Chapter 157: Smart Foul, Kobe Was Tricked?
The Suns had the ball.
Every eye in the building locked on Chen Yan. Fans were on their feet, the Lakers' defense was locked in, and even Phil Jackson abandoned his usual calm.
"Stay tight! Don't lose him!" the Zen Master bellowed from the sideline, his voice cutting sharp over the noise.
The last possession had ended with a wasted open look. He wasn't about to let it happen again.
This time, Kobe shadowed Chen Yan step for step. No daylight, no breathing room. A player of his caliber wasn't about to repeat the same mistake twice.
Boris Diaw swung the ball back to the top, feeding Chen Yan at the arc. The rookie caught it in rhythm, faced up against Kobe, and started probing.
Tap, tap. Two quick dribbles, a feint, a step to his right. Kobe slid with him, chest square, cutting him off.
Then the show began.
Chen Yan dribbled low, tight, between the legs, then behind the back, the ball popping like a drumbeat. "Bang, bang, bang!" His pace quickened, his body shifting like a dancer's.
It wasn't empty flash — every bounce was a test. He was reading Kobe's feet, looking for the slightest hitch.
Kobe, though, was granite. Balanced, shoulders low, eyes unblinking. A five-time All-Defensive First Team player wasn't going to bite on tricks, not with the game in the balance.
Diaw lumbered back up from the high post, raising a hand. He was ready to set the screen, give Chen Yan the crease he needed.
But Chen Yan never used it.
At the very moment Diaw arrived, Chen Yan snapped the ball back, cut the other way, and burst into open space. Kobe lunged, reacting fast, but the separation was already there.
Chen Yan took one long stride, rose up smooth, and fired from just above the free-throw line.
Kobe flew in late, an arm reaching across, trying to flash in his line of sight.
The ball arced clean, kissed the rim twice — and dropped.
"Swish!"
115–112.
It could've been a three if he'd stepped back half a foot, but that wasn't the point. At this stage, efficiency ruled. You shot when the rhythm was perfect, not when the highlight looked prettier.
The arena roared.
"That's eight straight for Chen Yan!" one of the TNT commentators shouted over the noise. "This kid has taken over again!"
"That pull-up is deadly," Barkley added. "He doesn't hesitate. No wasted motion, just rise and fire. That's confidence — and confidence kills."
The crowd buzzed. Some marveled at the shot. Some laughed about the relentless duel. Others joked about how many times Kobe and Chen Yan had been glued together like dance partners.
But down on the hardwood, there was no laughter.
Kobe bent over slightly, hands on his knees, sweat dripping like rain. His chest heaved.
Chen Yan wasn't much better. His face glistened, his eyes sharp, but his legs burned from the constant collisions and cuts.
For the fans, it was pure theater. For the players, it was survival.
This wasn't just basketball anymore. It was a war of wills.
The Lakers had the ball.
Kobe brought it up, eyes sharp, every dribble echoing like a warning. As he crossed half court, Amar'e Stoudemire and Raja Bell collapsed on him in a hard double-team.
Normally, Kobe would have forced the shot anyway—he lived for moments like this. But this time, he spotted something.
Kwame Brown. Wide open under the rim.
It was the easiest two points the Lakers could've asked for.
Kobe zipped the pass down low. The crowd buzzed—finally, an uncontested look for the big man.
But just as Kwame gathered the ball and lifted for the finish, Chen Yan flashed in from nowhere.
"Whistle!"
The ref's arm went up. A tactical foul.
Chen didn't even look apologetic. He just clapped once and jogged back to the line.
Kwame Brown at the stripe. Exactly what he wanted.
Kwame's free throw percentage on the season? A miserable 40.6%. Chen knew the math.
The first shot went up.
"Clang!"
It bricked hard off the rim. The Suns' fans howled, jeering in unison.
"Ooooooooohhhhhh!"
Kwame stepped back, sweat dripping, bouncing the ball a little too fast. He set, bent, and released the second.
But the ball slipped from his fingers, slick with nerves.
"Damn it!" he muttered under his breath as it floated off line.
The crowd gasped, then erupted.
"Missed again!"
The ball rimmed out wide, nowhere close. Not even a clean miss—this was the kind of free throw that earned nicknames on highlight reels.
On the bench, Phil Jackson closed his eyes. The Zen Master looked less like a coach and more like a man silently praying for patience.
Kobe, meanwhile, glared daggers at Kwame. First he botched a screen. Then he bricked both free throws. And now this?
His jaw tightened. His eyes burned.
"I swear," Kobe muttered, voice low but venomous, "sometimes I think you're impersonating me… just the worst version possible."
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