"Hey, A-Mei, what should we do now? I can't even get tickets from scalpers..."
"Don't stress, bro. Just keep looking. Who knows? Maybe a scalper will pop up right in front of us."
The two weaved through the crowd outside Madison Square Garden. The man sported a mustache and a dashingly handsome face, while the woman had an elegant air—refined and commanding, like a queen. Beside them were two assistants who, just like them, were scanning the area like they were searching for pickpockets.
"Maybe we should hit up Chenglong. He's supposed to be around here," the woman suggested, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
"Alright, I'll give him a call," the man replied, pulling out his phone.
Although they looked like siblings, the two weren't blood-related. Neither of them actually liked basketball. In Hong Kong, the basketball culture wasn't really strong. But after one conversation about the Knicks, each of them thought the other was interested—so here they were, desperately trying to find tickets.
"Chenglong, can you hear me?" the man shouted into the phone as the call connected.
"Ah! It's super noisy where you are. A-Rong, didn't you just fly out to the States for a gig? Where you at now?"
"First of all, show some respect—call me 'brother.'"
"Haha! Alright, alright, gege... that good enough?"
"Yeah, that's more like it. I'm in New York."
"Oh? I'm filming in L.A. right now. Otherwise, I'd fly over."
"Save the small talk. I've been here for hours. I need two Knicks tickets. Playoffs, bro."
"Got it. You're at Madison Square Garden, right? Can't believe you're into basketball now."
"Nah, it's A-Mei who's into it."
"A-Mei? You two came to perform together?"
"Yup."
"Alright, gimme a sec. I'll ask the Knicks' boss—Zhao Dong—to hook you up. Should be no problem at all."
"Zhao Dong? He was in the Hong Kong media a while back. They say you two are tight."
"Man, you should've called earlier."
"We thought we could just buy tickets like normal. Turns out it's chaos. Even scalpers are dry."
"It's the playoffs, dude. Knicks are the reigning champs, and they're hotter than ever. You think you can beat out millions of New Yorkers for a ticket? Alright, I'll hit you back."
---
By 6:00 p.m., the Knicks' team bus pulled into the arena, instantly mobbed by thousands of screaming fans.
"Dynasty! Dynasty! Dynasty!"
The roar crashed down like a tidal wave over Madison Square Garden, shaking the very concrete underfoot. The energy rolled through Manhattan like thunder.
"Zhao Dong! Zhao Dong! Zhao Dong!"
Zhao Dong took off his headphones, stood from his seat, and waved toward the fans crowding the windows. Instantly, the sound reached deafening levels.
"Are these Americans insane...?" Ah Rong mumbled, visibly overwhelmed.
Ah Mei, standing beside him, nodded. "This is wild. Even our concerts aren't this crazy."
"Look! Isn't that Zhao Dong on the bus?" she said, eyes sharp as ever.
"Yup, looks like him. Dude's a straight-up rockstar here," Ah Rong replied in awe.
"Hong Kong media called him a world-class sports superstar," Ah Mei said with a smirk. "But there were rumors he's just some gigolo with a sugar mama."
"Don't believe that trash. The media's the same garbage no matter where you go," said Ah Rong, who had his own beef with the press.
"But I mean, his wife is filthy rich. Heard she's got heavy stakes in companies like Hutchison Group, Hong Kong Electric, even an investment firm called Storm Fund. She's on a bunch of boards, too."
Back at the hotel, Chenglong was still trying to get through to Zhao Dong, calling again.
---
Inside the bus, Zhao Dong finally noticed his phone vibrating. He picked it up and saw Chenglong's name flashing.
"Yo, Brother Chenglong?"
"Bro! I've called you like twenty times!"
"Haha, sorry. Just got inside. Too noisy earlier."
"Figured you were heading into the arena. Listen, I've got two friends who couldn't score tickets. Can you help 'em out?"
"No problem. My wife has a VIP suite locked in year-round. No one's using it tonight."
