Chapter 24: How About a Wager?

The game resumed, and whenever He Xinghui touched the ball, the Pistons’ fans showered him with boos to show their displeasure. He Xinghui remained unfazed. The moment he decided to rely on the system to make his way in the league, he knew he was destined to become the league’s public enemy—a villain in the eyes of many. He had long since steeled himself for this outcome.

“Xing’s way of provoking the fans is a bit irrational, and frankly, unnecessary,” Zhang Heli commented on CCTV, reflecting on the contrast between He Xinghui's personality and that of Yao Ming. In comparison, Zhang admired Yao Ming’s style more.

“But with a personality like his, it’s not easy to suffer losses in America,” Yu Jia replied. Opinions about He Xinghui’s temperament were divided; some liked him, others couldn’t stand him. Yet none of this touched He Xinghui.

Back on the court, He Xinghui began looking for his teammates after receiving the ball. If there wasn’t a good opportunity, he typically passed it, knowing how precious each chance to attack was. Others might find his shot selection questionable, but in reality, he played smart, always mindful of efficiency.

This time, despite scanning the court, none of his teammates found a good position. Left with no other choice, he took on the offensive himself. His one-on-one game was weak, and without the aid of any items, going up against Hamilton was no easy feat.

He faked a crossover, attempting a drive. To his surprise, the move actually worked—he shook off Hamilton. It seemed Hamilton was rattled, his performance off-kilter. Elated, He Xinghui prepared to shoot, but a massive hand swatted the ball away. Big Ben had come over to help on defense—his abilities in that regard were formidable. Thinking you could find an open shot just by beating your man? The NBA was never that simple.

Despite the block, neither the Clippers players nor Coach Dunleavy blamed He Xinghui; against the Pistons’ defense, anyone would have struggled to do better.

The Clippers retained possession, but only three seconds remained on the shot clock. Maggette inbounded, Mobley caught it and immediately passed it back to He Xinghui—after all, he was up against Billups, another defensive maestro.

With the ball in his hands, He Xinghui wanted to pass the hot potato to a teammate, but with the clock winding down, he had no choice but to toss up a shot, not expecting much. Amusingly, the ball went in. He Xinghui managed a sheepish smile—pure luck, hardly an honorable victory.

The Pistons took over, and Rasheed scored. Among their five starters, only Big Ben lacked offensive prowess; the other four were all reliable double-digit scorers. The Clippers’ defense was merely average by league standards; holding off the Pistons was a tall order.

The teams traded blows for several possessions. Though the score remained close, any keen observer could see the Pistons had the upper hand.

“As long as the Pistons keep playing steadily, this game is a foregone conclusion,” Barkley pronounced, never one to hold back his opinions, no matter the risk of being proven wrong.

“I’m not so sure,” Smith countered. “With He on the Clippers, there’s an unpredictable element. The Pistons could still end up on the losing end.”

“Come on, are you saying a rookie could decide the outcome of this game?”

The two continued to spar over the issue.

On the court, both teams fought tooth and nail, the score fluctuating between a two- and five-point gap—an intense standoff.

After nearly nine minutes, He Xinghui was subbed out to rest and recover his strength, preparing for the game’s final showdown. He remained on the bench until the sixth minute of the fourth quarter, when he was sent back in. The score stood at 81-78, Pistons up by three.

With such a narrow margin, He Xinghui hadn’t bought any items, wanting to save as much Rage as possible for upgrades.

As play resumed, He Xinghui kept up his playful banter even as he moved the ball. “Are you nervous? You’re only up by three; one shot from me and it’s tied. You know, my three-point percentage is as high as 48%,” he said with a grin.

Hamilton could only stare in silent regret that he hadn’t worn headphones for the game. He was dying to retort, “Why should I be nervous when you’re the one trailing?” But he held his tongue. He knew that engaging with He Xinghui was falling right into his trap—who knew what pitfall awaited next? The only rule when dealing with He Xinghui was to ignore him, pretend not to hear a thing.

Hamilton sprinted away, caught the ball, shot, and scored.

“Now it’s five points. Are you nervous?” Hamilton, feeling triumphant after sinking the shot, couldn’t help but scoff.

He Xinghui secretly laughed. He didn’t mind Hamilton trying to get under his skin; what he feared was a silent opponent.

“Last time the Spurs led us by eight, and you saw how that turned out,” He Xinghui replied.

“We’re not the Spurs, not those losers.”

“Last season you lost to the Spurs. How did it feel to watch them raise the championship trophy?”

Hamilton fell silent again; he realized he simply couldn’t win a war of words with He Xinghui.

The Clippers attacked. This time Mobley pulled through, draining a three-pointer—whether by skill or luck, who could tell.

“Now it’s only two points. With the way you’re handing me these clutch moments, I might just start feeling bad for you,” He Xinghui teased.

“Damn it, you think buzzer-beaters come that easy?” Hamilton replied.

“Well, for me, clutch shots are as easy as eating or drinking. How about a bet? If I hit a game-winner tonight, you tell the reporters you’re my fan. If I lose, I’ll apologize to you in front of the media and declare you my idol,” He Xinghui said with a mischievous smile.

There was an item in the system shop that guaranteed clutch shots, though it was expensive—200 Rage points. But if it meant messing with Hamilton, it might be worth it.

Hamilton hesitated. He knew hitting a game-winner was far harder than any other shot. Even Kobe, who had the most in the league, only converted less than thirty percent of his attempts. The league average wasn’t even thirty-five percent. This bet was heavily in Hamilton’s favor.

After taking so many hits today, he was itching to see He Xinghui embarrassed for once. If he agreed, he’d have a chance to humiliate the rookie and vent his frustrations.

Just as he was about to accept, He Xinghui seized the moment, breaking away while Hamilton was distracted. This time, even Big Ben couldn’t rotate over in time, and He Xinghui hit an almost uncontested shot.

“Despicable, damn it,” Hamilton fumed, feeling he’d been played again.

“So, have you decided?” He Xinghui asked nonchalantly, showing not a trace of guilt for his opportunistic move.

“Screw you,” Hamilton muttered, vowing that if he ever responded to He Xinghui again, he’d consider himself the rookie’s grandson.