heard the team isn't re-signing you," Kobe said directly.
"What do you think? Want to stay and back me up? I can help you secure a guaranteed minimum deal."
As one of the most influential superstars in NBA history, Kobe had plenty of pull.
He couldn't override management on major trades, but for a role player? If Kobe wanted someone, the Lakers wouldn't dare say no.
Zhou Yuan chuckled.
"Thanks, big bro. But I don't want to back you up. With you here, I'll never be the boss. I want to be your opponent. I want to beat you."
Kobe was silent for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"Haha! Now that's the kind of ambition I like. You remind me of myself when I was young. But you'd better have the strength to back it up. I'll be waiting to face you when you bring your team to Staples."
…
After washing up and grabbing a quick breakfast, Zhou Yuan headed to a restaurant to meet one of the NBA's top agents—Rich Paul.
Yes, the Rich Paul.
One of the biggest names in the business, agent and close friend to none other than LeBron James himself.
Rich Paul wasn't just ruthless in negotiations. He also had a sharp eye for talent.
And after watching Zhou Yuan's training footage, he was convinced: this kid would be a future star.
He wanted Zhou under his wing, so he had personally reached out to arrange this meal.
Up until now, Zhou Yuan hadn't even had an agent.
He was like a drifting weed in the league, one wrong move away from unemployment.
But things were different now.
The Knicks had already offered a solid contract, and Zhou Yuan could see the future: in New York, the biggest basketball market in the world, he would stir up storms.
Once he proved himself, endorsements would pour in like floodwaters.
For that, he needed the very best agent.
"I've watched your training videos," Rich Paul said, his tone serious. "Your talent is off the charts. How the hell did the Lakers bury you on the bench?"
"I'll work to push your Knicks contract past four million. But first—you need to show out in their tryout."
That footage Zhou Yuan gave him? He hadn't shown it to anyone else.
Ball-handling as smooth as a guard.
Passing like a maestro.
Thunderous dunks.
Explosive speed.
Unstoppable mid-range shooting.
Yes, he was still a rookie.
But Rich Paul was certain: if Zhou Yuan had two years of stats to his name, he could already be worth ten million a season. Back then, ten million was over half a max contract.
Their talk went smoothly. Zhou Yuan could see why Rich Paul had gathered a roster of superstars under him. The man was sharp, cunning, and persuasive.
After signing with him, Zhou Yuan went home, ready to turn his attention to the bigger picture—the entire NBA.
Because no matter how strong he became, basketball was a team game.
Even if he reached Jordan's level, if his teammates were trash, there'd be no championship.
And the Knicks roster? Utter garbage.
They needed a full rebuild, centered around Zhou Yuan.
Thanks to his "time traveler's foresight," Zhou Yuan already had a list of promising young stars and undervalued role players.
He planned to push management into trading for them.
With him as the unquestioned cornerstone and the right supporting cast, the rotten Knicks would soon transform into a title contender.
"Cousin?"
Suddenly, his phone buzzed with an international call from China.
The caller ID read: Yang Mi.
When Zhou Yuan first transmigrated, Yang Mi was still a rising actress. Two years older than him, sweet-faced, gorgeous, full of charm.
Though they called each other "cousin" and "little brother," there was no blood relation whatsoever.
In recent years, Yang Mi had blown up with dramas like Chinese Paladin 3, far surpassing Zhou Yuan in fame.
But despite the distance, their bond never faded.
"Little brother, did you miss your cousin?" Yang Mi's soft, sweet voice drifted through the receiver. "I heard you're about to sign a $3 million contract? Don't forget to treat me when I visit!"
"Haha, sure. If you dare come, I'll treat. I'll even buy you an authentic American hot sausage—grilled fresh, imported from China. You dare eat it?" Zhou Yuan teased.
"Get lost! You're never serious…"
Zhou Yuan blinked.
"I was talking about hot dogs. What were you thinking?"
Two seconds of silence on the line.
"I—I wasn't thinking anything! Keep your brain clean!" Yang Mi stammered.
"I'll be traveling to the States next month," she said quickly. "Send me your address in advance. I'll fly over to find you."
Zhou Yuan smirked.
"No problem. Just remember to bring me some fresh milk from home."
"…Get lost!"