"Awesome."
"They're outside right now, yeah? I'll meet them at the entrance. They'll recognize me, right?"
"Dude, even a blind man knows who you are these days."
"Alright then. Tell them to meet me at Entrance 1. Talk soon."
A few minutes later, the bus rolled into the underground lot. The Knicks players stepped off, gear slung over their shoulders. Zhao Dong passed his bag to Dazhi, waved to his teammates, and headed toward the entrance himself.
Entrance 1 was nearly empty—VIP only. The other gates were already packed with screaming fans and camera crews.
"Yo, Zhao Dong!"
"Arnold! Good to see you."
"Sylvester!"
"Liv, you're looking more stunning every time."
Celebs flowed in nonstop. Within minutes, stars like Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Liv Tyler, and Mariah Carey strolled by, exchanging greetings with Zhao Dong like old friends.
After ten minutes and a parade of famous faces, Zhao Dong finally spotted the ones he'd been waiting for.
Zhao Dong blinked in surprise. "Zhang Guorong? Mei Yanfang?"
"Yes, that's us. Hello, Zhao Dong," Arong greeted politely. "We asked Chenglong to get in touch with you. Sorry for the trouble."
"No trouble at all," Zhao Dong replied with a smile. "Honestly, I'm glad to work with you both."
After a brief exchange, they headed inside and began chatting casually.
"So, are you two in New York for a movie shoot or a concert?" Zhao Dong asked as they took their seats.
"A concert," Zhang Guorong answered with a grin. "The schedule just happens to overlap with your game."
"Oh, I see. How's the economy doing back in Hong Kong?" Zhao Dong asked.
"It's doing better," Zhang replied. "The market's recovering quite a bit."
Mei Yanfang remained quiet, studying Zhao Dong curiously. His fame had long extended beyond the court, but that wasn't what intrigued her. What caught her attention was the Storm Fund—his wife Lindsay's financial group—making waves in Hong Kong after bottoming out during the financial storm last year. In a blink, Storm Fund had placed directors in dozens of major corporations.
She couldn't help but wonder: how much money did Lindsay really have? And how did she have the guts to buy in at the bottom when everyone else was running scared? If only she had that kind of courage…
After escorting Zhang Guorong and Mei Yanfang to Lindsay's VIP room and making plans for Jackie Chan to meet them tomorrow, Zhao Dong said his goodbyes and left.
As he walked down the hall, a thought crossed his mind—he vaguely remembered that Mei Yanfang would face health issues later this year. Though it wouldn't turn into cancer just yet, it would relapse the following year. Because she would keep working through it, it would eventually spread. Maybe he could give her a heads-up, encourage her to take better care of herself?
---
At 7 PM, in the Knicks' home locker room, reporters were allowed in for pre-game interviews.
Just as things were wrapping up, a loud commotion erupted outside. A group of bodyguards rolled in—right in the middle was Pistons legend Bill Laimbeer.
The moment he tried to get near the locker room, he was blocked by arena security. Almost instantly, Zhao Dong's own bodyguards flanked the door, holding position.
"Laimbeer? What the hell is he doing here?" Knicks GM Ernie Grunfeld muttered in surprise.
"I got something to say to your guy," Laimbeer said coldly, pulling the cigar from his mouth and raising his chin.
"Zhao Dong?" Ernie raised a brow. "Alright, wait here."
He turned and stepped into the locker room.
"Zhao Dong," he called out, "Bill Laimbeer wants a word."
Zhao Dong blinked, then scoffed. "He's here for me?"
As soon as the name "Laimbeer" was mentioned, the reporters in the room scrambled out like vultures, snapping pictures left and right.
Only CCTV's Yang Yi stayed behind. "Zhao Dong," he said with a smirk, "he's probably pissed that you said you're gonna sweep the Pistons."
