On November 19, the Kings landed in Miami to face the Heat. Early in the season, the Kings' flashy passing game had captivated fans, and the team was off to a strong start with an 9-5 record. Jake stepped off the plane, breathing in the warm, humid air. "Nothing like the South Coast," he sighed, taking in the change from Sacramento's cooler climate. But it wasn't just about the weather; tonight's game was going to be tough. The Heat had a unique dynamic, driven by their coach, Spoelstra, whose influence ran so deep that even LeBron, at his peak, couldn't shake his place at the helm.
This year's Heat roster was the last glimmer of their fading dynasty, boasting veterans like Wade and Bosh, with Dragic, Whiteside, and promising rookie Porzingis rounding out the lineup. At American Airlines Arena, Jake took his seat, scanning the stadium like a curious onlooker. As he looked around, his gaze locked with the intense stare of Pat Riley, who was seated behind the Heat's bench. Riley's look was cold and calculated; after a second, he gave Jake a slight nod before returning to his notes. It wasn't personal—Riley just had that piercing gaze, with eyes like an eagle's, or as Jake would say, "wolf eyes."
Turning to his assistant, Riley muttered, "Keep an eye on Jake. That kid loves scouting players. If he's here with the team, I'd bet he's got something up his sleeve."
"Relax, boss," the assistant joked. "What's he going to poach from us?"
"With that logic, I know it won't be you," Riley scoffed. "Trust me, he's here for a reason. If it isn't business, it's not just a vacation either."
As the game tipped off, the Heat's starting five hit the floor: Wade, Bosh, Whiteside, Dragic, and Luol Deng. While the lineup looked formidable, their real issue lay in their shallow bench, with Porzingis as their best option off the pine.
Whiteside won the jump, tipping it to Dragic, who set up the play as he crossed midcourt. Bosh took his position at the free-throw line, drawing Young and CJ's defensive attention. Dragic spread the floor left, positioning himself to create space. Coach Malone squinted from the sideline, recognizing the setup immediately. "They're running James' old play," he muttered. Spoelstra had structured the offense to open space around Bosh, baiting the defense into thinking it was a classic isolation for the big man.
Bosh squared up against Young, giving a slight fake before driving. Young read the move, stepping back to block the path. But just then, Wade made a sudden dash along the baseline from the corner. LaVine, who had been defending him, moved forward to contest but was momentarily blocked by Young's backpedal. Whiteside stepped in with a pick on Jokic, clearing the way for Wade to glide to an open spot at mid-range, where he easily received Bosh's pass and knocked down the shot.
"That crafty fox!" Malone growled. Spoelstra had exploited the Kings' focus on Bosh to create an effortless opening for Wade.
Now it was the Kings' turn to attack. As Malone watched the Heat's defensive formation, his eyes widened. "Are they in a… 1-1-3 zone?"
It was an uncommon formation in the NBA. Spoelstra had stationed his defenders around the paint, clogging up passing lanes and forcing the offense to play into double-team traps. Jokic, positioned near the free-throw line, found himself immediately surrounded by two defenders every time he tried to make a move, ultimately passing the ball back out to the perimeter. This zone disrupted the Kings' play style, cutting off the connection between CJ's perimeter organization and Jokic's passing from the high post. Without those key setups, the Kings' offense faltered.
"Spoelstra are worthy of being a famous coach. You cut off the offensive route with a sharp insight." Jake also noticed the changes on the court. He bit his finger and looked at Malone's back.
As the team gathered around, Malone adjusted his strategy. "Jokic, run the strong side after the entry pass. Thaddeus, go high. If they double up on you, dish it out wide." I nodded as Malone laid out the adjustments. He was calm but firm, determined to get us back into the groove. His plan was to rely on Jokic and Young to draw the double-team, then free up LaVine in the corner.
The team returned to the court with renewed focus. CJ took up his spot, and Jokic shifted mid-range on the weak side. Young moved high, drawing attention, and as soon as Jokic darted toward the paint, Wade and Whiteside converged, forming a wall around him. But Young had caught the double team in his periphery; he fired the ball over to LaVine, who was open in the corner. LaVine's jump shot was a beauty—pure and steady.
"Good move!" Spoelstra muttered from the sideline, exchanging a quick nod with Malone. The Heat had been cracked, if only for a moment.
But then, just as the Kings were finding their rhythm, the momentum shifted again in an instant. CJ and Wade were sprinting up the court on a fast break. CJ went up for a layup, but as he came down, his body twisted awkwardly. His left foot hit the floor first, absorbing the full impact. The look on his face was instant agony. He collapsed, clutching his thigh, his scream piercing through the quieting arena.
"Ah!" CJ's cry was visceral, the type of sound you only hear when an injury cuts deep.
The arena fell silent as players and fans alike watched, stunned. Coach Malone immediately rushed over with the medical team close behind. Players from both teams circled CJ, concerned and rattled. The injury had happened so quickly; one moment he was soaring, and the next he was on the ground, grimacing in pain. I clenched my fists, feeling the frustration and concern for CJ. He was the Kings' floor general, the pulse of our offense, and seeing him like that cast a shadow over the entire game.