When the plane touched down at LAX, it was already late at night.
To Link's surprise, the arrivals gate was swarming with fans. They wore his jersey and hoisted signs reading his name or "Prophet." As he stepped out, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers and screams.
"Link ! Over here!"
"Prophet!"
"Can I get an autograph?"
The strobe of camera flashes made Link instinctively squint. Andrew had warned him that his fan base was growing, but seeing it in person like this felt surreal.
A few months ago, he had dragged his luggage through this same airport alone, a total nobody. Now, he was one of the heroes who had helped the team advance. He did his best to keep his cool, stopping to sign a few autographs, and only managed to escape with the help of airport security and Andrew's escort.
Once inside the car, the roar of the crowd faded. Link let out a long, heavy sigh.
"How's it feel, 'Prophet' Link ?" Andrew teased from the driver's seat.
"A bit loud," Link admitted, rubbing his temples.
"Get used to it. This is just the beginning," Andrew said, his tone turning serious. "The team doesn't have a formal practice tomorrow, so you can actually take the day off and recharge."
Link nodded, looking out at the familiar streets of L.A. whipping by. No matter who their next opponent was, the next round would be an even bigger grind. Physical rest and mental reset were equally vital.
---
Back at the apartment, he showered away the grime of travel and finally felt himself start to unwind. He didn't feel like going out, so he threw together a quick plate of pasta to fill his stomach.
As he was clearing the dishes, his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
It was Isabella!
"Last-minute shoot, just landed in L.A. Mr. Prophet, if you happen to be free, maybe I could buy you a drink to celebrate your big win? ;)"
Link looked at the text, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The postseason stress seemed to evaporate instantly.
He typed back: "I don't think I can turn down a victory drink."
He swapped his sweats for a clean casual button-down and jeans, grabbed a light jacket, and called out to Andrew, who was still buried in contracts in the study.
Andrew looked up, didn't pry, but offered a quick warning: "Don't be out too late. And be careful—you're a celebrity now."
Link waved him off with a laugh.
He arrived at a seaside restaurant at the Santa Monica Pier shortly after. The outdoor seating caught the sound of the crashing waves, and the air smelled of salt and mist. Isabella had picked a secluded corner and was already waiting. She wore a cream-colored knit sweater, her long hair loose, with just a hint of makeup that made her look softer under the warm patio lights.
"Sorry, have you been waiting long?" Link asked.
"Just got here." Isabella looked up, noticing the slight fatigue in his eyes. "I guess the intensity of the playoffs is everything they say it is..."
Link smiled. "It's alright. What about you? Flying in like this, is the schedule crazy?"
"A print ad. Shoot tomorrow morning, fly back to New York in the afternoon." She shrugged and pushed the menu toward him. "So, carpe diem. This one's on me to celebrate your advancement!"
They ordered some light seafood and salad and shared a bottle of white wine. The conversation flowed naturally—basketball, photography, the differences between L.A. and New York. No forced topics, no awkward silences.
As dinner wrapped up, Link pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and slid it toward her.
"Almost forgot. This is for you... a thank you for the suit," Link said with a wink.
Isabella looked surprised. She opened the box to find a silver necklace with a delicate blue sapphire pendant that shimmered under the lights.
"This is..."
"It's a gemstone from Utah. I don't know much about fashion, so I wasn't sure if you'd like it." Link's tone was casual, but there was a spark of anticipation in his eyes.
"Thank you," Isabella said, her eyes crinkling into crescents. "It's beautiful!"
After leaving the restaurant, they took a short stroll along the pier, enjoying a moment of quiet. Link called a car to take her back to her hotel. Before getting in, Isabella turned and gave him a light kiss.
"Next time you're in New York, if I'm free, I'll take you to a secret bar I know. The jazz is incredible."
"It's a date," Link nodded.
He watched her car merge into traffic before turning to head home. The cool night air brought a slight buzz to his head. He didn't notice that in the shadows of the restaurant terrace, a long lens had been trained on them the entire time.
---
The next morning, Link was jolted awake by Andrew's frantic pounding on his bedroom door.
"Link ! Wake up! We've got a problem!"
Link groggily opened the door, and Andrew practically shoved a tablet into his face. It was an entertainment gossip site with a massive, bold headline:
"Rising Star's New Flame? Lakers' Link Spotted on Intimate Dinner Date in Santa Monica with VOGUE Model!"
Below it were several grainy but unmistakable photos: the two talking in the corner, Link handing over the gift box, and the silhouette of the kiss as they parted.
The paparazzi had chosen the angles perfectly to make it look as scandalous as possible. The article heavily romanticized their encounter as a "clash of the basketball and fashion worlds" and "helpfully" questioned whether the young player was losing focus right before the Western Conference Semifinals.
"It's been one night! Do these paparazzi live in the ocean?" Andrew paced the living room, sounding frustrated. "My fault, I should have told you to be more careful. What now? This kind of gossip spreads like wildfire!"
Link scanned the article and the rapidly growing comment section, rubbing his brow. Some comments were just lighthearted teasing, but many others questioned his dedication: "Famous for five minutes and already chasing models," or "Focus on the court, not the clubs." Some were even more aggressive.
"What about Isabella?" Link asked.
"I tried to call, but her line is busy—probably getting hammered by the press too," Andrew said, running a hand through his hair. "The main issue is the team and the Zen Master. Management usually hates off-court drama during a playoff run."
Right then, Link's phone rang. it was the team's PR official. The tone was professional but firm, asking for an explanation and "politely" reminding him to maintain his public image, minimize distractions, and stay focused on the upcoming series.
Just as he hung up, Assistant Coach Brian Shaw sent a text: "Keep your head in the game. Stay ready."
Andrew calmed down and started strategizing. "Look, bad news can be good news. This proves your star power is real. The key is how we handle it. No point in denying it—that just makes it worse."
"We go with the 'cold shoulder' approach. Don't respond, just focus on training and games. Let your play do the talking. I'll put out a very brief statement as your agent: 'Thanks to the fans for their concern; the focus is 100% on the Western Conference Semifinals; no comment on personal matters.' How's that sound?"
Link rubbed his tired eyes. "I'm fine with that. Let's do it."
Andrew looked at him with concern. "How are you doing? Is this getting to you?"
Link stood up and walked to the window. He thought about the ocean breeze on the pier, the necklace, and the way Isabella smiled when she mentioned the jazz club.
"It's annoying," he admitted, turning back to Andrew with a steady gaze. "But I'm okay. These rumors don't change anything. I know what's important to me."
---