Chapter 79: Streetball Showdown**
What was supposed to be a simple blind date had devolved into a chaotic farce—one that left everyone involved reeling, but oddly amused. No real harm done, though, and the absurdity of it all had lightened the mood. Still, watching Liu Wei and Song Mingjie glare at each other like rival roosters, it was clear: any romantic spark between them was dead on arrival.
After saying his goodbyes, Wu Yifan wandered to the mahjong parlor next to Infinity KTV for a quick game, then finally headed back to work.
"Wu Yifan! Are you *really* going through with this streetball match against those guys?"
He'd barely settled into the security booth when Ye Xiwen burst in, her voice tight with worry. She'd been pacing, clearly fretting, and her eyes darted nervously as she spoke.
Wu Yifan blinked, then propped his feet up on the desk, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it, inhaling slowly, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "President Ye, what's the big deal? It's just a little game. Why so worked up?"
"But they called me earlier," she said, her cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment, "and said the match needed 'stakes' to make it exciting. They… they decided that whoever loses has to… to…" She trailed off, unable to finish.
"Oh? What'd they say?" Wu Yifan leaned forward, curious.
"They said the loser has to strip naked, run through every street in Beitian, and shout 'I'm gay' at the top of their lungs," Ye Xiwen blurted, her voice cracking. "It sounds like they're ready to go all in—no holds barred. This isn't just about pride anymore. It's humiliation." She cared about Wu Yifan, despite his antics; she didn't want to see him humiliated.
Wu Yifan rubbed his chin, musing. "Hmm. Seems like a raw deal for me. Those brats? They've got no curves, no muscle—stripping'd be underwhelming. No ass, no abs… what's the point?"
"Will you *listen* to me?" Ye Xiwen snapped, frustration edging her tone. She wanted to kick him out of Infinity, let him fend for himself—but then she remembered all he'd done for her lately, and her anger softened. "This is serious. What if you lose?"
"Then what *should* I do?" he asked, tossing the question back to her.
"I… I don't know," she admitted, deflating. She knew Wu Yifan—backing down from a challenge, especially to those spoiled brats, wasn't in his nature. But letting him go through with this? It made her stomach twist.
Wu Yifan stood, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Relax. I'll be fine."
"But have you *even* played basketball before?" she pressed, her doubt evident.
"Cough—okay, I'm no Michael Jordan," he said, grinning, "but those kids? I'll wipe the floor with 'em." He nearly choked on his own words, but his confidence didn't waver.
"Why haven't I ever seen you play, then?"
"True masters are lonely," he said, his voice softening, his gaze turning distant—like a hermit in the mountains, or a swordsman waiting for a worthy foe. "We don't waste energy on showboating."
Ye Xiwen found herself staring, momentarily transfixed. There was something in his eyes—something raw, something old—that made her wonder who he *really* was. This man, with his lazy smiles and casual swagger, was a mystery.
He snapped back to attention, flicking ash from his cigarette. "They set a time and place?"
"3:30 this afternoon. Red Leaf Square," she said, still frowning.
Wu Yifan's gaze drifted to the window, where a patch of bright blue sky peeked through the clouds. "Perfect."
Red Leaf Square was Beitian's beating heart—a bustling hub of activity where locals flocked to relax, shop, and socialize. On any given day, the air hummed with laughter, chatter, and the distant honk of cars. Street performers juggled fire, vendors shouted about their wares, and kids chased each other through the crowds. Today, though, all eyes were on a cluster of young men near the basketball courts.
Tang Baoer and her crew—seven or eight trendy, loud teens—had arrived early, warming up with flashy drills. Three of the guys, in particular, drew a crowd: they weaved through each other, dribbling at lightning speed, their movements fluid and synchronized. One spun, another passed behind his back, and the third launched a three-pointer that swished through the net. The crowd erupted in cheers.
Basketball might not dominate China's international sports scene, but it was a religion for the country's youth. Courts dotted every neighborhood, and pickup games—rowdy, competitive, full of trash talk—were a way of life. These kids were showing off, and they were good.
"Su Kang! Go, go, go! Another three-pointer!" Tang Baoer shouted, clapping wildly.
