Chapter Twenty-Seven: MVP—Who Can Compete?

The ball had no choice but to fly into the basket.

Lin Fei’s buzzer-beater was like a bucket of cold water, splashed suddenly over the heads of all the athletes. None of them expected such a skilled player to exist in the Business Administration department! The sports team’s eyes were wide as lanterns.

A difference of one point—at halftime, this is barely a gap. Lin Fei’s last-minute three-pointer was like a shot of adrenaline for the Business Administration team. Trust me, I’ll lead you to championship glory.

Inside the locker room, the atmosphere was jubilant and crowded to the point of bursting; the entire department was witnessing the moment their team was making history. Anyone who could claim any connection to the players came to offer congratulations. Yet—it was not the victory of the whole match.

Lin Fei seemed exhausted, lost in thought amid the noisy chaos.

“Hey, little junior, you were amazing!” The voice was clear and lively; only one person could speak like that—Duán Tíngtíng.

“Heh, TT senior? Just average, really!” Lin Fei seemed to recover, smiling shyly.

“Let me tell you a secret: in the second half, they’re sending out their main lineup. You guys better be careful!”

“How do you know?”

“Ha, Rukawa Kaede is my boyfriend. He told me. He said they don’t even need him to win against you, but during the break he called me and said he’ll play in the second half. We made a bet—if their team loses by less than ten points in the second half, he’ll treat me to dinner.”

“Keep calm, keep calm,” Lin Fei kept repeating to himself, an unnamed fury burning within. Even the usually composed Lin Fei found it hard to remain calm in the face of such dismissive words.

“You mean number 24? The one styled like Rukawa Kaede?”

“Heh, you’ve heard of him too?”

Lin Fei forced a bitter smile; only now did he realize he felt a twinge of sadness.

“He’s pretty handsome, isn’t he?” Duán Tíngtíng continued.

“Yeah, he really is. You have good taste, senior!” Lin Fei replied with a smile, trying to mask his sorrow, avoiding her gaze.

“Number 24, Rukawa Kaede, the Kobe of Shan University.” Lin Fei clenched his fists tightly, gritted his teeth, as if a new match had already begun within him.

At the start of the second half, the sports department’s lineup changed dramatically—all their main players took the court: the so-called Akagi, number 10; the Kobe lookalike, number 24; the imitation McGrady and Nowitzki; and Iverson, who had played in the first half. For this school, it was a true all-star lineup. Their full deployment showed they hadn’t expected such fierce resistance from Business Administration—not resistance, but relentless offense. For security, they had to send out all their best.

From the moment he set foot on the court, Lin Fei saw only one person—the sports department’s number 24, locked on him with murderous intensity.

Number 24’s entrance was dazzling; the crowd’s screams, mostly from girls, filled the arena. Handsome, cool—the absolute king of popularity. Lin Fei saw it and sighed; truly, he was so adored… no wonder senior…

Business Administration had possession, Lin Fei returned to his familiar point guard position.

Cui Yong stared at Lin Fei, sensing he was distracted. “Hey, Lin Fei!” But Lin Fei didn’t respond; he wasn’t lost in thought, but utterly focused.

Lin Fei dribbled, closed his eyes, felt the presence of the court—himself, the hoop, the center line, the three-point line. The world suddenly quieted, as silent as his nightly games.

The players, stiff as wood. The court was a straight track—now, the hundred-meter sprint begins.

Lin Fei gently opened his eyes; calm ripples on a placid lake—his ball control carried this subtle rhythm. Before him stood the legendary Kobe of Shan University. Lin Fei accelerated, the defender followed; Lin Fei made no extra moves, simply forced his way past, clean and sharp. But unexpectedly, as Lin Fei reached the three-point line, the imitation McGrady was waiting, towering at least 195cm. Lin Fei didn’t pull up for a jumper—this first ball of the second half had to boost morale. He spun, shaking off his opponent, attempted a shot, but saw Kobe closing in fast, less than two meters away; after his turn, Kobe could easily block the shot. Lin Fei passed to a teammate; his breakthrough forced McGrady’s help defense, leaving his teammate open to shoot. Lin Fei’s assist—a brilliant pass. Even in his most impulsive moments, he knew the best way to score.

Lin Fei returned to midcourt, met number 24’s gaze—cold indifference. Lin Fei knew this look well; he himself wore it on the court, icy as winter. For most, such a look would crush their morale, but Lin Fei responded with equal frost.

Business Administration took the lead by one. The sports department’s number 3 dribbled; his hand trembled slightly as he received the ball—barely noticeable unless you watched closely. Was the sports department starting to feel uncertain?

Number 3 passed to number 24, whom Lin Fei had volunteered to guard.

