Christmas Eve. Los Angeles.
Outside the Staples Center, massive game posters hung across the arena's exterior walls.
On them were the unmistakable faces of Kobe Bryant, cold and focused, and Shaquille O'Neal, flashing his signature wide grin.
Shaq returns to Staples Center.
One of the most dominant centers in NBA history.
The cornerstone of the Lakers' early-2000s three-peat dynasty.
Tonight, wearing a Miami Heat jersey, he was back in L.A.—as the enemy.
The streets were already packed with fans, the roar nearly tearing through the Los Angeles night sky.
Broadcast vans surrounded every entrance to the arena, cameras and microphones pointed at every recognizable face.
Inside the Lakers' locker room, the atmosphere was heavy.
On the TV mounted to the wall, pregame interview highlights were playing.
Shaquille O'Neal's imposing face filled the screen.
"How does it feel to be back here, Shaq?" a reporter asked, the provocation obvious.
Shaq grinned at the camera, bold and unrestrained.
"Feels amazing! Feels like coming home! These rims know me—I know them so well I could dunk on 'em with my eyes closed!"
When the topic shifted to Kobe, Shaq's smile turned a little sharper, a hint of mockery mixed in.
"Kobe? Just caught a ride and thought he could captain the ship," Shaq laughed. "I'll remind him basketball isn't a one-man show. Good luck to him—haha!"
The screen cut to Dwyane Wade.
The young "Flash" appeared far more composed in front of the media, but the edge in his eyes was unmistakable.
"Dwyane, what do you think about matching up against Kobe tonight? Is this a passing-of-the-torch moment?" a reporter asked.
Wade answered calmly. "Kobe is the standard for shooting guards across the league. It's an honor to play against him, and I'll give it everything I've got."
Then another reporter jumped in, his tone deliberately pointed.
"Dwyane, the Lakers have a new player who's been performing well lately—Link from China. He dropped 25 points at Madison Square Garden earlier this season. Will you have any special defensive plans for him tonight?"
Wade paused, confusion flickering across his face.
He frowned slightly, clearly searching his memory, then offered a polite smile.
"Link? I'm sorry—I don't really know much about him."
"My focus has been on Kobe. The Lakers are a great team, and we'll concentrate on our overall defensive scheme, not any specific… um… role player."
The words "role player" echoed clearly through the locker room TV.
---
Link's grip on his water bottle tightened unconsciously, the plastic giving off a faint creak.
Being ignored like that made his cheeks burn.
He knew Wade probably hadn't meant it as an insult—but the comment still felt like a needle, piercing the small but growing confidence Link had built recently.
Phil Jackson stood in the center of the locker room, arms folded across his chest. The room was so quiet you could hear some players' heavy breathing.
For the final pregame talk, the Zen Master didn't wave his arms or raise his voice.
He spoke calmly, his words carrying a strange, magnetic weight.
"There's a lot of noise outside," Phil began, as if stating a simple fact.
"About the past. About grudges. About who really owns this city."
He paused briefly.
"The media needs stories. Fans crave drama. And Shaq…"
"He enjoys all of it."
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.
"He wants this game to be his show. A grand homecoming party."
Phil's gaze swept across Kobe's stone-cold face, past Lamar Odom's distant stare, and finally to Link's clenched fists.
"But I'm telling you—forget the noise," Phil said evenly.
"This game isn't about personal history. It's not about anyone's party. This game is about one thing."
"We are the Los Angeles Lakers," he said slowly, each word landing heavy in the room.
"This franchise's history is written by victories. We defend that legacy—even if the man in front of us is Shaquille O'Neal."
"Kobe. Lamar. Sasha. Kwame… and Link," Phil said, meeting each player's eyes.
"Trust your teammates. Win this game—and we're the real stars tonight."
His voice never rose, but the fire returned to every pair of eyes in the room.
The suffocating tension melted into sharp focus.
Link loosened his grip on the water bottle, the dents slowly popping back into shape.
Whether Wade knew him or not no longer mattered.
There was something far more important ahead.
"Alright, guys," assistant coach Brian Shaw clapped his hands, breaking the final silence. "Time to go."
The locker room door swung open, and a tidal wave of sound crashed in, instantly swallowing everything.
As the players filed out, Link—near the back of the line—could feel the floor vibrating beneath his feet.
That rhythm came from over 19,000 fans, pounding the arena as one.
The moment he stepped into the blinding lights and deafening roar of the Staples Center—
The sound hit him like a tsunami, his eardrums buzzing violently.
Before him was a rolling sea of purple and gold. Spotlights crisscrossed above center court, bathing the hardwood in brilliance.
The visiting Miami Heat had already taken the floor.
They were greeted by a wall of boos.
And when Shaquille O'Neal, chewing gum and wearing that teasing, provocative grin, strolled onto the court—
The boos exploded to their peak.
Shaq even played it up, breaking into an exaggerated little dance toward the crowd, instantly igniting the arena.
Link could barely steady himself. His heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest.
The pressure from the fans made his breathing feel tight.
This was Los Angeles.
He turned his head instinctively—
And spotted a familiar figure.
Isabella.
She sat there in a perfectly tailored deep-red coat that complemented her sun-kissed skin. Her dark hair was swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck.
Amid the wildly cheering fans around her, she seemed unusually calm, a gentle, encouraging smile on her lips.
Her eyes cut through the crowd and locked precisely onto Link at the tunnel entrance.
Their gazes met.
Link felt his mind settle instantly.
He couldn't hear her, but he could read her lips.
"You've got this, Mr. Prophet."
For some reason, the deafening noise around him faded away.
A strange sense of calm—and pride at being seen—washed over him, driving away his anxiety.
To hell with the doubt.
To hell with the pressure.
All he wanted now was to get on the court, hit that damn shot, and win this game.
Link took a deep breath and stepped fully into the roaring storm of the Staples Center.
The game was about to begin.