Returning to the scene of the game, we find Zach LaVine with a sports towel draped over his head, steam still rising slowly from his intense effort on the court. Yet, LaVine was far from exhausted; he clutched a basketball and celebrated enthusiastically with his teammates. He had every reason to be elated: this game saw him score 35 points, deliver 7 assists, grab 5 rebounds, and make 5 steals—marking a career-high scoring record.
"I told you, you could do it!" Gay cheered, giving LaVine a playful pat as the young player beamed with excitement.
"This is better than all the pep talks I've given anyone in the last two days," Jake said, smiling at LaVine with a look of satisfaction. LaVine, energized by the praise, seemed to stand even taller, basking in the support of his mentors.
Meanwhile, Malone, observing the camaraderie, looked at Jake, an unspoken thought evident in his expression. "Or maybe…" he began, but Jake interrupted with a knowing smile.
"Stop it," Jake replied, sensing Malone's intentions. "We had an agreement: no holding back with any soft spots."
Malone, lips quirking in a resigned smile, shook his head. "If you don't want to say it, I won't say it," he said, but his gaze lingered on LaVine, his eyes betraying a sense of pride.
As the game wrapped up, none other than Michael Jordan himself strolled over to greet Jake. "Jake!" Jordan's voice boomed as he extended a hand.
"Mike," Jake replied, shaking Jordan's hand firmly.
"I've heard about your work," Jordan said, casting an admiring look at the young players celebrating on the court. "Now I really see what they mean. You've done a remarkable job, and I have to admit, I'm a bit envious."
Jordan, who had once been the invincible "god of the court," was a more humbled figure in his managerial role. In Charlotte, his moves as an executive had often led to mixed results, leaving Kemba Walker as one of his only redeeming choices. Since taking over the Hornets, Jordan's attempts to build a competitive team had stumbled due to failed draft picks and underwhelming trades. This, coupled with a shrinking roster and budget constraints, had left Charlotte struggling.
Now, eyeing Jake, a sense of admiration flickered in Jordan's gaze. He leaned in and, in a tone just above a whisper, asked, "What do you say, Jake? Ever thought about working for me?"
Jake, barely able to contain a smirk, gave an easy, practiced answer: "If I'm ever on the market, I'll consider it, but for now, I'm pretty happy with where I am." Inwardly, though, Jake chuckled; he had no intention of leaving his position with the Kings. After all, he had painstakingly restructured what was once considered a managerial "graveyard." Moving to another struggling team? Not likely.
Jordan, sensing Jake's resistance, only laughed, clapping him hard on the back with a force that made Jake stagger. "All right, all right, but remember," Jordan said with a wink. "I'll always keep a spot open for you here. Doesn't matter who's in the GM role at the time—I'd make room for you."
"Sure thing!" Jake replied, smiling but inwardly shaking his head. Boss Joe, as Jordan was sometimes called, had a way of keeping people on their toes, but it didn't unsettle Jake. In fact, he found himself less nervous around Jordan than he did in front of Vivek Ranadivé, his own boss.
As Jake returned to the sidelines, Malone approached with a raised eyebrow. "So, what did Mike want?" Malone asked, his face alight with curiosity.
Jake only chuckled, shrugging casually. "Oh, you know, just family stuff." Shifting the subject, Jake motioned toward LaVine. "He was great tonight! Should we keep him in the spotlight for the next game?"
Malone rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Why not? Let him keep it up. We'll see if he can keep that momentum going."
And LaVine didn't disappoint. While his dribbling skills still needed polish, the intensive training had honed his shooting to near perfection. In the following games, LaVine showcased his scoring prowess, grabbing the attention of multiple teams previously uninterested in him. His remarkable performance created a buzz, and Jake soon found himself fielding calls from rival executives interested in LaVine.
One such call came from none other than Phil Jackson. Sitting in his office, Jake looked at the caller ID and smiled, sensing an opportunity.
On the other end of the line, Jackson's familiar voice greeted him. "I hear your LaVine's got quite a shot," Jackson said in a friendly tone, though the intention behind it was clear. "My boss has taken a particular interest in him."
Jake's laugh was genuine this time. "I figured as much," he replied, amused. It wasn't hard to guess the identity of Jackson's boss: James Dolan, the notoriously hands-off owner of the New York Knicks.
Dolan's approach to team ownership had long confounded fans. Under his leadership, the Knicks had languished at the bottom of the standings for years, his choices in drafts and trades often puzzling. Yet, Dolan's interest in the Knicks was primarily financial, and he had no qualms about leaving basketball operations to his executives as long as they kept the cash flow healthy. For seasoned professionals, this arrangement was a dream: ample funds, a loyal fan base, and virtually no pressure to produce a winning record.
But Jake had no intention of parting with LaVine, especially not without an enticing offer. He knew that Jackson's attempt to trade was simply one more example of Dolan's aimless ambitions.
"Sorry, Phil," Jake replied smoothly. "Right now, LaVine's not on the table. Unless… well, there's always your Anthony?"
Jackson's response was immediate: "Anthony's non-negotiable!" he said, chuckling but unyielding. Anthony was the Knicks' prized asset, even amidst the team's downturn.
Jake only nodded, well aware of the impossibility of that deal. The Knicks, lacking key players like Stoudemire, J.R. Smith, and Shumpert, were little more than a shell of their former lineup, leaving Anthony as the team's lone star.
After a brief, amicable wrap-up with Jackson, Jake sat back in his chair, his mind shifting to potential moves. The phone rang once more, and Jake checked the caller ID, an expectant smile crossing his face.
"The fish are biting," he murmured, finally answering.