Chapter 23: That Night of Rest

The first quarter lasted nine minutes, and He Xinghui, along with several other main players, were gradually substituted. In the latter half, He Xinghui made three attempts, landing only one three-pointer, revealing his true skill level. However, because the Pistons paid excessive attention to He Xinghui, it allowed Maggette to shine brilliantly. By the end of the first quarter, the Clippers were ahead 30 to 24, leading by six points. Among the stats, He Xinghui had scored 13 points and made three assists—numbers worthy of a star player.

On the court, substitutes pecked at each other like rookies, while He Xinghui and his teammates laughed and chatted on the sidelines.

“What do you think would happen if I provoked the Pistons’ fans right now and triggered another Palace at Auburn Hills incident? Wouldn’t that be interesting?” He Xinghui asked.

“No, no, not interesting at all. Buddy, calm down, there’s absolutely no need for that.” Kaman was so startled he hugged He Xinghui in a hurry. He could now see clearly that He Xinghui was the type who feared neither heaven nor earth and thrived on stirring up trouble.

“Ah, missed another chance to make a name for myself. Just think about it—if you spend your life quietly playing basketball, how many people will remember your name? But if you get into a brawl with fans, you’ll be famous overnight.” He Xinghui sighed.

Jackson’s career was unremarkable; if not for the Palace at Auburn Hills incident, how could he have earned the nickname “Saint of War”?

“That kind of fame isn’t worth it,” Kaman, being an adult, wasn’t easily swayed by He Xinghui’s twisted logic.

Halfway through the second quarter, He Xinghui and Kaman were sent back in, enjoying the treatment reserved for the main lineup. Seeing He Xinghui return to the court, the Pistons’ head coach Saunders felt a sudden unease. Just now, while He Xinghui was resting, the Pistons had played well, slowly evening the score. For battles with familiar opponents, Saunders was right at home. But whenever the unpredictable factor of He Xinghui entered the game, headaches ensued.

He Xinghui’s true strength and technical traits remained a mystery to Saunders. If you say He Xinghui is strong, the latter half of the first quarter gave no evidence—devoting too much energy to him seemed unwarranted. But if you say he’s not strong, he started the game with five consecutive hits, a dazzling performance.

Now, Saunders found himself unable to underestimate He Xinghui, yet unwilling to overestimate him—a dilemma.

“Shaun, switch defense with Richard. You’re in charge of locking down that number 60 rookie,” Saunders instructed Prince.

The game resumed. Noticing that Prince was now defending him, He Xinghui felt resigned.

Prince was humble on the court and modest in life, leaving nothing to mock. So, He Xinghui chose to keep needling Hamilton.

“Hey, why are you guarding me now? Where’s the ugly guy who was just on me—did the coach give up on him?” He Xinghui spoke loudly. Not only Hamilton, who was just two steps away, but even Ben Wallace under the basket heard him.

Prince, expressionless, reached out and swiftly stole the ball from He Xinghui, making him pay for his loose tongue. He Xinghui retreated in embarrassment.

Fortunately, every player gets stripped once in a while; Dunleavy didn’t mind this slip-up. On defense, He Xinghui had his choice—he stuck with Hamilton and, undeterred, kept up the chatter.

“Do you wear that mask to hide your ugliness? I’d recommend black—transparent just makes you look even uglier,” He Xinghui ‘helpfully’ suggested.

Hamilton, forced to wear a mask after a shattered nasal cartilage, had earned the nickname “Masked Man.”

“It’s to protect my nasal cartilage,” Hamilton explained, unable to resist, though he immediately regretted it; he’d just reminded himself not to engage with He Xinghui.

Yet less than a minute on the court, his guard was breached.

“Oh, so it’s for protecting cartilage! You really are a softie,” He Xinghui continued to provoke.

[100 points of rage received from Hamilton.]

The next possession, He Xinghui was still calling him soft.

“If you keep running your mouth, I’ll show you what toughness is with my fists,” Hamilton warned.

But the warning was useless; He Xinghui’s eyes lit up with delight, almost pressing his face close to Hamilton’s.

Despite his constant taunting, He Xinghui actually respected Hamilton’s skill. If he could get Hamilton ejected and face the Pistons’ backup shooting guard, things would be much easier.

So He Xinghui kept poking at Hamilton’s nerves: “Come on, hit me, you idiot.”

Such demands were a first for Hamilton. But he wasn’t as reckless as Bao Longxing, so he endured. Punching He Xinghui would mean at least a three-to-five-game suspension, loss of salary, fines, and a damaged reputation—at least a million dollars lost.

A million dollars—some women in society would lick rectums for a hundred dollars, some men would kneel for the same. For Hamilton, a bit of patience would save a million, hardly a hardship.

The more Hamilton endured, the more He Xinghui flaunted his antics. In the end, Hamilton’s teammate couldn’t take it anymore. Ben Wallace rushed over and shoved He Xinghui, knocking him to the ground, sliding several meters.

Without a word, He Xinghui got up and lay down on the scorer’s table, curious to see if anyone dared to throw drinks at him.

This scene terrified the referees—it was blatant provocation of the Pistons’ fans. Some fans were already on their feet.

They teamed up with Kaman to haul He Xinghui down, turning the situation chaotic.

“Oh my God, He is playing with fire. He really shouldn’t have done that,” Smith commented.

“What’s the big deal? Don’t you think this makes the game more interesting?” Barkley laughed.

A season has 1,230 regular games, plus playoffs and preseason, nearly 1,500 in total. So many games are boring; few leave a lasting impression. If Ben Wallace hadn’t pushed Artest in the Palace at Auburn Hills, that game would have been utterly dull.

For some fans, seeing players brawl during a game is a delight, an extra bonus. The league, for the sake of its image, deliberately erased this pleasure.

On the court, the chaos subsided. The referee gave Ben Wallace a technical foul, then handed one to He Xinghui as well, citing incitement.

“I thought someone would finally punch me. You’ve really let me down,” He Xinghui returned to the court smiling, unchanged in his ways.

At that moment, the Pistons’ players, though silent, felt a chill inside. To them, He Xinghui seemed like a madman.

As normal people, regardless of their abilities, none wished to provoke a lunatic—there was simply no need.