After sweeping the Heat 4-0, the Knicks did not linger in Miami. James Dolan had already arranged a private victory celebration for the team back in New York.
It was 4 AM when their plane finally landed at JFK Airport, but the city was wide awake.
Hundreds of Knicks fans had flooded the airport terminal, chanting at the top of their lungs. The moment Lin Yi stepped out of the arrival gate, the roar became deafening.
"MVP! MVP! MVP!"
"LIN YI! LIN YI!"
The fans waved signs, jerseys, and phones with their flashlights on. Some were in tears. In just three years, the Knicks had reached the NBA Finals twice. For long-suffering New York basketball fans, this moment felt almost surreal.
Signs waved wildly in the air — King of MSG, Eastern Conference Champions, and We Believe in the Knicks. One group of fans had even brought a large banner that read:
Finally seeing New York at 4 AM with Lin Yi.
Lin Yi smiled tiredly and walked closer to the barriers, signing a few jerseys and taking quick photos with fans who were reaching out desperately.
Then he noticed a kid.
No more than ten, standing on his toes, holding up a handmade poster with a rough sketch of Lin Yi's face. The lines were uneven, the coloring off, but the effort was obvious.
"Lin Yi, you're my hero!" the boy yelled.
Lin Yi crouched slightly to sign the poster.
"Thank you, little man." Lin ruffled the boy's hair. "Keep cheering for us in the Finals, okay?"
The boy nodded vigorously, nearly speechless with excitement.
"Klay, can I have you autograph too?" The kid said, pulling off his best puppy eyes.
"Sure, why not, champ?" Klay reached to sigh next to Lin's signature but was stopped by the kid.
"Can it be on this rather. This poster is only for Lin. The MVP." The sincerely said while providing a Knicks' 2011 Championship notebook. It already contained signed pages by Knicks stars over the years.
Klay paused for a second, lips pressing together as if he was deciding whether to laugh or be offended.
Lin did not bother holding it in.
Klay took the notebook anyway and signed it cleanly.
"Thanks, Klay. You the best." The kid said, whilst hugging Thompson before scampering away.
" Damn. Even the kids of New York are hustlers. That notebook must be worth a lot." Klay said.
After their little distraction, they moved on.
Klay Thompson, walking beside Lin, looked around in awe. "Lin… this is insane. Do they ever sleep?"
Before Lin Yi could answer, more fans shouted:
"Klay! You cooked Ray Allen!"
"Chandler! Protect the paint!"
"Paul! We going all the way!"
The team slowly made their way through the terminal, surrounded by love and noise. For long-suffering Knicks fans, this moment felt like pure catharsis.
. . .
Once they finally made it to the team buses, the banter inside immediately kicked off.
Klay Thompson, still buzzing with energy, turned to Lin Yi with sparkling eyes.
"Bro, what was the championship parade like last time? Was it crazy?"
Tyson Chandler answered before Lin Yi could. "Crazy? Man, it was biblical! People hanging from lampposts, girls flashing, everybody crying. From Madison Square Garden all the way down to City Hall. I felt like a rockstar."
Livingston jumped in. "I tried to rap on stage during the last parade and completely forgot the lyrics halfway through. This time, I got a whole new verse ready. Y'all better not laugh."
Tony Allen shook his head dramatically. "Just promise we're not eating spicy again during the celebration. My stomach can't handle it."
The whole bus erupted in laughter.
Lin Yi covered his face with both hands. "We haven't even won the championship yet! You guys are already planning the parade food and your rap performances? Have some shame!"
Chris Paul, sitting across from him, smirked. "Says the guy who already has a ring and three MVPs. Some of us are still trying to get our first. Let us dream!"
Klay suddenly stood up dramatically. "I'm telling you right now — if we win, I'm doing the parade shirtless. Body oil and everything. New York needs to see these abs."
"You'll blind people," Tony Allen fired back. "Keep that pale chest covered, please."
Yao Ming, who had been quietly laughing, finally spoke up in his deep voice. "If we have a parade, I just want to eat dumplings. Lots of dumplings. No hotpot. No rap. Just dumplings."
The bus filled with more laughter.
Lin Yi shook his head, smiling despite himself. "You clowns are going to jinx us. We still have the Finals ahead."
Paul pointed at him. "See? This is why you're the leader. Always raining on our parade… literally."
The entire team groaned at the pun.
As the team got down after the trip, James Dolan stood waiting near the exit, visibly moved as he watched his players. The once-maligned Knicks owner looked at his team with something close to awe.
"Amazing," he said quietly. "Three years ago, I could only dream of this. Now reality has left my imagination behind."
. . .
After a night of celebration and very little sleep, reality began to settle back in. Reaching the Finals was an incredible achievement, but it was not the ultimate prize.
Lin Yi chose not to dampen the team's spirits immediately. However, the very next morning, his phone started ringing.
First came Klay Thompson.
"I'm coming over later to train with you."
Lin Yi hung up without answering.
Then Yao Ming called.
"Let's train together today."
Chris Paul was next.
"Lin, we can't get complacent just because we made the Finals!"
Even Tyson Chandler sent a message: "My wife and I talked. I'm ready for some one-on-one work."
Lin Yi stared at his phone in disbelief and simply turned it off. He rolled over in bed and pulled the covers higher.
After their big talks about the parade and stuff, they now want to train. Hell no! Am tired. Plus, I need some recharging, mhm... from Liz.
Lin further spooned Olsen, which Olsen reciprocated by backing further into him.
This is life.
. . .
In Miami, Pat Riley, who had just been discharged from the hospital, suddenly sneezed while sitting at his desk.
