The night after the Eastern Conference Finals opener, Lin Yi finally wrapped up the post-game press conference, grabbed a quick bite with a few close friends, and then slid behind the wheel to drive Olsen home.
Tired didn't even begin to cover it. Healing by the system, as helpful as it was for serious injuries, couldn't refill an empty tank. Muscle soreness, the deep kind that lives in your legs and shoulders after forty-eight minutes of playoff basketball, only eased with time and careful recovery. The little cuts and bruises—purple smudges from elbows and stray fingernails—weren't even worth healing, though.
Back at his apartment, Olsen wasted no time. She motioned for him to sit and began working the knots out of his shoulders.
"You were running yourself ragged out there," she murmured. "Let me take care of this before you even think about practice."
Lin Yi managed a faint smile and nodded. Protecting teammates came at a cost. He'd never describe himself as a saint, but he had his own code: you battle for the guys in your locker room. A few bruises were nothing compared to that.
"Whose nails are this long, honestly…" Olsen stopped when she saw the thin streak of blood across his back. Her eyes welled up.
Lin Yi chuckled softly. "Definitely not LeBron's. He bites his nails to the quick—you've seen him on the bench."
While she dabbed the cut, Olsen snapped a quick photo on her phone, muttering about showing the internet just how rough Miami had played.
Truth was, James probably carried just as many bumps and scrapes. Playoff basketball didn't hand out clean uniforms.
"Promise me you'll sleep in tomorrow," she said. "No early workout."
A day without training left him restless, almost itchy.
"You should get some sleep. You have been cheering all game," said Lin as he gently ushered Olsen to her room despite her protests.
Around the league, the conversation after Game 1 was relentless. Broadcasters replayed hard fouls on a loop. Former Knicks enforcer Charles Oakley didn't hold back in a radio hit:
"The Heat didn't come to play basketball. Pat Riley sent 'em out to fight."
When even Oakley, a man who built a career on bruises, called it excessive, Miami had a PR problem. Some fans even suggested the Heat were trying to eliminate Lin Yi rather than beat New York on the scoreboard.
Publicly, he preached fair play; privately, he seethed. Last summer, he'd built this super-team, believing a title was inevitable. Now, a relentless Knicks squad—led by Lin Yi and anchored by veterans and young blood wasn't in the script. This update is available on novel⚑fire.net
Social media amplified every replay, every elbow, and even some Heat fans began to question their team's methods. Riley announced that once they were back in Miami, the Heat would double down on skill work and shooting. If they couldn't outmuscle New York, they'd outscore them.
Out West, the conference finals tipped off a night later. Lin Yi tuned in from New York, hoping for fireworks from the Thunder. Instead, Rick Carlisle's Mavericks sprang a clinic. Rested after a shorter series, Dallas smothered Oklahoma City's young legs and cruised to a thirty-point win. Dirk Nowitzki dropped 28 with the calm of a veteran, proving old spice burns hottest.
Kevin Durant, meanwhile, faced a new round of internet jabs. Fans cracked that Westbrook was carrying him, that Lin Yi did more with less.
"Does Lin even have an All-Star teammate?" one viral post asked. Someone replied, O'Neal.
"Sure, O'Neal, but come on—does he still count?"
Westbrook, ever the spark, tried to lift his teammate's spirits and even encouraged Durant to shoot his shot—literally and figuratively.
Two nights later, Madison Square Garden roared again. Game 2 belonged to the Knicks, 97-107, giving them a 2-0 series cushion.
Lin Yi shot just 9-for-14 but still poured in 34 points, 15 at the line, while the rest of the roster caught fire and hit over fifty percent.
Afterward, Miami coach Erik Spoelstra grumbled about foul counts.
"Your guys were hanging on Lin Yi's waist and knees all night," one columnist wrote.
"Of course he's going to the stripe."
Spoelstra pointed out that James had drawn contact, too, but earned only six free throws.
The media wasn't buying it: "That's because the Knicks defend clean," came the retort.
The narrative shifted quickly. Analysts across networks declared New York the clear favorite to reach the Finals. Riley and Spoelstra knew what awaited in Miami: a must-win pair on their own floor. James and Wade, proven masters of mid-series adjustments, had to deliver.
Lin Yi understood it as well. He'd seen LeBron erase 0-2 holes before. D'Antoni's message to the Knicks was blunt—steal one game in Miami and the path to the Finals was theirs.
So, while the team boarded a late-night charter to South Florida, Lin Yi sat quietly near the window, Sony headphones on, already thinking about early morning drills. Bruises or not, Game 3 was coming, and he intended to be ready.
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