After Link buried the game-winner—
The entire Staples Center exploded in a roar so loud it felt like it could blow the roof off.
A wave of pure euphoria swept through every corner of the arena.
"It's in! It's in! It's IN! Link—he did it!"
"He hit the buzzer-beater! Link ! A game-winning three to take down the Miami Heat!"
"After Kobe fouled out—he saved the Lakers! Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable!"
The commentators were screaming themselves hoarse, nearly blowing out their microphones.
On the court, the Lakers' bench flooded the floor like a tidal wave, charging straight toward Link, who was still frozen in his shooting follow-through.
Lamar Odom was the first to wrap him up in a crushing hug, shouting into his ear.
Andrew Bynum and Luke Walton slapped his back excitedly.
All the pressure.
All the frustration.
All the doubt.
It all came pouring out in that moment, carried by a three-pointer that ripped straight through the net.
Confetti rained down across Staples Center.
The cheers were deafening.
Kobe Bryant finished the night with 38 points, 7 rebounds, 6 assists, and 3 steals—but fouled out in the closing minutes.
Shaquille O'Neal and Dwyane Wade combined for 55 points, with Shaq also pulling down 17 boards.
And yet, the spotlight was stolen by a complete unknown.
Link scored 19 points, hitting five three-pointers—
and delivered a jaw-dropping buzzer-beater at the very end.
He didn't give the Heat even a sliver of a chance.
Wade turned and walked off with a dark expression, not bothering to say a word.
The usual joking swagger was gone from Shaq's face, replaced by pure anger.
He had dominated the paint all night—only to be finished off like this.
Shaq spat his mouthguard onto the floor and let out a furious roar at the air.
An ESPN reporter stepped up to Link with a microphone.
The teammates crowding around him immediately made space, handing the moment over to the hero of the night.
"Link, you were incredible tonight. You hit the game-winner—what's going through your mind right now?" the reporter asked with a smile.
"Uh… my teammates were amazing," Link said modestly. "They set great screens. I just caught the ball and shot it."
"That final play—we hadn't seen it before. Was it a special ace you'd been saving?" the reporter pressed.
"That was Coach Jackson's call," Link replied. "I just executed it."
He scratched the back of his head, choosing not to reveal the truth behind the elevator play.
Just as Link was finishing the interview, a tall figure stepped up beside him, speaking with a playful tone.
"Congratulations, Mr. Prophet."
Isabella Rodriguez had appeared courtside without anyone noticing.
She wore a bright smile, her eyes sparkling, and gave Link a light hug.
The cameras caught everything—
including her clearly audible words: "Mr. Prophet."
"Thank you, Isabella," Link said, his face flushing as a sudden, inexplicable joy bloomed in his chest.
The sharp-eyed ESPN reporter instantly sensed a bigger story.
He turned the microphone toward the radiant woman.
"Ma'am, sorry to interrupt—I'm with ESPN. You just called Link 'Mr. Prophet.' That's a pretty unique nickname. Is there a special meaning behind it?"
Isabella faced the camera calmly.
She gracefully brushed her long hair aside, her smile never fading, and glanced meaningfully at Link again.
"Meaning?" she said with a soft laugh, mystery dancing in her eyes.
"No—it's just a secret between the two of us."
That answer only sent the reporters into a frenzy, cameras flashing nonstop.
Isabella winked at Link, then turned and walked away with effortless elegance.
Link watched her leave—until he was swallowed up once again by his ecstatic teammates.
They surrounded him like he was a conquering hero, escorting him toward the locker room.
Inside, the place was already in full celebration mode.
The moment Link walked in, someone dumped an entire cooler of Gatorade over his head, soaking him to the bone.
Odom blasted hype music while everyone else linked arms, dancing badly and laughing even harder.
Every single player was riding the high of a comeback win capped by a buzzer-beater.
In the middle of the chaos, someone stepped up in front of Link.
It was Kobe.
He didn't say much—just slammed a fist into Link's chest.
"Nice game, rookie."
His voice wasn't loud, but in the briefly quiet locker room, everyone heard it clearly.
"This belongs to you."
As he spoke, Kobe handed him the game ball.
The locker room erupted with even louder cheers and whistles.
Getting the game ball from the team leader—
especially from Kobe himself—
That meant everything.
Link took the ball with trembling hands.
This was the greatest night of his NBA career.
Hitting a game-winner against the powerful Heat—after Kobe had fouled out.
A moment like that was destined for NBA highlight reels.
Fans would still be talking about it years later.
For an NBA player, it was an unimaginable honor.
Kobe patted him on the shoulder, a rare smile crossing his face, then turned and left the locker room—leaving the celebration to Link.
Much later, as the noise finally faded, Link returned to his apartment.
Night had already fallen.
Andrew and Amy were out, busy with their own things.
Link sank into the couch, replaying the buzzer-beater over and over in his mind, a smile creeping onto his face.
Ding…
His phone chimed.
He picked it up—and the name on the screen made his heart skip a beat.
Isabella Rodriguez.
"Mr. Prophet, Christmas Eve shouldn't end this early. I reserved a table at Perch. Want to come see the Los Angeles night skyline?"
An address was attached.
Link's heart started pounding.
All the post-game exhaustion vanished instantly.
He didn't hesitate, typing back quickly:
"Of course… give me a few minutes…"
He rushed into the shower, scrubbing away sweat and the sticky remnants of celebratory Gatorade.
Standing in front of his closet, he hesitated—then carefully took out the deep blue suit Isabella had given him.
Perch was well-known in L.A., one of the best spots to take in the city lights.
When Link arrived as fast as he could, Isabella was already seated by the window, waiting.
She had changed out of her casual game-day outfit into an elegant black evening dress, its thin straps outlining her graceful figure.
Against the glittering cityscape, she was breathtaking.
"You're right on time, Mr. Prophet," Isabella said with a smile, gesturing for him to sit.
Her eyes lingered on his suit for a moment, a satisfied look flashing across her face.
"Looks like my gift found the perfect owner."
"I've been wanting a chance to properly thank you," Link said, a little awkward as he adjusted his cuff.
"Not just for the suit—but for coming to my game tonight."
"I'm honored," Isabella said, lifting her glass slightly.
"I got to witness your shining moment."
Her praise made the tips of Link's ears warm.
They clinked glasses, the rich aroma of red wine spreading across their lips.
After a few drinks, wrapped in a soft buzz, the initial tension faded away.
They talked about basketball, fashion, and their lives.
Isabella was no longer just the mysterious fashion icon.
She laughed freely at Link's stories from the team, and shared her own nerves from backstage at fashion shows.
"So… that night…" Link began, emboldened by the wine, but didn't finish.
Isabella met his gaze without dodging it, raising a finger to her lips—a silent no need to say more.
Their eyes locked, and in them, they both felt the heat and intensity building.
The city noise outside faded, leaving only their heartbeats and breathing.
No one knew who leaned in first—
maybe it was mutual.
Their lips met gently against the backdrop of the Los Angeles night.
Tentative at first, soft—then quickly growing intense and urgent.
The lingering taste of red wine mingled between them, and words became completely unnecessary…