Chapter Forty-Five: Despondency Feels Like a Dream

As the new season began, Lin Fei’s remarkable scoring efficiency and soaring popularity had drawn a sea of flashbulbs around him. Many only dream of such a moment; reaching this height was an undeniable mark of true success.

Rumors about Lin Fei were now the talk of the town—affairs with celebrities, nights out at bars with this or that star. Most were pure fabrication, but any story bearing the name “Lin Fei” was guaranteed to become the center of attention.

Lin Fei was gradually becoming accustomed to the aura of a superstar encircling him; the sensation was nothing short of exquisite. After the game against the Cavaliers, it was already late. Unlike before, he didn’t return to the gym for extra practice; instead, he went to negotiate an endorsement deal, something he had never done in his past.

The next morning, Lin Fei was more exhausted than ever—far more than if he had spent the night practicing. He allowed himself to sleep in, a rare indulgence for him.

After a full day of training, that night, Keyns took Lin Fei out to experience the nightlife—a club, a place Lin Fei had never visited before. It was impossible not to marvel at the vibrancy of American nightclubs. The dazzling lights were dizzying. There was a game the next day, but that was no excuse not to indulge that night. In the past, whenever Keyns invited Lin Fei out, he’d always say he needed to practice, but this time he did not refuse.

The thrill of victory seemed to be dulling his once relentless spirit. Only Lin Fei himself could save him from this, for none other could reach him.

The following day, Lin Fei faced the Lakers again, the team that had first witnessed his meteoric rise—28 points in 3 minutes, a moment destined to become a brilliant landmark in both Lin Fei’s and the NBA’s history, with the Lakers forever etched as the backdrop. Would such a scene ever repeat itself? The Warriors, riding a winning streak, were fiercer than ever, while the seasoned Lakers, eager to avenge their previous humiliation, would surely fight with everything they had.

At tip-off, Lin Fei remained calm, but his mind was no longer on the court—he was daydreaming about how he might score even more when he stepped on the floor. Once again, his opponent was Kobe.

Soon enough, Lin Fei entered the game, coming off the bench as the sixth man. This time, he carried two additional titles: league scoring leader, and the Lakers’ “nemesis.” Kobe, no doubt, was wholly focused on defeating Lin Fei.

From the outset, Kobe’s offense was relentless, scoring the Lakers’ first eight points while the Warriors had no answer. The Warriors fought back, but the Lakers soon showcased their dominance in the paint—Gasol and the “Little Shark” scored in quick succession, leaving the Warriors helpless.

Sensing the momentum tipping clearly in the Lakers’ favor, coach Nelson sent Lin Fei onto the court. Yet, Lin Fei’s energy seemed lacking compared to previous games.

As Lin Fei passed Kobe, Kobe’s cold gaze revealed he had been waiting for this moment.

On his first possession, Lin Fei tried to drive and then pulled up for a three-pointer. Though he had created separation, Kobe sprang up and delivered a thunderous block. The arena erupted in chants of “MVP!”—this was Kobe’s stage. Fisher scooped up the ball and sprinted the other way, with both Kobe and Lin Fei in pursuit. By the time they reached the arc, Lin Fei was nearly alongside Fisher. Fisher hit Kobe, who cut in from the wing; Kobe caught the ball and slammed it home, pounding his chest and roaring—a declaration that he was far from finished. In this tableau, Lin Fei served as the perfect foil.

On the next possession, Lin Fei attempted to drive inside, banking a layup off Fisher, but Bynum rose and blocked him again. Yet, thanks to Lin Fei’s “star privilege,” a foul was called, and he calmly sank both free throws. Even so, Lin Fei knew deep down that his form was off—an intuition he could always trust.

When Kobe faced Lin Fei, his footwork at the perimeter left Lin Fei completely off-balance; speed alone was not enough. Kobe, once a devoted student of Olajuwon, now used those signature moves against a much shorter opponent—a clear provocation.

Lin Fei dribbled—faster, faster, faster! He crossed half-court and took a shot, hoping to summon his best. But, to his disappointment, his shot was a complete airball. His pride was nowhere to be found.

Lin Fei’s presence on the court was ineffectual, the Warriors’ offense stagnant, and the deficit kept growing. His efficiency rating plummeted to -8, meaning that during his minutes on the floor, the Warriors were outscored by eight. This was a far cry from the scoring leader and efficiency king he had been.

