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Chapter 380: Fifty Servings Of Fried Chicken
🕑 Added 2025-10-06 14:07:59 +0000 UTCThe Knicks returned to New York like conquering heroes.
When O’Neal stepped off the plane, holding the golden O’Brien Trophy aloft, the crowd outside the terminal erupted. The sea of blue and orange seemed to tremble with excitement.
“We are the champions!” someone shouted, and soon the entire airport joined in the chant, their voices echoing through the night like thunder.
This victory meant everything to New York — and perhaps even more to O’Neal, whose comeback season had silenced every critic from Los Angeles to Miami.
James Dolan, on the other hand, was over the moon. He announced that the championship parade would take place on the 12th. The whole city would turn into one massive cauldron of celebration.
For once, Dolan didn’t want to hear anyone talking about budgets or the luxury tax.
“Money?” he had laughed earlier that morning. “Why are you saving money for me? I’m Dolan —, rich, and happy. That’s all that matters right now!”
The Knicks’ front office was showered with bonuses. Staffers who’d barely been noticed before suddenly found extra zeros on their paychecks. The players, meanwhile, were granted some well-earned rest. For Dolan, this moment was deeply personal — the Knicks hadn’t lifted the trophy since he was a teenager staring at the TV in awe.
…
When Lin Yi arrived back in New York, the airport crowd surged toward him for autographs. He smiled, signed a few jerseys, and made his escape home. Celebrations could wait; right now, sleep sounded far more valuable than champagne.
Inside his apartment, Olsen had been waiting for him.
The witch, as Lin Yi jokingly called her, headed into the kitchen. She’d been practicing her late-night recipes lately.
Truth be told, Lin Yi had intended to rest and spend some time with Olsen, but when Chris Paul called to say he was flying back to New Orleans the next day, Lin Yi changed his mind. Some things were better discussed over greasy fingers and laughter.
..
That evening, the two found themselves in a cozy little spot, plates of fried chicken between them.
Of course, Paul wasn’t sticking around for New York’s championship parade.
“You think I’m gonna stand there and watch y’all celebrate?” he joked. “That’s emotional damage, man.”
He’d stayed in New York because he honestly thought the Finals would come back to Madison Square Garden for a Game 6. Instead, Lin Yi had ended the series early — and walked away with the Finals MVP.
Now, with the season finally over, Lin Yi wasn’t pretending to be a saint anymore. No one in the NBA eats clean 365 days a year. Not even LeBron, maybe… Westbrook, that guy was a freak.
Whoever thinks NBA players eat quinoa and chicken breast every day clearly doesn’t understand human nature.
Paul had originally wanted to decline the invitation, but fried chicken was fried chicken. A man’s willpower only goes so far.
“Alright, but just one plate,” he said firmly. “I’m watching my diet.”
Half an hour later, he was licking his fingers.
“Chris, how about ordering another one?” Lin Yi teased after demolishing his first plate.
“Another one? Bro, make it two. Who stops at one?” Paul replied without looking up, reaching for more fries.
Lin Yi grinned, waving the waiter over. “Make it four more, please.”
Paul gave him a death stare, but it was too late. The order was in.
Still, this wasn’t really about fried chicken. Lin Yi had something else on his mind. T
he future.
New York needed a plan.
Plan A had been simple: if the Knicks somehow got the No. 1 pick, he’d push for Kyrie Irving without hesitation. Lin Yi wasn’t worried about Irving stealing his spotlight — he’d just led the Knicks to a title and earned the Finals MVP. Who in their right mind would challenge that?
Besides, Kyrie was a perfect lieutenant — a slick ball-handler, a scorer who could open up a second offensive front. Lin Yi imagined the two of them sharing the floor: the artistry, the rhythm, the highlight plays. The Knicks would be the most elegant show in basketball.
But fate had other ideas. Plan A was gone.
Which left Plan B — and that’s where Chris Paul came in.
Trading for him wasn’t exactly cheap, but compared to gambling on a rookie, getting a proven leader like Paul was a no-brainer.
Some people might call it forming a superteam, but Lin Yi saw it differently. If you win first and then recruit, that’s building a dynasty, not chasing one.
After all, didn’t Jordan have Pippen? Did that partnership ever hurt his legacy? Of course not.
