NBA: Journey To Become Unplayable.

"Why can't I win?" Durant muttered under his breath, frustration written across his face.

He shook his head, hands on his hips, sweat dripping down his chin. "Is it really me? No… I put up more points than that guy. So why?"

His gaze swept across the court as the Knicks players celebrated. "How do they even have so many good players?"

Durant shut his eyes for a moment, and for the first time, a twinge of envy crept in. Lin Yi, standing at the center of it all, looked like he was playing a different game entirely.

If Lin had known what was going through Durant's mind, he probably would've grinned and clapped him on the shoulder: Yep, my teammates are that good. Envious? Maybe you should think about joining us instead of fighting us.

On paper, Durant wasn't the problem. He'd hit 13 of 26 shots, including 3 of 6 from deep, and knocked down 7 of 8 free throws. That added up to 36 points, the highest on his team.

Westbrook had chipped in with 26, shooting 10 of 20 from the field. Harden came off the bench and added 16 more. They poured in 78 points together—yet it wasn't enough.

The Knicks' defense stood like a brick wall. Final score: 116–98. New York had officially swept Oklahoma City that season.

Lin Yi? He'd been brilliant again—29 points, 15 boards, and 7 dimes on 11-of-18 shooting.

After the buzzer, Westbrook, still buzzing with energy, clapped Lin on the back. "Good game."

Lin smiled, looking him down. "By the way, Russell, those pink glasses you rocked at All-Star Weekend… still keeping them in rotation?"

Westbrook immediately straightened up. "This is called fashion, Lin. You wouldn't get it."

Lin chuckled, patting him on the head. "Fair enough. But I've actually got a serious question—how the hell did you build all this?" He gestured at Westbrook's arms.

The Knicks forward wasn't joking. He wanted every edge he could get, and if that meant copying Westbrook's workouts, so be it.

Westbrook grinned, puffing his chest out. "You really wanna know? It's not magic—it's the grind. Early morning training, sprints, bodyweight exercises, stability balls, and parachutes. I was a scrawny little 5'8" kid when entering high school until I decided to change that."

"Oh, plus a good diet."

Lin listened intently, but the more he heard, the more he realized just how much these NBA stars put their bodies through.

"No wonder you're an All-Star," he admitted.

It wasn't flattery. It was respect. Lin realized again that no matter how much he'd been training, there was always another level. The moment you start believing you've done enough, you fall behind.

Ignorance can be fixed—you just learn. Naivety fades—you live, you adapt. But arrogance? That blinds you. And blindness in this league gets you killed.

He made a quiet decision then: the cravings and junk food could wait. For the next stretch, it was all about clean meals, steady progress.

Westbrook grinned, clearly pleased. "Lin, don't sell yourself short. From what I've heard, your training load isn't exactly light either."

He then gave Lin a look that said, Don't play innocent. You're not fooling me. I've been with enough people to know the 'I barely studied but still aced the test' routine.

Lin laughed. He'd dished out enough motivational lines and humble-sounding deflections that people had started doubting his sincerity. Fair enough.

Before parting ways, the two swapped numbers and followed each other on Twitter. Westbrook seemed intrigued when Lin brought up his summer training camp, though in the end, he said he'd stick with his workouts.

Durant, meanwhile, wasn't thrilled watching his teammate bond with the very man who had just beaten them. Harden stayed back too, not because he didn't notice, but because he knew Lin Yi too well.

Harden thought to himself: If I walk over there, he'll use it as a chance to roast me. And he won't stop. He feeds on that kind of stuff, like it makes him stronger.

Sometimes Harden wondered if Lin Yi's real superpower wasn't his game, but the way he could sting people with a few words and walk away smiling.

...

After sweeping past the Thunder, the Knicks' winning streak stretched to 21 games. The next stop: New Orleans. If they beat the Hornets, New York would tie the Rockets' famous 22-game streak—a number that carried weight, especially for Chinese fans who remembered it well.

On March 4th, the Knicks landed in Louisiana. Chris Paul had made Lin Yi a promise: the next time Lin came to New Orleans, dinner was on him.

So, there they were—Lin towering beside Paul, the height gap between them almost cartoonish.

For Lin, his strict meal plan had to be shelved for one night. There was no way he could turn down CP3's invitation. And since he considered it a last indulgence, he lobbied for fried chicken and fries.

Paul groaned, instantly regretting his generosity. He knew his own weakness all too well—fried food was his guilty pleasure, one that triggered cravings he'd been trying to suppress. But Lin's grin was infectious, and soon enough, the two were seated with a basket of crispy chicken between them.

"I swear, this is the last time I'm eating this stuff all season," Paul mumbled, already halfway through a drumstick.

"Hold on," Lin leaned over, mock-offended. "Chris, that piece you just grabbed was mine. Don't think I didn't see it."

The sight of the two squabbling over fried chicken hardly resembled NBA superstars. It looked more like two college roommates fighting over leftovers.

Paul wiped his hands and laughed. "Fine, fine. Let's order another round. That'll really be the last one."

"Sure," Lin said, eyes sparkling. "Maybe we can add fries too. Two extra servings won't kill us. We'll just train it off later."

Paul hesitated for all of three seconds before caving. "Alright, two more. Actually… three servings? We can always do suicides when we get back."

Lin leaned back, satisfied. "You know, Chris, four would round it out better. Think of it as a challenge. High-intensity drills tomorrow, easy burn."

And just like that, the floodgates opened. When foodies found each other, logic quickly went out the window.

..

Between bites, their conversation drifted back to basketball. Lin could tell Paul wasn't exactly optimistic about the Hornets' long-term direction. Ownership changes, shaky roster depth—it all pointed toward an uncertain future. Still, Paul clung to the hope of sneaking into the playoffs.

"Tyson has been really solid for you guys," Paul said, nodding. "He anchors the paint, gives some backbone defensively. Can't say the same for us."

Lin agreed. He'd always respected Chandler's defensive instincts—one of those glue guys who could completely alter a team's ceiling without scoring a single bucket.

Paul, finishing a wing, continued. "You play smart, man. You don't waste possessions. That's rare."

Lin grinned. "Coming from you, that's a compliment. But honestly, Chris, you should be calling your own number more often. Your mid-range is money. Teams focus so much on the three and the rim now, they forget what a cold-blooded pull-up can do."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "You mean more isos?"

"Why not? You're efficient. Mid-range, step-backs, floaters… add those in volume and you open up the floor even more for your guys."

It was the kind of conversation only hoop junkies could have—numbers, percentages, counter-strategies. For Lin, it was surreal talking to someone he'd watched for years, now bouncing ideas like equals.

When the meal was finally done (four baskets later, as predicted), Paul drove Lin back to the hotel. Lin, cramped in the passenger seat, tried to twist his legs into something resembling yoga poses.

Paul chuckled. "Man, I know this car's not exactly built for you. Sorry about that."

Lin squinted at him. "Chris… is that a box of fried chicken under your jacket?"

Paul's eyes widened. "What? No! You're seeing things. Don't start rumors."

"Sure, sure," Lin said, smirking.

When Paul finally watched Lin stroll into the hotel lobby, he sighed. The road to the Western Conference Finals was brutal enough without giving in to late-night cravings.

"Did that giant really wrestle me out of my chicken?"

Paul chuckled, shaking his head. "Tomorrow, I'm dropping 40 on him."

...

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