Number 24 held the ball one-handed, faced Lin Fei, pulled up for a jumper—the ball sailed cleanly into the net. Clearly, he had star quality: daring such flashy moves right from his entrance.

Business Administration attacked; Lin Fei sprinted past midcourt, Cui Yong followed fast, Lin Fei broke to the basket with speed, before the sports department could set up defense, passing deftly to Cui Yong. Lin Fei slipped right, Cui Yong went for a layup; the sports department’s center, Akagi, at least a meter away, jumped, and as Cui Yong’s ball neared the hoop, a giant hand smashed it against the backboard.

Superhuman skill—no wonder he was the sports department’s main center. After blocking the ball, he grabbed the rebound, quickly passed to number 3, who threw a long pass to number 24. Number 24 caught it, charged to the basket, slammed it home. The crowd erupted, “Rukawa Kaede, Rukawa Kaede!” No one called him by his number, only by the name of the girls’ dream lover. The king of popularity, indeed. Even as the new scoring king, Lin Fei seemed a tier below him.

Such plays were crushing: blocked, then an immediate fast break dunk.

Now the momentum had shifted; through this play, the sports department finally showed their strength, severely dampening Business Administration’s morale—even their leader was bested.

Lin Fei held the ball, rallied his teammates: “Let’s get one, focus.” Lin Fei seemed to be playing in his own world; he rarely spoke during games. Was he imagining himself as the team’s leader?

“Alright!” his teammates shouted, unexpectedly strong after such a blow, as if untouched.

Lin Fei controlled the ball, faced the sports department’s iron defense, circled inside, but found no opening to shoot. He could’ve passed, but waited for a teammate to be completely unguarded. Yet their defense, height, and strength closed off all space. Lin Fei, helpless, broke to the corner; number 3 and imitation McGrady boxed him in. Lin Fei, facing their defense, jumped at zero angle. His teammates were stunned—he dared to shoot from there, had he gone mad? It wasn’t just number 3; McGrady was right in front, tall and springy. Even as a knockoff, “McGrady” wasn’t a name to be taken lightly. The worst happened: Lin Fei’s shot was swatted out of bounds by number 1.

Two consecutive blocked shots; Business Administration seemed shaken.

Fortunately, they retained possession. Lin Fei received the inbound, number 3 failed to keep up, Lin Fei shot—scored.

“Key moments, more passes,” Cui Yong told Lin Fei—not doubting his skill, but worried Lin Fei might run out of stamina.

“I said I’d lead you to victory.” As he spoke, Lin Fei’s shirt was soaked in sweat. He reminded one of a kind seen only on the battlefield—a daredevil.

The sports department, emboldened, ramped up their offense: Akagi, Kobe, McGrady, all stormed Business Administration’s defense, breaking through repeatedly. As their defense faltered, so did their offense; Lin Fei missed three shots in a row. Teammates managed two barely, and the score widened. By the end of the third quarter, Business Administration trailed by seven.

During the minute timeout, teammates noticed Lin Fei’s breathing was no longer steady; his face was flushed, hair drenched in sweat.

“Should you rest?” Cui Yong asked with concern.

“I’m fine. Trust me!” Lin Fei gasped, surrounded by teammates, all wishing they could help, but none could confidently step up as the backbone.

The sports department, dissatisfied with a seven-point lead, showed in their tactical discussions they weren’t content—seemed they wouldn’t feel victorious unless they won by dozens.

“Lin Fei, keep it up!” The same clear, bright voice rang out. “If you win, I’ll treat you to dinner!”

Lin Fei smiled; had he been dressed as a gentleman now, he’d be quite the charmer, for his demeanor was captivating, especially on the court.

The final quarter began. Lin Fei hunched, hands on knees, waiting for the pass—he was truly exhausted, yet remained calm.

The ball was passed to Lin Fei; he ran, crossed midcourt, Kobe tried to block him, but it was futile—proven long ago, no need to retest. Lin Fei breezed past, pulled up for a three-pointer. At this crucial moment, Lin Fei went wild, entering his ideal scoring mode.

But Kobe was no ordinary foe; after Lin Fei’s easy score, he received a pass, charged solo into Business Administration’s defense, but Lin Fei raced back, blocked his path, Kobe spun, passed to the center, Akagi, who turned, backed down the defender—height difference nearly twenty centimeters, like playing around. Turned, hook shot—scored.

Lin Fei told his teammates, “Now, guard number 10 when he gets the ball. I’ll cover 24. Watch for help defense; in full court press, don’t let them advance easily.”

It worked; the sports department missed two straight shots. Lin Fei seized the chance, sank two three-pointers, tying the score. The sports department’s defense was like a military operation, with guarding Lin Fei mainly falling to Kobe. They disdained double-teaming a non-varsity player, leading to Lin Fei’s breakthroughs often being unguarded. They believed no one could maintain a hot hand all game.

