NBA: Northeast China's spectacular dunks sweep the entire league.

Lin Hao sent the text message but did not receive a reply from Thibodeau all night.

The next morning at seven o'clock, he glanced at his phone and saw that the message "Scam?" was still hanging alone in the chat box, with the "read" sign below it quietly lit up, like an eye that refused to close.

Training proceeded as usual. Thibodeau didn't message him, and Lin Hao didn't urge him. After running full-court offense and defense all morning, Old Nelson went over the details of the seven-second offense again—the baseline inbound pass couldn't exceed two seconds, the dribble across half-court couldn't exceed four seconds, and the first touch of the ball in the frontcourt had to be decided within one second: shoot or pass.

"Every second you hold the ball, the opponent gets another second to get into position." Old Nelson snapped his stopwatch shut. "You guys need to give the opponent no time to even breathe."

Training ended at 2 PM. Lin Hao took a shower, changed into a black hoodie, and walked out carrying a backpack. Zhao Dabao was waiting for him in the parking lot, leaning against the car door smoking. He put out his cigarette when he saw Lin Hao.

"Haozi, are you really going to Houston?"

"Um."

"Do you know Old Nelson?"

"I told him last night. He agreed."

Zhao Dabao opened the back door of the car, stuffed Lin Hao's bag inside, and muttered, "Is this all you brought? Not even a change of clothes?"

"Go and return on the same day. Leave as soon as the meeting is over."

The flight was at 4 PM, from Oakland to Houston, a three-and-a-half-hour flight. Old Nelson didn't take the same flight as Lin Hao—the old man insisted on driving himself to the airport, saying he wasn't used to the cramped economy class seats. Lin Hao tried to dissuade him but couldn't, so he let him be.

Old Nelson was already at the boarding gate. He was wearing a wrinkled gray suit, collar open, and smoking a cigar. He was politely ushered to the smoking area by the ground staff. He waved to Lin Hao when he saw him.

"Have you sent the text message?"

"Sent. No reply."

"What does it mean by not replying?" Old Nelson frowned. "Are you coming or not?"

"I haven't called back because I'm still thinking about it." Lin Hao handed his boarding pass to the staff member. "I'll talk about it when I get there."

After takeoff, Lin Hao leaned against the window, unable to sleep. He watched the clouds outside change from white to gold and then to gray, the text message from Thibodeau replaying in his mind—"Scam?"

That old man is extremely cautious.

He recalled the system notification he received yesterday when he left Nelson's office: [Defensive Coach Recruitment] Progress 10%. The remaining 90% would have to be filled with words and sincerity.

Lin Hao felt his hoodie pocket; inside was an envelope containing a letter written overnight by Don Nelson. The letter was short, just a few lines: "Tom, come to the Warriors. You're in charge of defense. I'll handle the offense. Let's get rings together. Don Nelson."

After the old man finished writing, he looked at it twice, thought the handwriting was too ugly, and copied it again. It was still ugly, but Lin Hao said, "That's how it is, the uglier it is, the more it looks like his handwriting."

It was already dark when the plane landed at Houston George Bush International Airport. The Texas heatwave showed no signs of abating even at night; as soon as I stepped out of the cabin, a humid, hot wind hit my face.

Lin Hao took off his hoodie and tied it around his waist, then followed Old Nelson out. Neither of them needed any transportation; they walked straight into the lobby.

Old Nelson looked around: "Has he arrived?"

"They didn't say they were coming, nor did they say they weren't." Lin Hao took out his phone and sent a message to Thibodeau: "We've arrived. We're at the arrival hall entrance. If it's convenient for you, let's find a place to chat for a bit."

Sent. Read.

Then there was a minute of silence.

Old Nelson grew impatient and took out a cigar from his pocket to light it, but Lin Hao stopped him, saying, "Old man, you can't smoke at the airport."

"This ridiculous rule." Old Nelson stuffed his cigar back into his pocket and paced back and forth.

Two minutes later, Lin Hao's phone vibrated.

Thibodeau's reply was just one word: "Wait."

Lin Hao handed his phone to old Nelson. Old Nelson glanced at it, his brow furrowing deeply: "Wait? How long?"

"Just wait."

The two stood at the entrance of the arrival hall for nearly twenty minutes. Passengers came and went, dragging their suitcases. Some recognized Lin Hao and tried to take pictures with their phones, but Zhao Dabao politely stopped them.

Old Nelson's expression grew increasingly grim. He circled Lin Hao twice before finally speaking up, "Is this kid playing us? If he doesn't want to see us, he should just say so. What's the point of making us wait here like this?"

