That night, at a motel on the outskirts of Phoenix City, right next to Singleton Avenue.
"Kevin, James and I are going out for a bit. You two stay in the motel, don’t go out," Charles Craig reminded them one last time before heading out the door.
Inside the room, the tall and skinny Kevin Durant and Michael Beasley nodded at the same time.
Charles Craig gave Beasley an extra glance. He knew Durant as well as he knew his own son, so he wasn’t worried about him.
But Beasley...
"Let’s go," called out Rick James, the assistant coach from the National Christian College team who had come to Phoenix with Beasley.
Charles Craig didn’t dwell on it and followed him.
As the door closed, the two boys looked at each other, their eyes filled with excitement.
"Hold on!"
Beasley pulled a backpack out from under the bed, opened it, and held it open for Durant to see.
"Where did you get this?" Durant asked, surprised.
Inside the backpack was a pack of beer.
"Don’t worry about that. Just drink up," Beasley said, deftly pulling out a bottle and handing it to him.
He had snuck out that afternoon and bought it with a fake ID.
’It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. How could we not celebrate with a few drinks?’
Durant shook his head. "No thanks. What if Charles finds out?"
"What’s there to be afraid of? We’ll just eat a couple of lemons, and the smell will be gone," Beasley said.
He deftly opened a bottle and took a few big gulps before Durant could even try to stop him.
"I’d still rather not," Durant said, shaking his head.
"Coward."
Beasley pouted, lay back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. "Kevin, do you think Jordan will show up tomorrow?"
Before Durant could answer, Beasley continued, "I think he will. Just think about it, Chen and Jordan are so tight. It’s Chen’s TV show, and the promotional ads said there’d be a special guest. Given who he is, he’d definitely invite the greatest player, and that can only be Jordan."
"Kevin, are you excited? We’re about to meet Jordan! We might even get to play with him."
Beasley propped himself up, his eyes shining with excitement.
Durant lay down next to Beasley and also stared at the ceiling. "Of course it’d be great to meet him, but it’s fine if we don’t. Once I make it to the NBA, I’ll be able to meet him eventually."
Beside him, Beasley chuckled. "What, you’re that confident you’ll make it to the NBA? Not too long ago, I heard you were thinking about giving up basketball."
"I never said that."
Durant’s face reddened slightly as he suddenly recalled the stinging slap from his mother.
"By the way, I’m planning to transfer to Oak Hill High School. When I went for the tryout, you know what? I was actually able to go toe-to-toe with Josh Smith in a one-on-one. You know who he is, right? He’s a player who’s entering this year’s draft."
"Oh, and on Dr. Chen’s potential training camp list, he’s ranked 13th. He might even be a lottery pick."
Beasley raised an eyebrow and squeezed Durant’s skinny arm. "You’re that good now?"
Durant had always been his punching bag, getting crushed by him every time they played.
Durant gave a shy smile.
"Then I’ll go to Oak Hill too," Beasley snorted softly.
After taking another gulp of beer, Beasley brought the conversation back to the TV show.
"Kevin, what do you think they’ll film for the show? Do you think the final winner could go straight to the NBA? Don’t dismiss it, Chen probably has that kind of power. He’s a big shot," Beasley couldn’t help but fantasize.
’Getting into the NBA, becoming a millionaire... that had been his lifelong dream.’
Durant shook his head. "Who knows? But it’s probably about teaching you how to train. If that’s the case, then I’ll get to experience NBA-level training methods."
A flash of irrepressible excitement crossed his eyes.