A tie—unbelievable.

The sports department attacked; this time, Kobe handled the ball. Lin Fei guarded close. Kobe used his trademark pull-up jumper; Lin Fei tried to block his view to disrupt the shot, but it didn’t work. Kobe calmly sank it; both sides now had sky-high shooting percentages.

Lin Fei attacked again; on the court, Business Administration seemed to have only Lin Fei. He fought so desperately; the other four were considered mere supporting cast, yet because of Lin Fei, any one of them could become a threat.

Heartbeat, breath, dribble, control. Lin Fei was nearly spent, but kept his rhythm.

He easily broke past Kobe, but the imitation McGrady stepped in. Lin Fei, forced by exhaustion, slowed slightly; number 1 used his body to block Lin Fei's drive. Lin Fei spun again; Kobe came to help. Lin Fei, helpless, passed to Cui Yong. Cui Yong, despite his experience, had never played such an intense game. In this crucial moment, he hesitated; Lin Fei shook off both defenders, asked for the ball, used Cui Yong as a screen, pulled up for a jumper—scored. Four three-pointers in a single quarter.

Business Administration led by one. The sports department attacked; their strengths were clear: Kobe outside, number 1 inside, both fired up. Akagi faced Lin Fei, backed him down, dribbled, feinted left, bumped right, sensed Lin Fei’s defense weakening, jumped, shot—scored.

They regained the lead by one.

No one knew what kept Lin Fei going—perhaps the legendary will, the kind that never says quit, never admits defeat. His speed slowed; remember, he’s only human. The entire audience stood, watching this iron man create miracles again and again.

Lin Fei still faced Kobe; the sports department’s best perimeter defender. If he couldn’t handle Lin Fei, the whole team would have no answer.

Even slower, Lin Fei could still shake off Kobe, but now number 3 helped. Number 3’s frustration was evident; Lin Fei swung the ball left and right, broke past. But number 3, not to be underestimated, as Lin Fei flew past, stepped on his foot—just a little, but Lin Fei collapsed, clutching his leg, sweat pouring from his brow. No one saw what happened clearly, but Lin Fei knew—dirty play.

What now? What now? Lin Fei kept asking himself.

Soon, his ankle swelled like a bun. In pain, he told his teammates, “Go buy me a bottle of ice-cold Sprite. The colder, the better.”

“You’re thinking of soda? Can you still play?”

“Hurry, call a timeout. Wait a moment, I’ll be fine.”

The furious Business Administration fans erupted; few saw what happened, but all knew number 3’s move was shady, wishing they could destroy him. Amid protests, the referee ejected number 3, awarding two free throws and possession. But Lin Fei could barely stand. What now?

“Soda’s here!” No one cared who brought it. Lin Fei grabbed it, twisted the cap, poured the ice-cold soda onto his swollen ankle.

“So you’re using it for an ice pack!”

Lin Fei gritted his teeth, took the free throws—made both.

Business Administration regained the lead by one.

Their possession; Lin Fei refused to leave the court. His swollen foot was nearly numb.

He stayed on, but limped, even slower.

He told his teammates, “Now, you need to screen for me.”

His shooting was gone; the sports department attacked.

Business Administration, thrown off by Lin Fei’s injury, lost their rhythm. The sports department took advantage, scoring one more point to lead by one.

Two minutes remained. Lin Fei handed off possession to his teammates, but they seemed lost. Lin Fei knew that relying solely on himself now wouldn’t work.

Teammates came to screen for Lin Fei; he got a shot, but his rhythm was off—missed the three.

The sports department countered with a fast break; Lin Fei’s injured foot couldn’t keep up, and they scored.

Lin Fei requested to leave the game, knowing he was powerless.

With twenty seconds left, Business Administration trailed by five.

Lin Fei insisted on returning; he endured the pain, rushed to the frontcourt, jumped on one leg, launched a three-pointer—unbelievable. The crowd was moved to tears. Few had ever seen such resilience.

The sports department broke out in cold sweat. Two points behind, Business Administration would surely foul.

They fouled; Kobe took the free throws, made one of two.

Three points left, ten seconds to go.

Business Administration attacked; two options, but clearly, they’d go for a three. Lin Fei was still on the court. As long as he was there, anything was possible.

Lin Fei had the ball; everyone watched, waiting for another miracle.

But, after all, Lin Fei was human. In the final quarter, he scored 20 points, made four three-pointers, totaled 46 points for the game—undisputed scoring king, but missed the last shot.

Many wanted to cry.

Defeat; Lin Fei didn’t fulfill his promise.

MVP—who could challenge him?

After watching this game, what does it remind you of?