Not long after, news broke again—this time the Kings had agreed to swap this year's draft picks with the Knicks. Derrick Williams was heading to New York, Quincy Acy to Sacramento, with the Knicks also sending over a 2018 first-round pick. Then came another trade: Jason Thompson to the Nets in exchange for Bojan Bogdanovic, who had yet to play an NBA game, plus a 2017 second-rounder.
These two moves barely registered with the public—most of the players involved were hardly household names—but what the Kings did next set the league buzzing.
Right after finalizing the Knicks deal, Chen Yilun bought out Quincy Acy's contract and used the open roster spot to sign Greg Oden, the former No. 1 pick long written off by the league, to a non-guaranteed deal.
"The Kings still aren't ready to give up on the Big Man—they actually want to try again," ESPN analysts scoffed. To them, Oden's downfall was already set in stone. The Kings' move was like picking up a lottery ticket that had already been scratched clean with "Better luck next time" showing, yet insisting on scratching it again.
In the past few days, the Kings had first gone to Phoenix and dismantled the Suns, then fallen to the Thunder on the road, ending their six-game winning streak...and now they were flying to Dallas to face the Mavericks.
"Stick with the usual rotation today. Oden, your rehab isn't done yet, so you're sitting this one out. Bojan, you'll come off the bench in Williams' spot."
In the visitors' locker room, Malone stood with arms crossed, laying out the plan. "The Mavericks are strong—especially with Parsons joining this year. Nowitzki and Ellis have more space to operate. We can't let ourselves get sucked into their rhythm."
At the Mavericks' home arena, the Kings were greeted by a wall of boos. Chen Yilun glanced over at Oden, sitting expressionless at the end of the bench, and slid into the seat next to him.
"How's it feel being back on the court?"
Oden hesitated before answering. "It's been a long time. Even without playing, just sitting here… it gets my heart pumping."
Chen chuckled. "Relax. I keep my promises. I didn't drag you all the way from New York to keep you on the bench." He leaned in closer. "If you can help the team, that three-year deal is already set—just waiting for your signature."
It was only a veteran minimum contract, but for Oden, desperate to return, it was more than enough.
"You have my word, Chen. I won't let you down." Oden clenched his fists.
On the floor, Malone sent out the twin towers—Cousins and Mozgov—to deal with the aging Dirk Nowitzki. Even in the twilight of his career, Nowitzki remained a dangerous threat thanks to his masterful one-legged fadeaway and the unwavering support of team owner Mark Cuban.
In the paint, Nowitzki sealed his man, and Ellis wasted no time feeding him the ball. Posting up Cousins, Dirk gave two hard bumps, saw he wasn't moving him, then spun into his signature one-legged fade.
Cousins had anticipated it, but even with arms fully extended, he could only watch the ball sail over his fingertips, kiss the rim twice, and drop in.
The crowd roared as their franchise icon delivered again. Fired up, Cousins called for the ball to go at Dirk one-on-one—but the veteran's savvy defense threw him off, and the shot clanged out.
Watching Cousins get carried away, Malone shook his head. His system thrived on fluid ball movement, where every player had to keep the machine humming. Under Chen Yilun's roster building and Malone's coaching, the Kings had started to show that style—except their most important piece, Cousins, often followed his own impulses.
The Mavericks, for their part, weren't all that different from the Kings—Nowitzki and veteran Tyson Chandler inside, Ellis and newcomer Parsons outside. The matchups mirrored each other.
In transition, Dirk got it again down low, used textbook footwork to leave Cousins behind, and scored easily. Cousins muscled in a bucket of his own on the next trip, but the Kings' rhythm was already off.
With four minutes left in the first quarter, Malone used a dead-ball situation to pull Cousins.
Jokić, coming off the bench, looked across at Nowitzki and instinctively hunched his shoulders. Dirk was one of the greatest European players of the modern era, his legend well known across the continent.
Nowitzki studied the young Serb in return. Different countries, same European bloodline—and that earned Jokić a bit of goodwill.
"Watch closely, kid."
Receiving the ball just outside the paint, Dirk turned to face Jokić. "I'm only showing you this once."
Before Jokić could react, Dirk lowered his shoulder, selling the pull-up, then spun into a soft floater.
The ball traced a perfect arc into the net. Jokić, hanging helpless in midair, caught a glimpse of Dirk's fully extended form, golden hair flowing—picture perfect.
Damn… that was beautiful.
Jokić stood frozen, replaying it in his mind. No wonder Nowitzki was hailed as the greatest European power forward since the Golden Generation—how could anyone not admire that?
"Don't just stand there, let's go!" CJ yelled after taking the inbound and seeing Jokić still in the backcourt.
"Huh? Oh—coming!" Snapping out of it, Jokić hurried forward.
"Hahaha! That kid Jokić just got schooled by Nowitzki," Barkley roared in the broadcast booth. "That's Dirk's charm—nobody gets tired of watching him. Beautiful to watch, lethal to play against."
"And he's in great form today," Miller added, twirling his marker. "First he took Cousins one-on-one, now he's scoring easily over Jokić. Who'd believe he's almost 40?"
On the sideline, Malone wasn't nearly as amused. Dirk's hot hand was bad enough—what made it worse was having no one to stop him.
"Mozgov, you're on Nowitzki! Run play one—we can't keep letting them score so easily!"
With time left in the first, the Mavericks led 18–11 and the Kings' offense was sputtering.
CJ slowed the pace, called Jokić for a screen, then used his go-to move—the drive and kick. Cutting hard into the lane, he drew the defense and whipped the ball out to an open Casspi.
Casspi caught it, saw nothing but space ahead, took a breath, and let it fly.
Clang! Wide-open, but no good. Chandler, already in position, snagged the rebound and fired it to Ellis on the break.
Even in his 30s, Ellis was lightning once he got going—Ben chased hard but couldn't close the gap. A quick crossover left the defender behind, and Ellis laid it in untouched.
The home crowd erupted—Ellis had just burned a player more than ten years his junior.
"Timeout! Timeout!" Malone barked. "The plays aren't running, you can't hit shots, and a guy pushing 40 is tearing us apart inside. What are you doing?"
The players hung their heads as Malone lit into them. "Stick to the plan. I don't care if the shot falls to Casspi or Ben—take it without hesitation! Don't be afraid to miss!"
As they headed back onto the court, Malone shook his head. CJ was both the steadiest ball handler and one of the best three-point shooters on the team—when he had the ball, they lost open looks; without the ball, the offense stalled.
The only fix was to develop another playmaker. As that thought crossed his mind, Malone's eyes drifted to the bench… where LaVine sat draped in a towel, watching intently.
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