’His mentor and godfather, Charles Craig, was just an ordinary middle school coach. Later, he met Taras Brown. It was Brown who truly set him on the path of basketball. The retired military man had tortured a young Durant with methods that were almost cruel, making him understand that becoming a top basketball player was no simple task. But Brown was also just an amateur coach, and there wasn’t much he could teach Durant. The pull-up jumper, the two-dribble pull-up... for years, those were the only two things he practiced. He wasn’t even allowed to play pickup games or streetball, forced only to drill the tedious fundamentals. This was also why Durant had once considered giving up basketball. The training was just too grueling, too torturous. But now, he had been lucky enough to pass the screening and become one of the kids who could participate in the open tryouts. He had thought for sure he wouldn’t be selected, because his performance in his freshman and sophomore years hadn’t been that outstanding. Yet, he had been chosen in the end. The chance to experience real, NBA-level training... for him, it was truly like a dream come true.’
At the mention of training, Beasley pouted.
He had always been a talent-based player anyway; he’d always looked down on things like training.
As the two teenagers were chatting, the BOOMING sound of a subwoofer suddenly came from the next room.
It sounded like they were having a party.
The motel’s soundproofing was terrible, so they could hear everything clearly.
Beasley got up angrily, pounded on the wall with his fist, and yelled a few times.
But there was no response. The music from next door was still blasting, deafeningly loud.
"Fuck."
Beasley cursed and stormed out the door.
Durant quickly followed. His good friend had been a real troublemaker when they were kids.
By the time Durant got outside, Beasley had already knocked, and the door to the next room had opened.
An equally tall teenager with a buzz cut poked his head out, looking at Beasley with annoyance.
"Hey man, you guys need to keep it down," Beasley yelled.
"None of your fucking business," the buzz-cut teen retorted aggressively.
Beasley’s temper flared instantly. He warned, "Look, man, this is your last warning. Keep it down."
From behind the buzz-cut teen, another, shorter teenager came out and grabbed him.
Durant also rushed forward and grabbed Beasley.
Facing Beasley’s ferocious glare, the buzz-cut teen showed no fear. Gripping the doorframe, he said, "Then I’ll say this one last time, too. We’re doing our thing. If you don’t like it, you can get lost."
"Fuck."
Beasley suddenly snapped and threw a punch at the buzz-cut teen.
The other teen stumbled, then immediately charged forward and started grappling with Beasley.
The shorter teen next to him, stunned for a moment, jumped in and landed a sucker punch on Beasley.
Seeing his friend in trouble, Durant had no choice but to clench his fists and charge in, no matter how much he didn’t want to fight.
In an instant, the four of them were tangled up in a brawl.
Just then, from the bathroom deep inside the room blasting with rap music, a chubby teenager emerged, bobbing his head. Seeing the four people brawling, he froze for a second, then let out a ROAR and charged in as well.
It was almost eleven at night when Chen Yu got the call, just as he was getting ready for bed.
"Are you saying that some of the players who made it through our open tryouts got arrested by the police for fighting, and one of them was drinking?" The call was from Chen Yu’s assistant, Hunter.
On the other end of the line, Hunter sounded troubled. "That’s right. The coach who came to Phoenix with one of the high schoolers, a kid named Kevin Durant, contacted us. He’s hoping we can step in and help handle the situation."
Chen Yu shook his head to himself, glanced at Lexi who was already asleep beside him, and said after a moment’s thought, "Alright, let’s leave it for tonight. Let them cool off in the police station. We’ll go deal with it tomorrow morning."
’It’s too late anyway,’ Chen Yu thought. ’I can’t be bothered to deal with it now. Letting them spend a night in a cell will teach them a lesson. It’ll be good for them.’
"By the way, who was involved? Send me the list of names, I want to see," Chen Yu added.
’Drinking, especially. That takes some nerve. Probably a real troublemaker.’
"Yes, sir."
Hunter hung up and, a moment later, sent a text message.
Chen Yu glanced at it in the light of his bedside lamp.
"Michael Beasley."
"Kevin Durant."
"Demar DeRozan."
"Russell Westbrook."
Chen Yu paused. ’Isn’t that the player Wright mentioned today?’
And the last name: "James Harden."
Chen Yu thought for a moment, made a mental note of the names, then silenced his phone and lay down to sleep.

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