With three minutes left, the Warriors trailed by twenty—a hauntingly familiar number. Lin Fei was still on the court, as were the Lakers’ starters. Once burned, twice shy—the Lakers were determined not to let Lin Fei erupt again and relive the trauma of their previous encounter. Kobe took it upon himself to guard Lin Fei, and when Kobe was serious, no one could stop him; but when Lin Fei was on fire, he too was unstoppable. That night, fate favored neither the Warriors nor Lin Fei. In the final three minutes, Lin Fei tightly controlled the ball, taking eight shots and making three, while the Warriors lost ground, finishing 26 points behind.

Kobe finished with 30 points, 8 rebounds, and 7 assists—MVP numbers. The young sensation, Lin Fei, managed just 11 points, no rebounds, and 2 assists—a pale shadow of the scoring champ and the man who once poured in 30 in a single quarter.

When reporters asked Nelson about the loss, he replied, “The Lakers are a formidable team. They have the greatest player in history: Kobe.” It was well known among those who followed Kobe and Nelson that Nelson admired Kobe deeply. He added, “Our offense never got going. Our players need to keep adjusting, constantly evolving their approach.” Nelson spoke calmly, but Lin Fei felt the sting. He had come to see himself as the team’s leading man.

Lin Fei was frustrated, but he could at least tell that his touch was off. He knew he needed to adjust, to rediscover his best self.

Still, Lin Fei remained the league’s scoring leader. Despite the Warriors’ loss and his mere 11 points, his stats were terrifying: averaging 29 points, 60% field goal shooting, 55% from three, and 88% from the line. After joining the “30 Club,” his stats now placed him in the “200 Club”—the league’s undisputed number one. At the time, Nash, the league’s premier point guard, had created the “190 Club,” which was already extraordinary; now, after just a few games, Lin Fei’s combined shooting percentages reached 200%. No one in the league could compare—yet. But would it last?

A few games—could that truly be called greatness? Like a meteor, dazzling for an instant but not truly glorious. Was Lin Fei’s explosion fated to be but a flash, a shooting star? True greatness demands a sustained blaze.

Judging by recent events, Lin Fei seemed to be losing his edge, fading day by day. No one knew why, not even himself. He kept telling himself his “touch was off,” yet never sought a deeper cause.

After this game, the debate around Lin Fei erupted in earnest. Experts and fans split into two camps: the “Fei Faithful” and the “Fei Doubters.” The Faithful were a mighty force, swelling after Lin Fei’s 28 points in 3 minutes. His frenzied scoring and electrifying style brought them to their peak. The Doubters, on the other hand, argued simply: Lin Fei was one-dimensional, offering little beyond scoring, seriously lacking in team play. After this defeat, their numbers exploded, applauding the Lakers for exposing the Warriors and gloating over Lin Fei’s “true colors.”

That night, Lin Fei drove his new Lamborghini through the city, savoring the feeling and forgetting the frustration of missed shots. In silence, he found his peace.

In the ensuing games, Lin Fei’s performance declined further. Though he occasionally delivered a highlight, his overall play was mediocre. Including the Lakers game, where he scored only 11, his form seemed to have nosedived. Over several games, even as the Warriors’ record stayed respectable, Lin Fei’s numbers looked stark: his minutes increased to 35 per game, but his shooting dropped to 42% from the field, 38% from three, and though his free throws rose to 90%, his scoring dipped to 20 per game. He was mired in a slump, his average falling to 21 points.

Even the most diehard Fei Faithful began to waver, unable to understand how Lin Fei could change so drastically overnight. They had poured their boundless enthusiasm into this whirlwind of a player—what would they gain in the end? It was not selfishness; they simply dreamed of something perfect. Better not to have hoped than to be left with despair.

Many began to question whether Lin Fei was truly a superstar. After all, many players have enjoyed explosive stretches—a few dazzling games—but never entered the ranks of the greats. Monta Ellis of the Warriors, Kevin Martin of the Rockets—they, too, were once feared scorers, but never ascended to superstardom. Ellis even led the league in scoring for a stretch, just as Lin Fei had. Was Lin Fei destined for the same fate?

But Lin Fei would never resign himself to that—not ever. Yet now…