LeBron's first preseason game in Boston was like a polished diamond—every facet glowed with what he wanted the world to see: all-around, unselfish, team-first. Media and fan praise blew up, but this was just a fraction of his plan.
In the gym's locker room, the vibe turned trickier by the day. LeBron still showed up first and left last—his work ethic was unbeatable. But small shifts started happening. He didn't just "hang on" to plays anymore; sometimes, after Coach O'Brien finished explaining, he'd ask a couple of thoughtful questions, always humble.
"Coach, on that baseline screen play—what if, after I draw the defense on the weak side, I fake a pass to the corner shooter (like Eric Williams) before giving it to Paul cutting? Would that make the defense hesitate more?"
O'Brien stared at the whiteboard, thinking. The tweak added layers and deception, but it demanded elite vision and passing precision. He looked at LeBron, whose eyes were clear—just a kid eager to learn.
"Good thought, LeBron. But it needs crazy chemistry and execution," O'Brien answered carefully.
"I can practice extra, Coach. I know if we work at it, Paul and Eric and I can get there," LeBron said right away—sincere, impossible to say no to.
After a few more talks like this, O'Brien started thinking: this kid's basketball IQ was off the charts—enough to make up for the physicality he was holding back (thanks to his "injury"). Some plays originally built around Pierce, with LeBron's "casual" input, suddenly felt better.
Pierce felt it differently. Like something was slowly eating away at his role. Every "suggestion" the rookie made sounded smart—but the end result? The play's starting point, the call on who ran it, inched toward LeBron. LeBron was using his "smarts" and "team spirit" to chip away at Pierce's spot in the offense.
Worse was the media shift. That Lisa Kruger knew her stuff—she kept LeBron's good guy image front and center, and started using Pierce's own reputation against him.
The Boston Globe's sports section ran an analysis: "The Modern Forward's Playmaking Role." It crunched numbers on Pierce's time with the ball over the last few seasons, comparing him to other top small forwards. No direct shots, but it hinted: "High isolation usage works in spots, but it can kill efficiency over a long season—and wear down the star." Then it pivoted, praising LeBron's "uncommon vision for his age" and "willingness to pass." Citing his preseason assists, it argued: "This kind of talent that lifts the whole team? It could take pressure off the star, keep him in his prime longer."
One subtle knock, one big compliment—like tiny needles, pricking Pierce and everyone who cared about the team.
Fan forums lit up: "Paul's great, but he holds the ball too much sometimes." "LeBron's passes are so smooth—what if Paul ran more off-ball, caught passes from him? Might be easier, more efficient."
These felt like random fan takes—but the timing, the angle? Too perfect.
After practice one day, Pierce finally snapped a little. In the locker room, he wiped sweat with a towel and said, casual-like, "Rookie, media loves you lately. Say you're a great passer."
LeBron was tying his shoes. He looked up, grinning like he had no idea what Pierce meant. "Nah—they're just talking about you, Paul. They say I only do good if I get you the ball easy, so you can score. That's what I'm trying to do."
Pierce froze—like he'd punched a pillow. He stared at LeBron's eyes, searching for fakeness. But all he saw was a kid's clarity, a little excitement at getting a vet's "shoutout."
Damn it. Pierce cursed inside. This rookie was getting harder to read by the day.
LeBron looked down, tying his shoes again. A tiny, unseen smirk flickered across his mouth. He knew Pierce was squirming—and that's exactly what he wanted. Slow, steady pressure. Make Pierce jumpy, make him mess up.
A few days later, Lisa's "friend"—the one with ties to clubs and bars—sent over fuzzy info and low-res photos. Pierce, after a team hang, had gone to a members-only bar alone, left at 2 a.m. A couple of non-team people were with him.
Nothing solid. Not even a scandal. NBA players hit clubs all the time.
But LeBron acted like he'd struck gold. "Lock this up. Don't leak a thing," he told Lisa. "Not yet. We need something bigger—something they can't deny. Or… the perfect moment."
He'd wait. Either Pierce would mess up worse, or he'd find a chance to blow up all that built-up bad vibe.
That chance came sooner than he thought.
Opening night: Celtics vs. Heat, home. Game went down to the wire—Celtics down 1 with seconds left. O'Brien drew up a play: get the ball to Pierce in the post. Let him win it.
Pierce fought for position, caught the ball, faced his defender. Clock ticked. LeBron stood open at the weak-side three, waving for the ball—wide open. But Pierce only saw the hoop. He pulled up for a fadeaway.
Clank. Buzzer. Celtics lost at home.
The arena sighed—disappointment thick in the air. Pierce hit his palm in frustration, head down, walking to the tunnel.
Postgame presser—reporters didn't let it go.
"Paul, LeBron was wide open on that last play. Why not pass?"
Pierce's face was tight. Loss + questions = a sharp tone. "That's my spot. I believe in myself. Games aren't decided by one play—they're 48 minutes. I missed. Simple."
Then LeBron spoke up, soft and calm. "Hey, let's not ask him that. He's our leader. He chose to take the last shot—we all back him. The look was there, it just didn't go in. We'll watch film, fix it. I trust Paul."
Cameras caught it all. The next day, sports outlets split.
Some headlines: Pierce's Miss Dooms Celtics in Opener.
Others—especially the ones Lisa worked with: LeBron James Shows Leadership, Defends Pierce's Game-Winner Call.
Articles detailed the presser, painting LeBron as "team-first, loyal, focused on unity." Pierce? He came off as stubborn, unwilling to own the miss.
Danny Ainge sat in his office, reading. His fingers tapped the desk. He didn't mind Pierce taking the shot—that's what stars do. But he liked how LeBron handled it. This kid had talent, sure—but his EQ, his media smarts? Way beyond his years. Way beyond most vets.
He was born knowing how to shape the story.
Pierce saw the articles at home. He almost threw his tablet. Felt like he'd stepped in a trap. That rookie's "defense"? It sounded like a public roast of his loss. But he couldn't snap—if he did, he'd look petty, ungrateful.
That hurt worse than losing.
LeBron watched it all at home, calm. Plan on track. Media's soft cuts were landing. Locker room balance was shifting. Pierce was getting angry.
He picked up the phone, called Lisa.
"Next step—hit up national outlets. ESPN, stuff like that. Pitch the story: 'Basketball Smarts for a New Era: How LeBron James Is Redefining the Forward Position.'"
"For Pierce…" LeBron paused, voice flat. "Keep digging. I want every detail of his schedule on the next road trip."
A storm was gathering over Boston. And LeBron James—reborn, the king—stood calm in the middle, pulling the strings. His eyes were already past this fight, on the future: the glory he'd lost once, the glory he'd take back—with his own hands.