It was just starting to get light out when Phelps woke up again.
He stared blankly at the blanket covering him, not knowing what had happened.
Quietly slipping out of the room, Phelps saw the assistant doctor fast asleep behind the front desk.
Not wanting to disturb him, Phelps tiptoed toward the exit.
"You’re awake?"
The voice from behind made Phelps jump. He turned his head to see the assistant doctor sitting up, rubbing his eyes.
Phelps nodded, then hesitated for a moment before asking how he had ended up sleeping here.
"You don’t remember? Oh, right, did Dr. Chen give you sleeping pills or something? You were sleeping like the dead." The assistant doctor stretched and asked. He had checked on Phelps several times during the night, and the man was sleeping like a log.
"No, he didn’t."
Phelps shook his head and tried to recall what happened last night. "We just talked," he said, puzzled. "At the end, he said he’d give me a massage. It felt really good, and then I just fell asleep."
’He just hadn’t expected to sleep straight through until dawn.’
The assistant doctor just said, "Oh," and didn’t ask any more questions.
’He’d been shocked the first time he saw Chen Yu’s massage techniques.’
Not a single athlete who had been massaged by Chen Yu had anything bad to say about it.
"How are you feeling?" the assistant doctor asked, getting up.
Phelps answered without hesitation, "Fantastic."
’He’d never felt this good.’
His whole body was comfortable, and his mind was clear and refreshed. He could think of countless adjectives to describe how he felt right now.
He had persevered through long, tedious training with his powerful self-control and willpower. But opening his eyes every morning was never a pleasant feeling for him; it was the start of another day of torture.
He didn’t know when it started, but deep down, Phelps felt a sense of resistance.
He wanted to slack off, to let loose for a bit. He didn’t want to soak in a cold pool first thing in the morning until his hands and feet turned pale and wrinkled.
But today, his body felt lighter than ever before.
"That’s good. See you later."
The assistant doctor smiled and gestured for Phelps to leave.
Phelps walked to the door, then stopped. He turned and asked if he could come back again today.
’He’d never felt so comfortable. From his body to his mind, it was a refreshing, brand-new kind of ease.’
Back in the United States, he had heard of Chen Yu’s reputation. The media had reported more than once on Chen Yu’s incredible methods, especially his massages for restoring athletes’ conditions.
Only today had he truly experienced it for himself.
"You’ll have to ask Dr. Chen," the assistant doctor said, not at all surprised. Over the past couple of days, every athlete who had been treated or massaged by Chen Yu would always find a chance to come back. Phelps wasn’t the first.
"Then I’ll wait for him."
Phelps simply sat down on a nearby bench.
"What time is it even? Let’s go get some breakfast first. He usually doesn’t get here until after nine in the morning." The assistant doctor pulled Phelps up and headed to the cafeteria.
In the cafeteria, Phelps saw Bob Bowman, who had rushed over to find him.
Sitting down in front of Phelps, Bowman’s eyes lit up when he saw the tray and food laid out before him.
’Looks like his appetite is back.’
Bread, a cheese sandwich, chocolate pancakes, coffee, and a vegetable salad filled the tray.
"How are you feeling?" Bowman asked cautiously.
Phelps swallowed a whole fried egg in one bite. "Bob, they call him a divine healer, a Miracle Doctor, and today I really believe it."
Especially the massage. Phelps didn’t know if it was part of the treatment, but he really felt like there was some kind of magic in Chen Yu’s hands.
’Bowman was secretly amazed. Just yesterday, when they went to find Chen Yu, Phelps had seemed so indifferent. How could his attitude change so drastically in just one day?’
Liu Xiang had training in the morning, so Chen Yu didn’t come to the Olympic Village.
However, Bowman contacted him to express his gratitude.
The gratitude was one thing, but the main reason was to ask about Phelps’s condition.
He was genuinely afraid that Phelps was having psychological problems.
In 2000, a 15-year-old Phelps made his debut, becoming the youngest male Olympic swimmer for the United States, although he only placed fifth.
But immediately after, Phelps began his brilliant career.
Last year, in particular, he won 13 medals, set 5 world records, and was even named the World Swimmer of the Year by FINA.
This Olympic year was supposed to be the peak of his career, his most glorious year, the year he was meant to achieve his greatest results.
He had registered for eight events in one go. If his mental issues affected his performance, the loss would be immense.
"Don’t worry. In a day or two, I’ll give you a preliminary diagnosis."
After their in-depth conversation yesterday, Chen Yu had a good grasp of Phelps’s mindset and felt the problem wasn’t too serious.
Before he could ask any more questions, Chen Yu hung up the phone.
Today, Bolt had also arrived in Athens with the Jamaican delegation.
So now, Chen Yu not only had to worry about Liu Xiang but also Bolt.
And compared to Phelps, Chen Yu felt that Durant’s problem was even more troublesome.
Last night, Chen Yu stayed up late watching all the footage Ernest had sent over.
Of course, this wasn’t to say that Durant’s psychological problem was more severe than Phelps’s. The "trouble" was that Chen Yu didn’t know how to approach it.
He felt he was missing an opportunity, a catalyst to solve the problem.
Using the film crew to artificially create a catalyst didn’t feel right either.
Chen Yu still hoped Durant could figure out the root of the problem on his own.
But what Chen Yu didn’t expect was that this catalyst would arrive so quickly.
That very same day, far away in Safford, Durant had another game.
It was a marquee matchup, a home game against the team led by Oden.
There was a bit of a skill gap between the two teams. Even without the internal conflict, it wouldn’t be easy to beat Oden’s team.
So, Devil’s Mountain suffered a crushing defeat.
to 50, the largest point differential since the show began filming.
Physically and technically, Oden completely dominated Little Jordan. He exploded for 31 points, 12 rebounds, and 5 assists, and also racked up 5 blocks.
