At the United Center, the atmosphere carried a rare confidence from the home side.
Before the game, Tom Thibodeau had made his stance clear. The Knicks, he said, were far less intimidating without Lin Yi.
He believed it.
That was the danger.
Even Lin Yi, watching the broadcast at home, considered Thibodeau one of his most loyal admirers in the coaching world. But admiration did not change reality. The current version of Derrick Rose was not the MVP version. Not yet.
How much of the old explosiveness remained was still uncertain.
Chicago played with grit, physical defense, and stubborn pace control. They dragged the game into a grind. For stretches, it worked.
But the Knicks still found a way.
Even without Lin Yi, they stayed ahead long enough to survive the final stretch and escape with another win.
It should have been a routine night.
Instead, everything broke.
Lin Yi, who had been quietly criticizing Chris Paul and Klay Thompson's decision-making while watching the game, suddenly stopped moving.
His expression changed.
Elizabeth noticed immediately.
Without saying a word, she picked up Olivia and walked to another room. She understood the look. Some moments did not need interruption.
For years, people had believed the Knicks were protected by something beyond normal luck.
Since the 2009 draft night that brought Lin Yi to New York, the franchise had accelerated into contention faster than anyone expected. Injuries had rarely disrupted their core. The only stain was the 2011-2012 Eastern Conference Finals run. Besides that, setbacks had been limited.
Fans began calling the team's medical staff miraculous. Some even compared them favorably to the Suns' medical reputation, pointing to Lin Yi as evidence. A player who never seemed to miss time.
That belief ended in Chicago.
In the fourth quarter, battling for a rebound against Joakim Noah, Tyson Chandler collided awkwardly in midair. Knees tangled. Bodies twisted. He hit the floor hard and stayed down.
The arena noise faded instantly as he was brought off the court.
He did not return.
Lin Yi's phone lit up shortly after.
A message from assistant coach Dan.
Suspected knee stress fracture. MRI required for confirmation.
The words felt heavier than the screen.
The night got worse. Moments later, Chris Paul collapsed on an offensive possession.
Rose, defending him, froze for a split second after stripping the ball clean. The instinct was to push in transition.
Instead, he stopped.
He called for a timeout.
Thibodeau's expression on the sideline turned dark immediately.
Rose later explained it simply. Paul did not look right.
"I've been there," Rose said afterward. "If it is serious, a fast break is not worth it."
He believed players should not be punished in moments like that.
The Bulls still lost.
The Knicks still won.
But nobody inside New York celebrated.
D'Antoni's postgame press conference carried a different tone entirely. The win felt irrelevant next to what had happened on the floor.
Inside the organization, Lin Yi's earlier warnings resurfaced. He had spoken privately about durability concerns, about Chandler's workload, about Paul's injury history.
But the timing had seemed distant then.
Routine season talk.
Now it felt like foresight.
Because the reality was worse than expected.
Not only were both players injured, but the severity was escalating beyond projections.
Lin Yi sat quietly at home, staring at the wall for a long time.
He finally spoke, almost to himself.
"Is this my karma?"
No one answered.
. . .
November 4th, New York.
The team returned home with two injuries that reshaped the season overnight.
Tyson Chandler's MRI confirmed a stress fracture in the knee.
The initial projection was four months. If complications appeared, it could stretch to six. Best case, a return after the All-Star break.
Worst case, postseason uncertainty.
Chris Paul's situation was no better.
A recurrence of a previous knee issue. A meniscus problem that had never fully disappeared since his earlier surgery years ago. The medical staff recommended conservative treatment immediately.
Three to six months off the court.
The phrase manage carefully now carried real weight.
For most teams, this would end the season before it truly began.
For the Knicks, the situation was different.
They still had Lin Yi.
Still a three-time MVP.
Still the center of everything.
But even that certainty now felt less stable.
Lin Yi arrived at the hospital that afternoon.
Tyson Chandler was in relatively good spirits, despite the diagnosis. He joked with nurses, earned a playful slap on his shoulder from his wife for flirting too openly, and tried to lighten the mood in the room.
Chris Paul was quieter.
Far quieter.
The kind of silence that came from a player who had spent years fighting for a clean stretch of health and never quite finding it.
Tyson broke the tension first.
"Lin, don't worry. We'll be fine. You've got this."
Chris Paul did not look up immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
"Just finish it."
No speeches.
Just trust.
The Knicks had lost two starters in less than forty-eight hours.
Most teams would already be calculating draft position.
This team, however, still had Lin Yi.
And that alone kept everything from collapsing. But for the first time since he entered the league, Lin Yi understood something clearly.
Talent was not the only variable in a season.
Health was not predictable.
Across NBA history, countless dynasties have been derailed at the exact moment they began to take shape. Some were broken by age. Some by chemistry. Most are due to injuries.
The Knicks were no exception.
But this time, the timing felt almost cruel.
Inside the hospital room, Lin Yi stood beside Chris Paul's bed, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Chris, stop overthinking it. Focus on recovery. If you are not fully healed, you are not coming back. I will not approve it."
Paul did not respond immediately.
For someone known for his pride and control, being forced into stillness was uncomfortable in a way no defense ever could be.
Eventually, he spoke.
"I don't want people saying I just joined a stacked team and rode it."
Lin Yi let out a small breath.
"So what? People already say I only win because of you and Klay and everyone else."
Paul frowned slightly.
"That is different."
"How?"
Paul hesitated, then shook his head.
"You know what I mean."
Lin Yi almost laughed, but stopped himself.
This was Chris Paul.
Competing, even while injured.
Arguing, even while losing.
Lin Yi leaned back slightly.
"Listen. We are teammates. That is the point. Nobody wins alone in this league. Recover properly, and when you come back, we'll finish this together in the playoffs."
For a moment, Paul said nothing.
Then he gave a small nod.
It was not full acceptance. It was trust under pressure.
But then his eyes lifted again.
"Lin… what if you don't get us there?"
The room went quiet.
Lin Yi stared at him for a few seconds.
No immediate answer came.
Then he exhaled.
He almost regretted walking into this conversation at all.
With Paul, reassurance never stayed simple. Every answer created a new question.
What if?
What if?
What if everything failed?
Lin Yi looked away briefly, thinking.
In the Western Conference, a question like that would demand calculation, planning, contingency layers stacked on contingency layers.
But this was the East.
The East did not require fear in the same way.
He had carried a far weaker team before.
He had already proven what a single dominant force could do in this conference.
Still, this situation was different.
No Chandler.
No Paul.
A roster suddenly stripped of structure.
Yet even then, his conclusion did not change.
He looked back at Paul.
"I will handle it."
Four simple words.
He continued.
"You focus on getting healthy. The playoffs are not decided in November. They are decided when everyone is ready to play."
Paul studied him for a moment, then slowly leaned back into the pillow.
Outside the room, Lin Yi stood still for a moment longer.
Then he exhaled again.
"Rest is not an option anymore, huh."
A faint frustration crossed his mind.
Winning while sharing the load had felt ideal.
Now the load was simply heavier.
And it was his alone again.
. . .
At league headquarters, David Stern had just been briefed on the latest injury reports when he paused.
Chris Paul.
Tyson Chandler.
Both out.
His expression changed slightly, then settled into something closer to satisfaction. He opened the window in his office.
Cold air drifted in.
"The more unpredictable the path," he said softly, almost to himself, "the more memorable the ending becomes."
He turned back to the desk.
The season was already writing itself.
. . .
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