"Man, I am gonna sweep the Pistons," Zhao Dong shrugged. "What, he think he can stop me? Dude's retired. Even if the Bad Boys were still around, they're not Jordan—and I ain't bleeding for anyone. If they want a war, they better be ready to lose both on and off the court."
Danny Fortson stepped forward, fired up. "Yo Boss, if that dude's got beef, let's shut him up quick!"
Zhao Dong turned and rolled his eyes. "Man, you serious? We're the New York Gentlemen, remember? You don't throw hands right away. There's a way to do things—courtesy first, then force."
"Oh… right," Fortson scratched his head. "But didn't you just say—?"
"Dazhi," Zhao Dong called over, "teach this kid what 'courtesy before force' means."
Wang Zhizhi thought for a moment. "Say hi first. Then knock 'em out."
"Ohhh, now I get it!" Fortson grinned.
Zhao Dong led the team out to meet Laimbeer in the hallway.
"So, I heard you're not too happy I said we're sweeping Detroit?" Zhao Dong said, arms crossed.
Laimbeer didn't respond right away. Instead, he shook his head. "I don't care if you sweep 'em. They deserve it—they're weak."
"Then what're you here for?"
Laimbeer stared at him, his eyes full of suspicion. He wasn't stupid—he knew better than to provoke someone backed by Lindsay, a woman who practically ran Wall Street. Even Fortune 500 companies avoided crossing her. Just ask Nike what happened when they tried.
He didn't come to pick a fight. He came to understand something.
To him, it didn't make sense. Zhao Dong—just an NBA player—was married to a woman like her. Superstars came and went. Being the best in the league, even a global sports icon, didn't hold up against that kind of money and power.
So why? Why was this guy the one?
"I don't think you deserve Lindsay," Laimbeer finally said, dead serious.
Zhao Dong blinked… and then burst out laughing.
"You're a clown, man. Wasting my damn time."
He turned and headed back into the locker room.
"Zhao Dong!" Laimbeer shouted, "I'm not finished!"
"Then get the hell outta here!" Zhao Dong's voice boomed from inside. "You interrupt my game prep one more time and I'll drop you. Try me!"
Laimbeer cursed under his breath and stormed off with his entourage.
"What the hell was that about?" Hu Weidong asked, puzzled.
Zhao Dong chuckled. "Second-gen rich dudes got nothing better to do. They're bored, so they start picking fights. Whatever pops into their heads, they just do it."
---
Back inside the locker room, Zhao Dong sat down and fired up the system.
He still had that talent lottery reward saved from the last game against the Lakers.
But he wasn't in a rush to use it.
At his current level, even pulling a top-tier talent would just be icing on the cake. He already had more than enough to dominate.
"System, if the system is reset in the future, what'll happen to the talent lottery?" Zhao Dong asked.
"The lottery options will change according to the host's selections," the system replied.
"Alright then. Prep it, but don't activate yet."
Zhao Dong didn't hesitate—he chose to store the reward for later.
---
Thirty minutes later – Knicks vs Pistons, Game Night
Zhao Dong balled out. A monster triple-double with 30+ points, leading the Knicks to an absolute beatdown of the Pistons: 108–81. That's a 27-point statement win.
As the buzzer sounded and players started heading off the court, Zhao Dong pointed straight at the scoreboard and barked at Laimbeer, who was standing on the sidelines.
"Yo, Laimbeer! That scoreboard look good to you?"
Laimbeer scowled. "If this was my era, I'd've knocked you on your ass in the paint."
Zhao Dong didn't even blink. "If you tried, I'd get up and wipe the floor with all of y'all—including you, you prehistoric fossil."
Laimbeer's jaw clenched. "I bet you won't even defend that title."
Zhao Dong smirked. "Bet a billion dollars I will. You in or nah?"
"You cocky, tax-free freeloader," Laimbeer spat. "You ain't got that kind of cash. Miss Lindsay won't bankroll you like that."
Click, click, click!
