The moment Jokić's shot swished through the net, he threw both arms into the air, shaking them in pure exhilaration.
For the first time since entering the NBA, he felt the rush—the thrill—of making a game-winner.
If this had been a play drawn up by Malone, he would've just felt relieved.
A job assigned, a job completed—nothing more than fulfilling his responsibility.
But Han Sen?
Han Sen threw him into the fire.
It was like when Ron Artest caught that unexpected pass from Kobe in the Finals.
A moment of pure, unplanned trust.
And who didn't love surprises in the middle of their otherwise structured, rigid jobs?
Even Malone had been momentarily stunned by Han's decision.
Passing up a shot to the second-year center whose three-point percentage barely scraped the low 30s?
Most coaches wouldn't even consider that an option.
But now?
Malone just grinned.
Beautiful pass. Perfect decision. A pass from the gods!
Of course, the game wasn't officially over.
2.6 seconds remained.
Boston had no timeouts left.
Horford, ever the veteran, sprinted to the baseline, immediately inbounding the ball to Durant at half-court.
Jokić was still mid-celebration when Durant caught the pass, spun—
And found Han already in his path.
Han wasn't about to let Durant steal a miracle.
Durant hesitated.
He had to dribble to create space—but that moment cost him everything.
By the time he tried to rise up for a shot—
BZZZZZ!
Too late.
And just to make sure?
Han snatched the ball out of mid-air like Garnett used to.
TD Garden froze.
One minute ago, they had been riding an emotional high.
Now?
They had crashed, burned, and been buried under the wreckage.
But the game still wasn't over.
Because Han Sen wasn't done.
He walked toward the scorer's table.
Originally, he hadn't planned on it.
But after the way Boston fans had spent the entire game cursing him out?
He had to.
It was only right.
With a swift leap—
WHOOSH.
Han Sen was back on the table.
Shaq and Barkley damn near jumped out of their seats in excitement.
"Seven years later! The blacklisted man of Boston has returned!"
Han raised his arms, holding the game ball as he faced the crowd.
And almost instinctively—
The fans started chanting again.
"Bastard Sen! Bastard Sen!"
Only this time?
It didn't sound like an insult.
It sounded like a coronation.
The camera shutters from courtside media went wild.
Meanwhile, Jokić stood frozen, eyes wide.
He had never seen anything like this.
Would he ever do something like that?
No.
Was it cool as hell?
Absolutely.
Han eventually hopped off the table.
Unlike seven years ago, no one dared to throw anything at him.
That was the difference status made.
And as he landed, he tossed the game ball straight into Jokić's hands.
"You made the shot. This belongs to you."
---
"I had drawn up a play for Han to drive inside, but he made the right read," Malone said in the postgame press conference.
"That's what the best players in the league do. They make split-second decisions, and Han trusted his teammate to deliver."
But Han?
He kept it simple.
He was training Jokić.
Some might call it reckless.
Who in their right mind tests a young player with the season on the line?
But real battles were fought in real war.
And Han had already said it.
The playoffs are war.
This was how you forged champions.
"That's now the seventh time KD has lost to you in the playoffs. Any thoughts on that?"
An ESPN reporter hit Han with the stat.
Han blinked.
He turned to Malone, confused.
Malone just shrugged.
The reporter continued.
"First round in 2011. Western Conference Finals in 2012. NBA Finals in 2013 and 2014. Eastern Conference Finals in 2015, 2016, and now, 2017."
Han scratched his head.
Damn.
That was… a lot.
In just eight seasons, he had faced Durant every single year—except his rookie season.
If his path to greatness was a staircase, Kevin Durant's shadow had been on every single step.
The ultimate rival.
The ultimate roadblock.
The ultimate proof of his dominance.
A real 'Durant Project Manager'.
Han finally smiled.
"KD's a hell of a competitor," he said.
"I still remember my first playoff series with Memphis. I had to throw everything I had at him just to survive."
The reporter pushed further.
"Would you say he's this era's Clyde Drexler?"
That was the classic Jordan-Drexler comparison.
Han shook his head.
"Nah, I'd say he's more Karl Malone or Hakeem Olajuwon."
That was high praise.
Had Durant jumped to Golden State last summer, Han wouldn't have said it.
But Durant stayed in Boston.
He fought instead of running.
And for that?
He had earned a seat among the greats.
And grouping Malone with Olajuwon?
That was calculated.
Because if Jordan hadn't retired in 1994?
Olajuwon's career might've ended just like Karl Malone's—empty-handed.
---
Han's praise of Durant set social media on fire.
Some saw it as ultimate respect.
Others thought it was a backhanded jab.
But for LeBron's fans?
It raised an uncomfortable question.
If Han could show love to Durant—his fiercest playoff rival—
Then what about LeBron?
Was their rivalry just for show?
Was it just two elite competitors with mutual admiration?
LeBron's diehards wanted to believe that.
But deep down?
They knew the truth.
Han had called Durant "one of the greats."
He had never once said the same about LeBron.
And that silence?
It spoke louder than words.
---
With Cleveland eliminating Boston, Cavs vs. Warriors 2.0 was officially set.
Han Sen and LeBron James.
One more time.
The NBA's marketing machine went into overdrive, framing this series as the most personal, most heated Finals of the last decade.
Cable subscriptions for the Finals?
All-time high.
In the 'real' NBA timeline, the league's popularity had nosedived—fans mocked it for feeling more scripted than WWE.
The reason?
Rivalries had lost their fire.
Everyone was too friendly.
But not this time.
This time, it was war.
---
Before the Finals tipped off, the league conducted a nationwide fan poll.
Over a million votes poured in.
The first question?
Who wins the series?