Lin Hao didn't reply, staring in the direction of the parking lot.

A black Ford SUV drove out of the parking lot and slowly pulled up to the side of the road.

The driver's side door opened, and a stocky man with graying hair stepped out. He was wearing a dark blue polo shirt, khaki pants, and sneakers. He wore black-rimmed glasses, his face expressionless, and his lips pressed into a straight line.

Tom Thibodeau.

He closed the car door, didn't come over, and looked at Lin Hao and Old Nelson from two cars away.

Before he could speak, Lin Hao walked over. Old Nelson followed behind, a cigar dangling from his lips, saying nothing.

The three people stood by the car and remained silent for a few seconds.

Thibodeau spoke first, his voice low, as if afraid of being overheard: "Coach Nelson, Lin Hao. Let's talk in the car."

Before Old Nelson could say anything, Lin Hao nodded first: "Okay."

The three got into the car, Thibodeau started the engine, and the car drove out of the airport. The car was so quiet that only the sound of the air conditioning vents and the rustling of the tires over the road could be heard.

Thibodeau drove steadily, his hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, as if performing a meticulous task. He didn't speak, and Lin Hao wasn't in a hurry to speak either. Old Nelson, sitting in the back seat, tried to speak several times, but was stopped each time by Lin Hao's gaze in the rearview mirror.

After driving for twenty minutes, the car stopped in front of an inconspicuous office building. Thibodeau turned off the engine and finally turned around to look at Lin Hao.

"We can't go to the Toyota Center. Van Gundy is keeping an eye on it." His voice remained low. "This is an office I used to rent for lesson preparation. Nobody knows about it."

The three got out of the car, and Thibodeau used a key to open a side door, leading them up a narrow staircase. The room on the second floor was small, with a long table, a few folding chairs, two tactical boards hanging on the wall, and a box of videotapes stacked in the corner.

Thibodu turned on the light; the fluorescent tube flickered twice before lighting up, emitting a low buzzing sound.

"Sit." He pointed to the folding chair, sat down opposite the table, and placed his hands on the tabletop.

Lin Hao didn't sit down immediately. He first took off his hoodie from his waist and draped it over the back of the chair before sitting down, leaning slightly forward.

Old Nelson casually pulled up a chair, sat down, crossed his legs, twirled a cigar between his fingers twice, but didn't light it.

Silence again.

Thibodeau's gaze swept back and forth between Lin Hao and old Nelson twice before finally settling on Lin Hao.

"You said in the text message that I'm in charge on the defensive end. Don Nelson won't interfere."

"Yes." Lin Hao nodded.

"What makes you think you can make that guarantee for him?"

Before Old Nelson could speak, Lin Hao stopped him and answered himself, "Because this was the condition I proposed to the old man. He agreed, so I came to find you."

Thibodeau's gaze shifted to old Nelson.

Old Nelson switched his cigar from his left to his right hand, snorted, and said, "I told you, you decide on the defense. I don't care how you defend, and you don't care how I attack. If you can hold them to 70 points, I'll be thanking my God."

Thibodeau's lips twitched slightly, not in a smile, but more in an ambiguous expression.

"Do you know how I spent my time with the Rockets?" he suddenly asked.

Lin Hao didn't respond, waiting for him to continue.

Thibodeau's gaze fell on the playboard on the wall, his voice as calm as if he were reading a report: "I came to the Rockets in 2000. Van Gundy gave me the title of defensive coach. In the first two years, I submitted twenty-three play proposals, and three were approved. In the next three years, I submitted sixteen, and none were approved."

He paused, his tone unchanged: "The pick-and-roll defense system plan I wrote, Van Gundy read it and said, 'Too complicated, the players can't learn it.' The weak-side rotation manual I wrote, he said, 'It doesn't fit the team's current style of play.' The fast break defense transition plan I wrote, he said, 'We don't play fast.'"

Old Nelson frowned.

Thibodeau continued, "With the Rockets, I was called the 'defense coach,' but I couldn't even decide how to position the cones in training. Van Gundy wanted to set them up straight, and I said you can't train crossovers with straight lines, and he said I didn't understand training."

He looked up at Lin Hao: "Do you think I won't repeat the same mistakes if I go to the Warriors? Everyone in the league knows Don Nelson's temper. He said I'm in charge of defense. Once I actually start training, won't he complain that I'm too intense, too slow-paced, and that I'm hindering his run-and-gun offense?"

Old Nelson's face darkened, but he didn't react. He chewed on his cigar, his cheeks puffing out slightly.