One of the guys—tall, with spiky blond hair—winked at her, then dribbled toward the hoop. He pivoted sharply, his body coiling like a spring, then released. The ball arced through the air and sank cleanly.
"Su Kang rules! Su Kang rules!" the group chanted, pumping their fists.
Tang Baoer grinned, but there was a edge to it. "That's how you do it! Later, we'll crush those losers. Teach 'em to call me an 'old witch.' I'll turn *them* into toads!" Just thinking about Wu Yifan's smirks made her blood boil.
A low rumble cut through the noise—a sleek black Mercedes sports car, glinting in the sun, pulled up to the curb. Heads turned; this was no ordinary ride. A million-yuan beauty, it screamed "rich kid" louder than any words could.
Song Mingjie hopped out, preening like a peacock, and surveyed the crowd with a superior smirk. Then, surprisingly, he trotted around to the passenger side and opened the door with a flourish.
A hush fell over the square.
Whoever was in that car must be someone *important*—important enough for a spoiled rich kid like Song Mingjie to play chauffeur. Single girls craned their necks, hoping for a glimpse of a handsome millionaire; maybe today was their lucky day.
Tang Baoer and her friends leaned in, curious. Who'd dare crash their warm-up with such fanfare?
Then the figure stepped out.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"It… it's *him*?" one girl shrieked, her face caked in so much makeup she looked like a clown.
Tang Baoer and the others froze, jaws dropping.
This was the guy who'd mooched free meals, the one they'd mocked as a "gold digger" living off women's money. *He* drove a Mercedes? It was absurd—almost insulting. Had gold diggers gotten this bold?
Tang Baoer rubbed her eyes, as if trying to erase the image. "No way. This isn't real. It can't be."
"But that's *definitely* him," a guy mumbled, pointing.
"Shut up! It's not!" Tang Baoer snapped, her voice trembling.
"Wow, you're here early. Should've slept in another half hour," Wu Yifan said, his tone lazier and more arrogant than theirs had been. He'd shattered her denial with one sentence.
Tang Baoer's face flushed, but she squared her shoulders, glaring. "Nice car. But we're here to play basketball, not compare rides. You're gonna regret this."
"Regret? I've been waiting to see what 'regret' feels like," he said, grinning.
"Hmph." She turned away, crossing her arms.
Song Mingjie, who'd been soaking up the attention, finally spoke up, sneering at Tang Baoer's group. "These are the brats challenging you, Brother Wu? They got rocks in their heads?"
Tang Baoer's face flickered between red and green. She stared at Song Mingjie, then burst out laughing—a sharp, mocking sound.
Wu Yifan and Song Mingjie exchanged confused looks. Had she lost her mind?
Tang Baoer wiped a tear from her eye, still chuckling. "Hey, chubby—this is a basketball court, not a butcher shop. Why'd you bring this walking meat slab? Gonna weigh him? 'Cause he's definitely up to market standards."
"HA! Nice one!" her friends howled, doubling over.
Song Mingjie's smile vanished. A cold, deadly aura rolled off him—like a switch had flipped.
No one *ever* mocked his weight. It was his trigger, his unspoken taboo.
"You think that's funny?" he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "You're brave. Stupid, but brave. Let me tell you something—you're the first to joke about this. And you'll be the last. I'll make you beg for death before I'm done with you." His fists clenched, knuckles whitening, and his eyes glinted like steel, ready to strike.
The crowd fell silent. The air crackled with tension, hotter than the sun beating down on the court.
Wu Yifan stepped forward, placing a hand on Song Mingjie's shoulder. "Easy. Save it for the game."
Song Mingjie breathed heavily, but he nodded, his gaze still locked on Tang Baoer—promising pain.
Tang Baoer, for her part, stood her ground, though her smirk had faded. She'd wanted to rile them up, but she hadn't expected this—raw, unhinged anger.
Su Kang, the blond-haired baller, stepped between them, spinning a basketball on his finger. "Enough talk. Let's play. Loser runs naked. Remember?"
Wu Yifan grinned, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's see what you got."
The crowd surged forward, phones out, ready to capture the chaos.
This wasn't just a game anymore.
It was war.