Sideline reporters rushed over. Flashbulbs fired like strobe lights. The drama was too good.
Zhao Dong leaned in, eyes cold. "The real question is: Can you throw up ten billion? What, daddy won't let you? Hah! You tryna act like a big shot, but you're just a second-gen leech. If pops disappears, you can't even pay the inheritance tax."
He paused, then added with steel in his tone.
"But me? I'm self-made. I burn a billion today, I'll make two tomorrow. I'm a damn empire. You? You're a consumer. Can't even scrape together a billion. You ain't qualified to bark in my direction."
Laimbeer's face turned pale, chest tight with rage. He wanted to respond, but he knew—he didn't have that kind of leverage. Not even close.
Zhao Dong saw it, smirked, then turned and walked off with his crew.
A reporter called out, "Laimbeer! Why not take the bet?"
"I bet that loudmouth ain't got a billion either. He's bluffing," Laimbeer said coldly, still glaring.
"Then take the offer," another reporter pressed.
"Take your mom—this ain't no damn Monopoly game! You think I'm throwing ten billion on the table for fun?" Laimbeer snapped.
The crowd of reporters burst into laughter.
"Man, screw this. Damn first-gen rich boy. I'm done with this circus—maybe I'll just coach college ball. Better than playing gigolo for the press." Muttering curses, Laimbeer stormed off with his team.
---
Later That Night – Around the League
Besides the Knicks' big W, the Bulls took down the Hawks. In the West, both the Spurs and Lakers came out on top, claiming Game 1 victories.
---
May 10 – 3 PM, JFK Airport
Jackie Chan arrived in New York from Los Angeles. Zhang Mei and her assistants were already waiting at the airport.
"So? How was the game last night?" Jackie asked after they got in the car.
"It was wild—way more intense than soccer," Zhang Guorong said, his voice light but tired.
Jackie glanced at him with concern. "Bro, why don't you stay here a while? Get away from all the Hong Kong media heat."
He knew Guorong had been under crushing pressure for the last couple of years, especially after all the drama with Mr. Tang.
Just this past January, during an interview with the infamous paparazzi queen, Cha Xiaoxin, Zhang Guorong admitted, "I don't want to die. I want to live." That line haunted Jackie. He knew Guorong was hurting deep down.
"I've been telling him to take a break, but he doesn't listen," said Anita Mui, shaking her head.
Zhang Guorong gave a faint smile. "Even if I'm here, those paparazzi still find me."
Jackie leaned forward. "Let me hit up Brother Zhao. He's got serious pull in this city—and his wife's a big name on Wall Street. Real top-tier elite."
Anita raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly is he supposed to help? He can't arrest all the reporters."
"Arresting them won't stop them from making things up anyway," Zhang Guorong added with a sigh.
Jackie scratched his head. "I mean, I don't know exactly. I'm not on their level. But trust me—Zhao Dong's solid. A real boss. You'll understand once you meet him."
Zhang Mei and the others could only nod in silence. Guorong didn't argue anymore. He wanted peace—just a little breathing room. Coming to the U.S. had bought him a few days of quiet. It felt like heaven.
But that peace wouldn't last. Paparazzi had already started sniffing him out today.
---
5 PM – Chinese Restaurant, Long Island
Zhao Dong met the trio at a quiet upscale spot. He gave Jackie a warm hug as they sat down.
"Congrats, Brother Dong! You're definitely defending the crown this year," Jackie said with a laugh.
"Haha, from your lips to God's ears."
They all sat down as dishes began to arrive.
After some light chatter, Jackie found his opening.
"Brother Dong, Arong's planning to rest up here for a bit. Those Hong Kong paparazzi are relentless. Think you could help out?"
Zhao Dong nodded. He knew all too well how the media had destroyed Zhang Guorong's privacy in his final years.
"I can keep the U.S. media off him, yeah. But the root problem? That's back in Hong Kong."
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