Chapter Sixty: Cousin

With a shooting record of 11 out of 20, including 5 of 9 from beyond the arc and 1 of 2 from the free-throw line, He Xinghui delivered a stellar performance: 28 points, 4 assists, and 2 rebounds. Notably, he sank a game-tying three-pointer and then drilled the game-winner from downtown. Such a performance would be deemed outstanding for any player.

His direct opponent, Ricky Davis, managed 21 points but struggled with efficiency, making only 8 of 20 shots and 5 of 6 free throws. In total, it took Davis 23 attempts to reach his 21 points.

Yet, more than the numbers, what delighted He Xinghui most was his haul of Rage Points. Every one of the eleven Celtics who set foot on the court contributed to his tally, though some more than others. The super-sub Justin Reed, for instance, chipped in a token 10 points. But Ricky Davis, who had matched up with He throughout the game, delivered a hefty package of 888 points—a weighty gift, both in quantity and sentiment.

Deducting his expenditures, He Xinghui earned a net gain of 478 Rage Points this game, a marked improvement over the previous match.

The more you spend, the more you earn?

The thought crossed He Xinghui’s mind. After a quick shower, he followed his coach to the press conference.

Whenever he performed well, he would make an appearance, seizing the chance to show off. On off nights, he simply wouldn’t go.

Click, click, click...

“Alright, that’s enough. Let’s get to the questions—I still need to get home for dinner,” He Xinghui quipped.

He never understood why they needed so many photos—surely one would suffice.

The reporters chuckled and finally began the Q&A.

“He, congratulations on sinking the game-winner. How did it feel to beat your opponents at the buzzer?” one journalist asked.

“Frustrating,” He Xinghui replied, once again eschewing convention.

The reporters laughed, eager to hear what astonishing spin He Xinghui would put on this statement.

“Why’s that?” someone pressed.

“I’m worried I’ve used up all my luck in the regular season, which will make the playoffs much tougher. If I had a choice, I’d rather have missed just now and saved my luck for the playoffs or even the Finals,” He Xinghui said, spreading his hands in feigned helplessness.

That kind of comment—never mind the Celtics players, even some reporters felt like throwing shoes at him.

He was showing off, and anyone with a grade school diploma could see it.

“He, does that mean you’re already looking ahead to the playoffs? The Clippers haven’t made the postseason for years. Do you think it’s possible this season?”

A reporter tried to lead He Xinghui into making a bold prediction—material for a headline.

He Xinghui saw through the ploy but happily played along. After all, even without him, the Clippers had historically made the playoffs this season. He didn’t believe he was some jinx, so he could be as brash as he liked.

“No, no, no,” He Xinghui’s denial left the room puzzled, but he continued, “I’m not looking ahead to the playoffs. I’m looking ahead to the Western Conference Finals.”

At that, the room exploded in shock. This went beyond arrogance—this was pure fantasy.

Everyone understood why He Xinghui said it: the Clippers had never reached the Western Conference Finals. Since moving to Los Angeles and being renamed, the team had made the postseason only three times in twenty years, each time bowing out in the first round. Even before the name change, the franchise had only once advanced to the second round.

What He Xinghui meant was clear: he intended to make history.

Even Elton Brand wouldn’t dare make such a claim.

Coach Dunleavy looked as if he might cry. He wanted to clarify for the reporters that this was solely He Xinghui’s personal opinion, not the team’s official goal—but if he said that, he’d become the laughingstock.

“Sorry, no offense, but I just don’t think the Clippers are up to it,” a reporter commented.

You couldn’t blame him for being skeptical. The Clippers had a long-standing reputation as a bottom-dweller. The idea of such a team reaching the conference finals was laughable to anyone but He Xinghui.

“I’m not interested in what you think. I care about what I think,” He Xinghui replied.

The journalists fell silent, but at least they had plenty of material now.

They moved on to other topics.

“He, before you hit the game-winner, you asked the fans whether they wanted a buzzer-beater or a second overtime. Are you saying you can score at will, deciding between the two as you please?” another reporter continued, trying to paint He Xinghui as arrogant.

A star needs a persona, after all.

“Of course,” He Xinghui answered, to the reporters’ great satisfaction.

But he added, “As a player, you should always have that kind of confidence.”

Unwilling to give up, another reporter pressed, “Don’t you realize that telling the crowd your intentions is essentially revealing your team’s tactics? Some would say it’s reckless, even showboating. What if you had missed...?”

“Then you can criticize me when that happens. I’ll accept it with humility. But right now, I’d rather hear some praise,” He Xinghui interrupted.

Missing? Not an option.

He Xinghui never showed off unless he was certain of success.

“Fair enough.”

The reporter sat down with a rueful smile. Dealing with someone as unpredictable as He Xinghui was no easy task.

“He, many fans have given you nicknames—Wonder Kid, Big Heart, The Machine. Which do you prefer?”

Lucy, who had just arrived, took a different approach, asking a question no one else seemed to care about.

“I hope the fans will call me ‘Cousin’ because before a game-winner, I like to check the time and take a buzzer-beating shot. That’s why fans back home call me Cousin. In my country, ‘Cousin’ also means ‘family,’ so it’s got a double meaning—it feels warm and close, like the fans are my family,” He Xinghui replied with a smile.

He could be brash when needed, but when it was time to connect with the fans, he could put on a friendly, if insincere, smile.

If he succeeded in building that down-to-earth image, he’d have a shot at selling anything, even bird’s nest.

“Cousin—that’s a good nickname,” Lucy said.

It wasn’t especially cool or imposing, but it was approachable. Kobe fans could only talk about their idol, but Xinghui’s fans could say, “Our Cousin did this or that”—immediately making the connection feel more personal.

Having mined plenty of news from He Xinghui, the reporters didn’t forget to turn to Dunleavy.

“Mike, He says your goal this season is the Western Conference Finals. Is that true?” a reporter asked.

“We’ll set that as our target,” Dunleavy answered smoothly. He neither confirmed nor denied it, simply stating they’d strive for it.

If they made it, he could take the credit; if not, he could say they tried.

The reporters were prepared for this and didn’t seem disappointed.

If you wanted explosive quotes, interviewing the players was always your best bet.