Besides, the Knicks weren’t about to rob the Hornets blind. Lin Yi made that clear.
“We’ll give them fair value.”
And the chips the Clippers once offered? Please. Gallinari alone was worth more than half that package.
The guy was a reigning champion — that’s not something the Clippers could ever match.
The Knicks also had draft picks, assets, and most importantly, credibility. This time, if they went for Paul, the league couldn’t say a word.
Lin Yi leaned back in his chair, smirking as he wiped his hands.
“You know, Chris,” he said, “maybe next year, you won’t have to fly home so early.”
Paul chuckled, not quite sure whether Lin Yi was joking or making an offer.
As the NBA’s trend of superteam-building kept rising — and salary caps ballooned year by year — the league was changing fast. More money, more stars joining forces, more superteams.
Lin Yi had done his homework. He knew that to survive — and dominate — in this new NBA era, the Knicks needed an elite floor general. He’d even asked Javier Stanford about Curry long ago, but the Warriors weren’t stupid enough to let him go.
As for Wall, Rose, and Westbrook — forget it. Their teams would never trade them, not unless someone lost their mind.
So, between Irving and Paul, who was the smarter investment?
If this were the 2014–15 season, Lin Yi might’ve gone all in on Kyrie. Young, flashy, and with upside to burn. But it was only 2012 next season. The Knicks didn’t need potential — they needed a commander now. Someone who could orchestrate the chaos, lead the second battlefield, and draw attention away when the Death Five couldn’t run rampant.
Lin Yi knew the Death Five wasn’t invincible. With a shortened regular season ahead, his workload would increase, and while he could train harder, improve his badges, and boost his fundamentals, he wasn’t Superman. Without someone like Paul to shoulder part of the pressure, the Anti-Lin Alliance forming across the league would eat him alive.
That was also why the Knicks had brought in Van Gundy Jr. as D’Antoni’s first assistant coach. The guy was one of the main strategists behind that Anti-Lin Alliance.
The real challenge was sitting across from Lin Yi, tearing into a piece of fried chicken.
Lin Yi looked up from his plate.
“Chris,” he said suddenly, “I won the championship.”
Paul paused mid-bite, then chuckled. “Oh, I heard. Congrats, champ.”
Lin Yi grinned. “Thanks. So… how about building a dynasty with me?”
Paul froze. The drumstick in his hand almost slipped to the floor.
“Why me? You already won it all,” Paul said, forcing a laugh. “What, you want me to come kiss the ring?”
“No,” Lin Yi said seriously. “The Knicks need you. I need you.”
He didn’t even realize how shameless that sounded until he said it out loud — but he didn’t take it back.
Paul leaned back in his chair, a little caught off guard. “To be honest, Lin, I do want to leave New Orleans. But I haven’t made up my mind yet. And… I mean, you guys just won the title. I don’t think—”
“Ten servings of fried chicken,” Lin Yi interrupted, deadpan.
Paul blinked. “What does fried chicken have to do with anything? I’m being serious here.”
“Twenty servings,” Lin Yi said, as if increasing the number somehow strengthened his argument.
“…”
Paul sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Man, can you just listen for a second?”
“Forty servings.”
“LIN!”
Lin Yi chuckled, leaning on the table. “C’mon, Chris. You know what I’m really saying.”
He wasn’t joking anymore. Behind the humor, there was a sincerity Paul could feel. Lin Yi wasn’t playing games — he wanted him in New York.
The truth was, Paul had thought about joining the Knicks. But deep down, he hesitated. What if moving to New York made him look like he was chasing success he couldn’t find in the West?
Still, there was something about Lin Yi’s tone — confident but not arrogant, playful but genuine — that made him pause.
New York wasn’t the same laughingstock it used to be. Since Dolan had reconciled with Ewing and Oakley, the team’s image had taken a positive step forward with the old fans and players. As for the newer fans, Lin had that covered.
But Paul was 26 — right in his prime — and still stubborn enough to want to earn it himself. He didn’t want to look like he was begging for a ring.
“Fifty servings of fried chicken,” Lin Yi said finally, eyes locked on him.
Paul exhaled slowly, staring back at him. Lin Yi wasn’t bribing him. He was showing sincerity in the most Lin Yi way possible — direct, slightly ridiculous, but completely from the heart.