Lin Hao didn't rush to answer. He opened his backpack, took out a folder, flipped it open, and pushed it in front of Thibodeau.

The first page is a table.

"This is a summary of the thirty-nine tactical proposals you submitted to the Rockets over the past five years," Lin Hao said, pointing to the numbers on the table. "Year 1: 23 proposals, 3 approved. Year 2: 6 proposals, 0 approved. Year 3: 5 proposals, 0 approved. Year 4: 3 proposals, 0 approved. Year 5: 2 proposals, 0 approved."

Thibodeau stared at the form without saying a word.

Lin Hao turned to the second page: "This is the defensive data analysis I did within our team. In three training games, with 127 defensive possessions, our opponents used three different tactics against us—pick and roll, strong-side and weak-side transitions, and off-ball cuts. The success rate for all of them was over 55%."

He turned another page: "These are our players' individual defensive statistics. Murphy allows 1.32 points per possession when defending pick-and-rolls, which is the worst in the league. Richardson's attention span when defending off-ball cuts is only four seconds on average. Dampier's success rate when switching to defend the perimeter is less than 20%."

Lin Hao closed the folder and looked Thibodeau in the eye: "Tom, I won't beat around the bush. Our defense is a complete mess right now; anyone can get a taste. The old man only knows how to teach offense; he really doesn't know how to defend. We need someone who can mold this mess into a solid plate. I've looked all over the league, and only you can do it."

He pointed to Don Nelson: "What the old man promised you, is written down in black and white. You're in charge on the defensive end, and he won't interfere. If you're not comfortable with that, write it clearly in the contract and have it signed."

Old Nelson pulled an envelope from his suit pocket and slammed it on the table.

Thibodeau looked at the envelope but didn't reach for it.

The room remained quiet for a long time.

The fluorescent light on the wall flickered again, and the buzzing continued.

Thibodeau finally spoke, his voice even lower than before: "Van Gundy won't release them."

"We'll pay the penalty for breach of contract," Old Nelson added.

"It's not about the money." Thibodeau shook his head. "The Rockets' defensive system is still immature. If I leave, no one can take my place. Van Gundy won't let me go."

Lin Hao leaned forward: "Tom, I have a question for you. Are you planning to be Van Gundy's assistant coach for life, or do you want to build a team's defensive system from scratch?"

Thibodeau tapped his fingers lightly on the table.

"With the Rockets, you were Van Gundy's defensive coach. With the Warriors, you were the Warriors' defensive coach. These two are different."

Thibodeau remained silent for a long time. His gaze lingered on Lin Hao's face for a long time, then turned to old Nelson, and finally landed on the envelope.

He reached out, picked up the envelope, and placed it on the table without opening it.

"I'll think about it."

Lin Hao nodded: "Okay. How long will it take you?"

"Three days."

"I'll come back in three days."

Thibodeau stood up and pulled out a chair. Lin Hao and Old Nelson also stood up.

The three of them walked down the stairs, out the side door, and parked next to the car. The Houston night wind blew in, hot and humid, carrying the smell of asphalt pavement that had been baking in the sun all day.

Thibodeau opened the driver's side door, paused abruptly, and said without turning his head, "Lin Hao, your data form is very detailed."

After saying that, he got into the car and closed the door.

A black Ford SUV drove out of the parking lot, its taillights disappearing into the night.

Old Nelson stood by the roadside, took the cigar out of his mouth, watched the taillights of the departing car, and cursed, "Damn it, all that talk was pointless. Are they coming or not?"

Lin Hao didn't answer. He looked down at his phone—Thibdo's "I'll think about it" message was still in the chat box.

He typed a message: "Tom, I'll be waiting for your message in three days. Whether you come or not, you deserve a place where you truly have the final say."

Sent. Read.

Lin Hao put his phone in his pocket and looked up at the Houston night sky. There were no stars; it was as black as an overturned pot.

Zhao Dabao drove up and honked the horn.

Old Nelson opened the car door and got in. Lin Hao got into the passenger seat, and the moment he closed the door, his phone vibrated.

He took it out and looked at it.

Thibodeau replied: "Tomorrow at 3 PM, InterContinental Hotel lobby coffee shop. Don't bring old Nelson, just you and me."

Lin Hao stared at the message for three seconds, and a slow smile crept onto his lips.

"Sir, you don't need to go tomorrow. I'll talk to him myself."

Old Nelson paused for a moment, then said, "He said it himself?"

Lin Hao handed over his phone. Old Nelson glanced at it, remained silent for a few seconds, lit his cigar, took a deep drag, and the smoke filled the car.

"Okay. You can talk."