The lights of the practice facility shone down. Every "unintentional" display of basketball IQ by LeBron, and every carefully crafted story in the media, was a small wedge, slowly prying open the existing power structure of the Celtics.
The post-practice locker room was steamy, smelling of sweat and muscle cream. LeBron wiped his face with a towel, his gaze casually sweeping over Paul Pierce, who was changing. Pierce's face was darker than usual. Clearly, the media chatter about "team basketball" and "efficient choices" had hit a nerve.
"Paul," LeBron said, his voice laced with just the right amount of concern. "That baseline play earlier... I thought maybe if you flared out from the corner, there'd be more space. Just a thought..."
Pierce paused tying his shoe. He didn't look up. "I know the plays, rookie. Worry about your own game." The room went quiet. Other players looked down, pretending to be busy.
LeBron immediately raised his hands in surrender, his face innocent. "Of course, man. You're the captain. I'm just... trying to learn." He made himself small, making the "suggestion" seem like a mere rookie's mistake.
But Pierce felt it. This constant "eagerness to learn" was quietly eating away at his authority. The rookie wasn't challenging him directly; he was using humility as a weapon, silently rewriting the rules of the game.
Just then, veteran Eric Williams walked over. He clapped LeBron on the shoulder. "Hey, LeBron. That fake-screen idea you had was interesting. We should try it." Williams said this while glancing at Pierce.
Pierce's jaw tightened. Without a word, he grabbed his bag and was the first out of the door.
LeBron gave Williams a grateful smile, but inside, he was cold and clear. Williams was one of the players unhappy with Pierce's role. The research by Lisa and LeBron's private "listening" sessions had quietly built an unspoken alliance.
Meanwhile, Lisa Kruger's media machine was running full speed. She moved beyond local Boston media to national sports platforms.
On an ESPN show, a analyst discussed the Celtics: "...We see incredible maturity from LeBron James. His passing could add a whole new layer to their offense. The key is whether Boston will optimize around this talent. Perhaps having a star who's great off the ball—obviously Pierce—cut down on less efficient isolation plays would boost the team's overall efficiency..."
Another online article "objectively" compared LeBron's and Pierce's early-season advanced stats—"potential assists," "assisted rate"—using cold numbers to hint at which style helped the team more.
These comments, dressed as expert analysis, were like a slow poison, seeping into public opinion.
Fan forums shifted further:
"Seeing the stats, Paul does use too many possessions."
"LeBron makes so many great passes in limited minutes. Imagine if he ran the offense more..."
Lisa even arranged an exclusive interview. In it, LeBron played the perfect loyal teammate: "My job is to make Paul's job easier. He's one of the toughest scorers in the league. I just need to get him the ball where he likes it, or find the open man when he's doubled."
This was praised as "high-IQ team play." But when Pierce's "rookie, worry about yourself" comment was "leaked," the contrast made Pierce look stubborn and resistant to change.
In Danny Ainge's office, the GM watched game tapes and data reports with coach Jim O'Brien.
"Your thoughts, Jim?" Ainge tapped a report showing a significant jump in offensive efficiency when LeBron was on the court.
Coach O'Brien frowned. "LeBron is smart. Scary smart. Some of his passes are bold, but they work. As for Paul... he's still our best scorer. But sometimes, his decisions could be better."
Ainge nodded. "This team needs to win. And it has a future. LeBron plays a more modern, efficient game. Maybe... it's time to give him more responsibility."
A silent shift was brewing in the front office.
Back in his apartment, LeBron listened to Lisa's update, his face blank.
"And Pierce?" he asked.
"Our 'friend' got some new material," Lisa sounded excited. "After the loss to Indiana last night, Pierce didn't go back with the team. He hit a private club until 3 AM. With some... questionable friends. Looked upset. Maybe even had a argument."
"Clear photos? Video?"
"Clear enough. But we need a bigger spark."
"Good," LeBron said, his voice flat. "Keep collecting. Stick to the plan. Wait for the right moment. The next time he misses a clutch shot, or we hit a losing streak... that's when we use it."
He hung up and walked to the window. The Boston nightscape spread out below.
He knew Pierce was near his breaking point. The constant media pressure, the shifting attitudes in the front office, the subtle changes in the locker room—all were squeezing the star.
All he needed was a trigger. A crucial game. A heated argument. Maybe just a small clash in practice.
Then, all the material he'd gathered, all the舆论 he'd built, would become the final straw. All the blame and disappointment would land squarely on Paul Pierce.
The reborn King coldly planned his next moves. His eyes looked past the current struggle, toward a future and the glory he had once lost, and would surely reclaim.
This game for power? He intended to win.