Washington, Dulles International Airport.
As the political heart of the country, Washington D.C. saw a massive influx of travelers, but compared to the sprawling metropolis of New York they had just left, the crowds felt modest. New York was a titan of eight million people; D.C. was a compact hub of barely six hundred thousand.
Jeff Austin had already arranged a taxi. In the U.S., taxis don't just linger outside every exit waiting for a fare; efficiency requires a reservation. Austin had handled it before their flight even left the tarmac at JFK.
It was already late afternoon the day after their Knicks workout. After a full day of recovery in New York, they had taken a short, two-hour morning flight to the capital.
"We're heading to the hotel first to get some rest," Austin said as they loaded their bags. "Tomorrow, your fifteen-day gauntlet begins. Prepare yourselves for Idan's 'Devil Training.' To him, it doesn't matter who you are or what your draft stock is. The moment you step onto his court, you're just a student. If you mess up, he'll tear into you like a schoolchild. Word is, even LeBron left one of their sessions last year feeling mentally drained. You two need to stay sharp."
"Don't worry about me, Jeff," Luke said, his voice calm. "I'm a training fanatic. If Idan Ravin wants to push me, I'll push back harder. Criticism? I've heard it all before." Luke wasn't posturing. As a transmigrator, he had a mental fortitude forged in a different era. Trash talk and high-pressure environments were just part of the scenery.
"Me too," Steph added, though he was still playing it low-key. He was still nursing the embarrassment of the "Taxi to D.C." incident from the day before and was trying his best to fade into the background. "Idan's intensity will only make me better. I'm a grown man. I can handle it."
The drive took about twenty minutes, leading them to a hotel on the outskirts of the city. Ravin's private facility was tucked away in a forested area in the suburbs, so Austin had booked a two-bedroom suite just five kilometers from the gym. It was a tactical move—maximum rest, minimum commute.
Once they settled into the suite, Luke turned to Steph with a spark in his eye. "Steph, you down for some 2K?" Luke was a gaming addict at heart. Between the relentless workouts and the stress of the pre-draft tour, he hadn't touched a controller in weeks. His thumbs were practically itching.
"I'd love to, but we didn't bring a PS3," Steph noted.
Luke waved a hand dismissively. "Already ahead of you. I checked with the front desk; they have consoles for guests. I asked them to send one up."
A moment later, a knock echoed at the door. "Haha, here we go!" Luke rubbed his hands together, took the console, the controllers, and the game discs from the staff, and immediately started hooking it all up to the suite's flat-screen.
"Ready to get destroyed, Steph?"
"Please. Last time was a fluke because I wasn't paying attention. I'm taking my dignity back today," Steph retorted, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
"You've lost to me at least eighty times. Were those all flukes too?"
"That's a lie! It's been maybe a dozen times at most!" Steph shouted.
"Oh, really?" Luke pulled out his phone and flicked through his photo gallery. He waved the screen in front of Steph's face. "I have at least fifty photos of your 'Game Over' screen in here. Not counting the ones I forgot to document..."
"Shut up and just start the game!" They bypassed the sofa and sat directly on the carpet, controllers in hand, locked in a new battle.
"Luke, why do you always move Yao Ming to a different team instead of just playing as the Rockets?" Steph asked, genuinely confused. Luke always played with Yao, but never with the actual Houston roster.
Luke shook his head. "It's a vibe thing. I think Yao looks better in different jerseys. Plus, I like building around him."
Half an hour later, a howl of agony filled the room.
"Ah! I'm done! I'm out!" Steph dropped his controller. They were only in the third quarter, but Luke was up by 20 points.
"Luke, you're banned from using Yao. He's a cheat code in 2K9. It's impossible to stop him."
"Heh heh." Luke gave a villainous chuckle. In NBA 2K9, Yao Ming was a total glitch. Even with a 94 rating, his interior presence was more dominant than 99-rated Kobe or LeBron.
Luke watched Steph's defeated expression and quickly snapped a photo with his phone. "Daily goal achieved: Break Steph's spirit."
Suddenly, Steph's phone rang. His face instantly transformed into a sugary, lovesick grin.
"Hey, honey~"
The sheer sweetness in Steph's voice gave Luke instant goosebumps. It was Ayesha. The two had been together since high school, and despite the distance, their phone calls were notoriously sappy.
Luke had heard it a thousand times, but he still didn't have the stomach for it. He grabbed his shoes and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Steph asked, covering the receiver.
"Getting dinner."
"Just call room service!"
"Shut up and talk to your girlfriend!" Luke growled, slamming the door behind him.
In the hallway, a stray thought crossed his mind: When am I going to find a "sweet love" of my own?
He immediately shook his head. Suddenly, a tiny Luke in an angel outfit appeared on his left shoulder. "Luke, love is a distraction! You need to train! You need to dominate! Women are just roadblocks on the path to greatness!"
Then, a tiny Luke in a devil outfit popped up on his right. "Luke, you're going to be a superstar. Every king needs a queen... or three. Go to the clubs! Be the Nightlife King!"
Just as the mental debate intensified, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
[Ding!]