The playoffs were breathing down their necks, and the Lakers' practice facility felt like a pressure cooker.
Phil Jackson ran every single session personally now, clipboard in hand, eyes missing nothing. The Zen Master's voice cut through the gym like a whip—sharp, calm, and impossible to ignore.
Kobe Bryant's face was pure stone. No smiles, no trash talk, just that cold, laser-focused glare that said he was already in playoff mode. The rest of the team moved like they were walking on eggshells. No locker-room jokes, no side chatter. Every rep mattered.
To crank the intensity to full postseason level, Phil called for a full-court, no-mercy 5-on-5 scrimmage.
Team A: Kobe, Kwame Brown, Luke Walton, Sasha Vujacic, Aaron McKie.
Team B: Link, Lamar Odom, Andrew Bynum, Jordan Farmar, Brian Cook.
Link was running the show for the starters, going straight at the Black Mamba.
The ball went up and the gym turned into a war zone.
First half-court possession. Kobe caught Walton's swing pass on the left wing. A quick series of hand-offs and cross screens later, Link stepped right in front of him—stance low, weight balanced, eyes locked on Kobe's hips.
The entire practice facility went dead quiet. Trainers, assistant coaches, even the ball boys froze. Everyone knew what this matchup meant.
Kobe gave one quick jab, then backed him down, testing Link's base. Solid resistance. Good lower-body strength. Kobe leaned in once, twice, then exploded into that signature spin move—shoulder dipping, pivot foot whipping around, trying to blow past on the baseline.
The instant Kobe's shoulders shifted and his plant foot rotated, Link was already there.
He didn't get knocked off balance. Perfect read. One explosive lateral slide step and he sealed the drive completely. His right hand flashed out like a blade, swiping straight at the ball hanging exposed on Kobe's right hip.
Kobe felt the pressure immediately. He pulled the ball back tight, spun away, and squared up to the rim.
First post-up attempt—completely shut down.
Kobe's eyes narrowed into slits.
He kicked the ball back out, then called for it again deeper in the post. Jab step, hesitation, change of pace—Kobe ran the full bag of tricks. Link stayed glued, hips sunk low, mirroring every fake without biting.
Then Kobe detonated—hard hesitation dribble, burst to the right.
Link slid with him in perfect sync, chest and shoulder taking the contact. His long left arm stayed glued high, completely blanketing Kobe's shooting window.
Kobe couldn't get all the way to the rim. He rose up anyway, fading back into that deadly leaner.
Link timed the jump like he'd studied it on film a thousand times. He went straight up and swallowed the shot.
Clang!
The ball rattled hard off the back rim.
Bynum roared and snatched the defensive board out of the air.
"HELL YES! That's D, Link!" Odom shouted from the wing.
Kobe landed, gave Link a quick sideways glance—real surprise flashing across his face for half a second. The trainers on the sideline leaned forward, muttering. The assistant coaches exchanged looks. That sequence—from the physical fight through contact to the perfect vertical contest—was straight-up elite perimeter defense.
A few possessions later, Kobe got the rock again.
This time he used a screen, switched onto Odom—clear mismatch. Kobe waved everyone to the weak side with a sharp hand gesture, ready to go to work one-on-one.
Odom played him tight, scared of the jumper. Kobe exploded past him in one violent burst, half a body ahead, eyes locked on the rim.
But right as Kobe gathered to finish, Link came flying over from the weak-side corner like a missile.
Perfect help timing—exactly the split second Kobe's center of gravity lifted. Link launched, his big hand completely erasing both the shooting and passing lanes.
Kobe hung in the air as long as he could, trying a wild, off-balance layup.
Off the rim again.
Two straight stops on Kobe in the same scrimmage. The gym went completely silent except for the ball bouncing on the hardwood.
The Lakers players looked stunned. Even Kwame Brown's mouth hung open.
Kobe's expression stayed ice-cold, but the intensity radiating off him ratcheted up another notch. He stared Link down, then waved every teammate off the court with a sharp flick of the wrist.
"Link. Guard me. Five straight possessions."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
The full scrimmage stopped cold. Every player backed up to the sideline, forming a half-circle. Trainers and coaches stepped closer. This was now Kobe Bryant versus Link—pure one-on-one theater.
Link took a slow, deep breath, stepped up, and dropped into his defensive stance. He could feel the shift in the air—Kobe's competitive fire was fully ignited.
But Link's defense wasn't the same kid from training camp anymore. The Devil Training System's Defense (Advanced) mission had just finished grinding him into something sharper.
First ball: Kobe rose up from three-point range, no hesitation.
Link flew at him full speed. The ball still splashed through the net—clean.
Second ball: Kobe attacked hard, stopped on a dime, faded back into that ridiculous off-balance jumper.
Link stayed tight, but Kobe's body lean was insane, almost parallel to the floor. Swish again.
Kobe landed with that cold-blooded killer stare, like he was saying your defense ain't shit.
Third ball: Kobe powered through Link's chest, shouldered him off, drove baseline, and went up soft for the layup.
Link fought through the contact from behind and got a hand on it anyway.
The ball kissed the rim twice and fell out.
"Damn—good D!" Odom muttered under his breath.
Kobe grabbed the rebound, eyes burning hotter now.
Link's footwork, recovery speed after contact, and shot-contest timing had all jumped to another level. Kobe couldn't toy with him the way he used to.
Fourth ball: Kobe went full assassin. He treated Link like Shane Battier or Ron Artest now—no freebies.
Probe after probe. Then he attacked the right side, ripped the ball back, and hit that trademark back-down footwork—fake left, spin right, up-and-under fadeaway.
Link's weight shifted for a heartbeat, but he recovered instantly.
Except it was all a setup.
Kobe used Link's body as a screen, leaned in, and drew the foul on the way up.
Link threw his hands up in frustration.
Kobe gave him a light pat on the ass as he walked past. "Young buck, defense isn't just reads. It's experience too."
The teammates let out a round of good-natured laughs.
But the coaches on the sideline knew the truth. Forcing Kobe Bryant to bait a foul like that was proof Link's defense had come a long damn way.
The one-on-one side show wrapped up quick. The full scrimmage kicked back off and turned into a dogfight. They battled back and forth until Phil finally blew the whistle—no clear winner.
Practice ended. Kobe walked straight over to Link while everyone else headed for the showers.
"Your defense," Kobe said, voice carrying genuine surprise, "how the hell did you get this good this fast?"
"Extra work after hours," Link answered, wiping sweat from his face. He glanced over at Phil Jackson standing on the sideline, arms still folded. "Plus watching hours of film—Bruce Bowen, Shane Battier, those guys."
Kobe nodded slowly, chewing on it.
"Playoffs are coming," he finally said, voice low. "I need to stay locked in on offense every night. Guarding the other team's number-one option—that job is probably gonna fall on you."
Link felt the weight of the words hit him.
In his old timeline, this version of Kobe had carried everything alone—huge scoring load and the toughest defensive assignment every single night. No real help. That was exactly why the Lakers kept crashing out early.
But now Kobe was voluntarily handing over the defensive keys to the kingdom.
Straight trust. The kind that didn't come easy from the Black Mamba.
"I got you," Link said, nodding once, dead serious.
Kobe started to walk off, then stopped.
"One more thing. First round we're probably facing Houston. Lock in on Tracy McGrady. He ain't easy."
Kobe grabbed his bag and headed for the tunnel without another word.
Link stood there alone on the hardwood for a second, letting it sink in.
The Black Mamba had just handed him the heavy load.
And after all the grinding, all the late nights, all the System missions—he was ready to carry it.