You could say he single-handedly demolished Devil’s Mountain.
Durant, as usual, took zero shots and was invisible the entire game.
As soon as the game ended, Durant immediately returned to the locker room, skipping the press conference.
The reporters kept asking him about his choice, and he couldn’t answer. So, Presti had simply restricted them from speaking to the press.
Little Jordan followed him into the locker room, shot Durant a fierce glare, and sat down, fuming.
After sitting for a moment, still seething, he got up again and, with a loud RATTLE, yanked open his locker.
He was venting his frustration this way.
Durant heard him and knew what Little Jordan was angry about. Biting his lip, he said softly, "Sorry, it’s my fault!"
Little Jordan snorted coldly and didn’t reply.
But just then, there was another loud CRASH.
It was Harden, on the other side of the room.
He had violently grabbed his locker door, slammed it shut, and then started furiously kicking the metal locker.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Harden kicked it a dozen times as if he’d gone crazy, only stopping when he was out of breath.
Both Durant and Little Jordan were stunned.
Neither of them had ever seen Harden this angry.
The entire locker room fell so silent you could hear a pin drop.
It was Durant who reacted first. The shame in his eyes deepened, and he opened his mouth to apologize again.
"Enough!"
Harden roared, cutting Durant off. He yelled at the top of his lungs, "Stop apologizing! You’ve already apologized countless times. I’m sick of hearing you say you’re sorry."
"We know you made the wrong choice, so what? You wanted to pick your friend, there’s nothing wrong with that. It was your dumbass friend who betrayed you! That’s his problem, not yours! So please, stop apologizing. You don’t owe us anything, you don’t need to keep saying sorry over and over again."
"And you!"
Harden’s eyes shot wide as he turned on Little Jordan, pointing at Durant. "He’s already apologized to you! What more do you want from him? Does he need to shoot himself in front of you? Give me a break! How thin-skinned can you be? Have you never been dumped by a girl before?"
Little Jordan was taken aback and instinctively tried to argue back.
"You shut up!"
Harden’s fury only grew. He roared at them both, "I’ve had enough! I don’t even know what you two are doing! One’s an idiot, the other’s a petty baby! So he picked the wrong guy, is that really such a big deal? No! So why can’t you two just let it go?"
"Dammit, you guys are a pile of shit! You don’t want to win, but I do!"
In the past few days, Devil’s Mountain had already lost 6 games, sliding at an incredible speed to third-to-last in the West.
The key was that they had a chance to win those games.
Even today, because they had picked Jeff Teague, Oden’s team was weak on the wings. If Durant had gone all out, they wouldn’t have been without a chance.
’I train so hard, I play so hard, I just want to win!’
But what’s the result? One of them sucks, is full of himself, has a fragile ego, and always wants everyone to coddle him. The other wallows in self-pity, falls apart over a tiny little thing, and just stops playing basketball.
Stuck with two teammates like this, Harden felt like he was about to lose his mind.
"If you’re going to keep acting like this, then just trade me! I want to be on a team that can win, not play house with you two assholes!"
"FUCK!"
Harden kicked over the bench in front of him, grabbed his backpack, and stormed out of the locker room.
All that was left was a mess on the floor and Durant and Little Jordan staring at each other, speechless.
Little Jordan’s cheeks were puffed out, his eyebrows furrowed. When he saw Durant looking at him, he flinched and said hurriedly, "What do you want? You’re not gonna hit me, are you? I’m telling you, you can’t beat me."
Durant shook his head and got up, walking over to Little Jordan.
Gritting his teeth, Durant said, "I was wrong before. If you’re still angry, you can beat me up. Like you said, I can’t beat you anyway. But... I’ve had enough too."
Durant bit his lip, the pent-up frustration inside him bursting out like a flood.
He had made the wrong choice, and he knew he had let Little Jordan down.
But for days, he had been trying so hard to apologize, carefully tiptoeing around Little Jordan’s feelings. The repression was about to make him break down.
’He honestly felt it would be better to just take a beating.’
And most importantly, he wanted to win, too.
Having to pass up open shots, watching them lose games they could have won—it was worse than death.
Little Jordan snorted softly and muttered, "Who said anything about hitting you?"
Durant didn’t hear him and continued, "DeAndre, if you really can’t forgive me and you’re not happy here, we can make a trade. Send you to a team you want to be on."
Little Jordan’s eyebrow shot up. "Why should I be the one to leave?"
Durant immediately replied, "Then I’ll get traded."
Seeing Durant looking straight at him, Little Jordan pouted, looking a bit guilty. "I never said I wanted to be traded."
"Then what do you..."
"Stop. Don’t say any more."
Little Jordan waved his hand, cutting Durant off. He rubbed his face in annoyance and changed the subject with a complaint, "James is really something else, talking like we don’t want to win. It’s all your fault, anyway. Why didn’t you take all those open shots?"
Durant froze for a second and didn’t answer.
Little Jordan got up, pulled out his backpack, and turned to leave.
But just before he left, he stopped again and turned his head. "Are you... are you coming? Don’t fight me for the bathroom when we get back."
Durant snapped out of his daze, quickly grabbed his backpack, and followed him.
"By the way, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you. Why do you always wear your backpack on both shoulders? It makes you look like a nerd. Isn’t it cooler to wear it on one shoulder? Are you really good at school or something?"
「Around the corner in the hallway.」
Presti was distractedly walking toward the locker room with Jim.
The team’s situation was making him seriously consider the possibility of a trade.
Then, Presti saw Durant and Little Jordan in the distance, walking side-by-side, talking and laughing as they went. He froze on the spot.
"What just happened?"
Jim, standing beside him, was also stunned. He asked back dazedly.
Presti shook his head. He had no idea either.

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