58% picked the Warriors.
42% picked the Cavs.
The most popular score prediction?
Warriors in 7 (34% of the votes).
This result had Golden State fans furious.
They saw their team as the most dominant squad since the 2001 Lakers—yet fans thought Cleveland could take them the distance?
Blasphemy.
To them, this series shouldn't go past six games.
And the only reason it wasn't a clean sweep?
Han Sen existed.
The second poll question?
Most anticipated matchup of the Finals.
- Option A: Han Sen vs. LeBron
- Option B: Han Sen vs. Curry
- Option C: Wade vs. LeBron
- Option D: Cavs vs. Warriors (team battle)
The surprise winner?
Wade vs. LeBron.
Time didn't erase everything.
LeBron stripping Wade of his leadership in Miami still left a bitter taste.
And after that midair shove in the regular season?
Fans weren't just hoping for tension.
They wanted blood.
---
With home-court advantage, the Warriors were waiting in Oakland.
Cleveland took their flight a day before Game 1.
Onboard, Han was locked in, studying Warriors film on his tablet.
The Cavs had swept Golden State in the regular season.
Did that mean they were favorites?
Not even close.
Regular-season sweeps didn't mean much.
The 2009 Magic had swept the Lakers—only to get gentleman-swept in the Finals.
And these Warriors?
This was the best team Han had faced since entering the league.
More than anything, two things stood out:
LeBron hadn't stirred up drama.
Draymond Green had somehow kept himself in check.
That told Han everything he needed to know.
Golden State wasn't just talented.
They were locked in.
They wanted this ring just as badly—if not more—than the defending champs.
Han wasn't underestimating them.
He lived by a simple rule:
"Never fear an opponent. But never take them lightly, either."
The biggest difference with these Warriors?
Draymond Green.
His three-point shooting had been atrocious in the regular season.
But in the playoffs?
4.6 attempts per game.
41% from deep.
That changed everything.
Cleveland's regular-season success had come largely because Green was a liability.
Now?
If he kept hitting shots, this series was a completely different beast.
---
The Cavs landed in Oakland in the afternoon.
Malone skipped practice, giving the team time to recover.
Cleveland hadn't gone to Game 7, but starting from Game 2, they had been in an all-out defensive war against Boston.
Meanwhile, the Warriors had been resting for over a week after sweeping the Spurs.
They were fresh.
But that night?
Han pulled Jokić in for extra work.
And he brought Dewayne Dedmon with him.
Why?
Watching film had made it clear—Cleveland had to attack the Warriors inside.
Andrew Bogut's value had been criminally underrated.
Since the Mark Jackson era, every Golden State season that ended in disappointment had one thing in common—Bogut was hurt.
That included last year, when the Lakers flipped the series on them.
To dodge the luxury tax, the Warriors had shipped out Bogut.
Now?
Their center rotation was Zaza Pachulia and JaVale McGee.
Jokić had a clear advantage.
And Jokić?
He didn't mind the extra work.
- Han had already promised him Serbia's best horse.
- That Game 6 moment in Boston—when Han trusted him to take the final shot—had changed something inside him.
His love for basketball had grown.
But why Dedmon?
Because Draymond Green was the real problem.
And if anyone on Cleveland could simulate Green's defense?
It was Dedmon.
---
Han didn't wait for Dedmon to show up.
He went straight to his hotel room.
"Dewayne, I need you to step up."
Dedmon looked confused. "Me?"
Han nodded. "I see potential in you. You can give this team more."
Dedmon hesitated.
"I don't know, man. I feel like I'm so far behind the others. Even if we win a ring, I don't think I'll have made a difference."
Han's voice was firm.
"No. Don't think like that."
He locked eyes with Dedmon.
"We all have different jobs, but missing even one piece? We don't win.
That was true last year.
It's true now."
Dedmon exhaled. "So what do you need from me?"
Han smiled.
"More work. More battles with Nikola.
Push him. Make him better.
And you'll get better too."
---
Was Han manipulating him?
Yeah.
At the core of it, this was about getting Jokić ready for the Finals.
But was that all?
No.
Even back in Memphis, Han had built teams this way.
It wasn't just charisma—it was reality.
Even deep-bench guys mattered.
Tracy McGrady on the 2013 Spurs.
Mengke Bateer on the 2003 Spurs.
They barely played.
But in practice?
They helped prepare the team for war.
And Han's words hit harder than he expected.
Dedmon took it personally.
And when training started?
He came at Jokić with everything he had.
Han had underestimated how much his words meant.
Imagine Jordan walking up to you and saying,
"I believe in you."
For someone searching for direction?
That was everything.
As Dedmon and Jokić went to war, Han stepped aside, working with Tim Grover on his own shooting.
Because in the Finals, he was matching up with Curry.
And Curry?
- 29 PPG in the playoffs
- 42% from three
Han's three-point shot was only one of his weapons.
But in some moments?
Fire had to be fought with fire.
---
The next day—Game Day—Malone scheduled a routine morning practice.
After practice, as Han was resting courtside, Wade walked over and sat beside him.
"LeBron invited me to dinner last night," Wade said casually.
Han wasn't surprised.
Like he had thought before—Wade and LeBron weren't just connected as individuals. Their families were intertwined. That kind of bond wasn't easily severed.
"I turned him down."
Now that caught Han off guard.
Wade was standing his ground?
Han chuckled, patting Wade's shoulder. "You should've gone."
Wade raised a brow.
"Why?"
Han smirked. "Could've gathered some intel on them."
Wade shook his head with a laugh. If anything, he would've been the one getting scouted.
But then, as he looked at Han, something clicked.
Back when they were still rivals—
That was exactly how Han had fished information out of him.