"Bless me."
"Seems like a lot of people are talking about me lately…" he muttered.
He wasn't wrong.
Riley stared at the text message Rich Paul had sent him earlier:
"If the Heat cannot find a player who can contend with Lin Yi, my client wants out of Miami next season."
Riley leaned back in his chair, a cold smile forming on his lips.
"Young people are still young after all," he said softly. "Where else can LeBron go? Man needs patience."
But deep down, even the Godfather of the Heat was beginning to worry. Miami's market pull might not be as strong as he once believed.
. . .
On the 29th, the Western Conference Finals shifted to Oklahoma City.
For the first time in days, Lin Yi allowed himself to slow down.
The game was playing on the screen, but his focus drifted between the court and the quiet space around him. A slice of cake sat on the table, homemade.
Lin Yi lounged on the plush couch, the game lights flickering across his focused face. Elizabeth Olsen perched comfortably on his lap, her back pressed against his chest, his strong arms wrapped around her waist in a protective hold.
One hand rested gently on the subtle swell of her belly, a silent reminder of the life they were building together. She nestled into him, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his forearm, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the air-conditioned room.
Suddenly, Elizabeth let out a heavy sigh, her body tensing. She shifted, sliding off his lap to sit beside him, her green eyes locking onto his with a mix of frustration and tenderness.
Lin glanced at her, confused, but before he could speak, she cupped his face in her soft hands, tilted his head toward hers. Her thumbs were brushing his stubbled cheeks.
"We've talked about this situation a hundred times, Lin, and you're still treating me like I'm made of glass," she said, her voice steady but laced with emotion.
"Me trying to rush to Miami when you hit the ground so hard on the court? That wasn't your fault—it was mine. I got all emotional, lost my head, and made a stupid mistake. Thank God Sharon was there to talk me down. I shouldn't have put our baby in that kind of risk."
She swallowed lightly.
Lin's dark eyes searched hers, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his usual composure. He placed his hands over hers, holding them against his face for a moment before murmuring, "You don't understand."
Her brows furrowed, determination flashing in her gaze. "Then make me understand, Lin. Please."
With a soft nod, she guided him to lean back, easing his head onto her lap. The scent of her vanilla shampoo filled his senses as she threaded her fingers through his thick, dark hair, combing gently from root to tip.
Her touch was soothing, easing the tension from his shoulders as he stared up at the ceiling, gathering his words.
"When that phone call came in, it hit me like a freight train." Lin exhaled.
He paused.
"I panicked so hard. It wasn't my finest moment."
His eyes shifted slightly, then returned to hers.
A faint, almost helpless smile followed.
"I'm really sorry you had to watch me eat, slamming down hard. And yeah, I get it...I can't blame you for reacting. Your hormones are all over the place right now. Pregnancy changes how you see everything, amps up the fear. But damn, Liz, it scared the hell out of me too."
As he spoke, Elizabeth's fingers continued their gentle massage, weaving through his hair with increasing affection.
She leaned down, her breath warm against his skin, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
"I..."
Another kiss, lingering a beat longer.
"Am..."
Her lips met his again, tasting faintly of the vanilla ice cream she'd eaten earlier.
"Truly..."
This one deeper, her tongue flicking teasingly against his.
"Sorry."
The final kiss sealed the words, sweet and possessive, drawing a quiet groan from deep in his throat.
Lin lifted his head from her lap, sitting up slowly, his hands finding her waist to pull her closer as he leaned down. Their mouths crashed together in a deep, hungry kiss—long and slurpy, wet sounds filling the space between them as tongues tangled and breaths mingled. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him tight.
Reluctantly, she broke the kiss, her cheeks flushed, and guided his head back to her lap with a playful smile. Stroking his hair once more, she glanced at the TV where the Thunder were pulling ahead.
Curiosity sparked in her eyes as she asked, "So, which team do you want to face in the finals?"
He smirked up at her, his hand drawing circles on her thigh. "Thunder. Oklahoma Thunder."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Why them?"
"Because they're my bitch," he said with a cocky grin, the words slipping out unfiltered.
Elizabeth's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in mock scandal as she stifled a laugh.
"Language!" she scolded, swatting his arm lightly. "We don't want the baby picking up that kind of talk in there."
"Sorry," he shrugged, unrepentant, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But it's true."
. . .
Russell Westbrook went nuclear.
Game 4 of the Western Conference Finals turned into his personal stage. Every possession ran through him, every decision carried force. By the end of the night, the numbers told the story clearly.
33 points, 13 rebounds, and 10 assists on 12-of-18 shooting.
The Spurs dropped their second straight on the road.
2–2.
. . .
In San Antonio, Gregg Popovich felt it immediately.
The East had already been decided in dominant fashion. The Knicks had gone through their bracket clean, untouched, resting while the West battled.
Time was no longer an ally.
Inside the Spurs locker room, Popovich stood in front of his players, voice calm but firm.
"We cannot let this drag on," he said.
"This year is another window for a chip."
The room stayed silent.
"You all know your bodies. You know what next season looks like. We do not get endless chances at this."
His gaze moved across the veterans.
"We finish this. Quickly."
That was enough.
Across the room, Tim Duncan reached out, lightly tapping Tony Parker and Manu Ginóbili on the head, a quiet gesture that carried more weight than any speech.
Nearby, Jimmy Butler clenched his fists, absorbing every word. Andrei Kirilenko tightened the wrap around his knee without a sound.
No one needed the motivation explained to them.
This was a team that had heard the same narrative for years. Too old. Too slow. Past their peak.
And every year, they answered the same way.
By winning rings.
. . .
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