LeBron James had just touched down in Boston—and a carefully plotted game of power was already underway.
His Celtics career began in a strange vibe.
His "injury" healed perfectly—not fast enough to raise suspicion, but not slow enough to make the front office lose patience. By training camp, he could do most non-contact drills, and with the trainer's okay, he started ramping up intensity little by little.
His media advisor, Lisa Kruger, had done her job well. Beyond the piece Boston at 4 a.m., every后续 story about LeBron stuck to one tone: hyper-humble, hardworking, wildly talented, respectful of veterans—but with a fire inside for winning and greatness. These stories spread through different media channels, like small streams, slowly reshaping how Boston fans and parts of the front office saw him.
In the gym, LeBron played the part of a sponge. He'd "earnestly" hang on every play call from head coach Jim O'Brien. He'd cheer genuinely when Pierce sank a nice shot. He even fetched balls for the older guys. He hid all his edge, and his moves felt a little clunky—like he was "worried about his ankle."
But sometimes, flashes of brilliance slipped through.
During a team drill, O'Brien walked through a tricky weak-side screen play. Pierce, the main scorer, kept timing his cuts off by a hair—again and again, the "defense" (teammates playing pretend) disrupted him.
O'Brien frowned, repeating the key points.
Then LeBron, leaning on a crutch, spoke up—softly, but clearly: "Coach, maybe… maybe Paul could take a tiny step inside first, like a fake cut, right before the screen. It'd throw the defender off balance, then he could use the screen to pop out. Better timing that way."
The gym went quiet. Everyone stared at the 18-year-old on the sidelines, his leg still in a brace.
O'Brien paused, doodled on the whiteboard, and his eyes shifted. The tweak was small, but it would mess with defenses—you needed serious basketball IQ and instinct to spot it.
Pierce's face turned cold. A rookie—one who hadn't even played a game—calling out his route? It felt like a slap to his authority.
"Stick to your own lane, rookie," Pierce said sharply. "Heal up first."
LeBron dropped his head, his tone instantly deferential: "Sorry, Mr. Pierce. I was just… replaying the play in my head, couldn't help it. Your way's definitely right." His act was flawless—like that sharp insight had been an accident.
O'Brien gave LeBron a long look, then defused the tension: "Let's get back to it. LeBron, good eye." But a seed had been planted: this kid was smarter than they thought.
Later, LeBron apologized—quick and sincere. He found Pierce, explained he'd just been eager to fit in, to learn the plays, never meant to question him. Pierce accepted it on the surface, but a thorn had dug deeper. LeBron's humility started to feel fake—even scary.
That's exactly what LeBron wanted. He didn't need to conquer Pierce yet. He just needed to chip away at his confidence, and leave a mark on key people (O'Brien, Ainge): this kid's not ordinary.
Meanwhile, Lisa's media network moved to step two: gentle comparisons, quiet hints.
"Neutral" basketball analysts started posting takes on media outlets and early internet forums:
"Pierce is a top scorer, but he needs someone to make his life easier—not another guy who needs the ball."
"LeBron's passing vision is natural—maybe he can get Pierce more open looks, cut down those tough shots."
"The Celtics need young talent. Ainge's gamble might mean a shift in how this team's built."
These takes were wrapped in "expert analysis"—sounded reasonable, but quietly boosted LeBron's value while painting Pierce as someone who "could use help," someone who "might need to adapt."
LeBron kept playing the perfect rookie. He respected Pierce, and the other vets too—Antoine Walker, Ricky Davis (even though Davis was a handful himself). But privately, through Lisa and Frank, he focused on players who grumbled about Pierce hogging the ball, his shot choices, or who felt pushed to the sidelines.
Guys like Eric Williams, a backup swingman who hated his minutes and lack of shots. After a team dinner, LeBron "happened" to walk the same way as Williams.
"Eric, I watched that Nets game last year—you locked up Kidd, man," LeBron said, hitting Williams' sweet spot.
Williams was surprised, then opened up. A few drinks in, he vented: "…Yeah, but some guys only care about their own shots, never see the open guy…"
LeBron just listened, nodded now and then to show he got it. No comments—just letting Williams see him as someone he could trust. Info like that? It would be leverage later.
Preseason started, and LeBron's "injury" finally let him make his debut.
His first game was another setup. No scoring spree—he focused almost entirely on passing and defense.
On a fast break, he drew two defenders, then hit a behind-the-back fake followed by an underhand pass to Walker, who laid it in. The pass was flashy but useful—crowd went wild.
Next possession, he "fought" to guard the other team's star. He got beat by half a step (fake "rust" from the injury), then sprung up for a monster chase-down block—slamming the ball off the backboard. A show of his all-time physical talent, and his willingness to defend.
For the game: 9 points, 7 assists, 5 rebounds, 2 steals, 1 block. Quiet stats, but efficient—all pointing to "team player," "unselfish," "tough defender."
Postgame interview, a reporter asked how he felt.
LeBron smiled—tired but satisfied. "Still finding my rhythm, ankle's still reminding me it's there. But I just wanna do whatever helps us win. Paul dropped 30 tonight—he's our leader. My job's to make it easier for him, get the ball to him and the guys where they want it."
The room erupted. Media praised his maturity, fans loved his team-first vibe.
Only Pierce, in the locker room, watched LeBron's innocent face on TV—and felt his frustration boil. This rookie called him leader, but every play he made, every media take, chipped away at Pierce's authority. LeBron's assists and defense highlighted that Pierce was "just a scorer."
Danny Ainge sat in his office, staring at the box score and media clips. His smile grew wider. This 16th-pick steal was better than he'd hoped. He started thinking: maybe the team's future should be handed to this kid sooner, not later.
LeBron got back to his apartment, shut the door. His smile vanished.
He opened his laptop, scrolled through fan forum comments and sports headlines. Everything was on track.
He grabbed his phone, called Lisa.
"Next step—start reaching out to national media. Time to make 'LeBron James' bigger than Boston."
"Also," he paused, his voice cold, "we've got enough dirt. Find the right moment—let some little stories about our 'captain' leak. Slow burn, though. One tiny bit at a time."
A storm was building. And LeBron James—reborn, the once and future king—stood calm in the middle of it, pulling the strings. His eyes were already on the future: the glory he'd lost before, the glory he'd take back with his own hands.