63: The fallen commander

In the air, Nash's body collided with the muscular mountain that was Howard.

A massive force surged through him.

Nash lost all balance mid-air and fell backward.

When his left leg hit the floor, it failed to find a stable point of support and bent inward at a bizarre angle.

*Crack!*

A crisp sound, so sharp it made one's scalp tingle, remained clearly audible despite the cacophony of the collision.

Immediately following that...

"Agh—!"

An inhuman scream erupted from Nash's mouth, piercing through the noise of the entire Toyota Center.

The referee's whistle, the players' movements, the fans' shouting—everything stopped at that moment.

Time seemed to freeze.

The entire arena plummeted from the peak of boiling excitement into an eerie silence.

Every eye was fixed on the figure curled up on the hardwood floor.

Steve Nash clutched his left leg in agony, his body twitching incessantly from the intense pain.

His face no longer held its usual composure and wisdom; it was twisted into a gruesome mask of pure suffering.

"Steve!"

Kobe was the first to react, rushing over like a madman.

The Lakers players snapped out of their shock and gathered around him.

Standing on the edge of the crowd, Lin Feng looked at Nash's pain-stricken face, a cold premonition shooting from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

He saw it: Nash's lower leg was bent at an unnatural angle.

The Team Doctor and staff rushed onto the court with a stretcher as fast as they could.

The arena's big screen began to replay the collision.

When Nash's leg landed, it underwent a heart-wrenching deformation.

A collective gasp rose from the fans; many female fans even covered their eyes, unable to watch.

Kobe knelt on one knee beside Nash, his hand hovering in the air, wanting to touch him but afraid of worsening the pain.

"Hang in there, Steve, hang in there!"

Kobe's voice carried a tremor he didn't even notice.

Nash's forehead was covered in cold sweat. He gritted his teeth, the excruciating pain making it nearly impossible to speak.

The Team Doctor performed a quick check, his expression turning incredibly grim. He made a throat-slitting gesture toward Kobe and D'Antoni.

It was over.

The hearts of all the Lakers players sank to the bottom.

Howard stood not far away, hands spread, his face showing an expression that was both innocent and slightly annoyed.

"That was a normal defensive play; he just didn't land right," he explained to the referee.

"Shut your mouth!"

Kobe whipped his head around, his eyes bloodshot like a beast ready to devour its prey.

Intimidated by Kobe's aura, Howard sulkily shut up.

The Team Doctor carefully secured Nash onto the stretcher.

Throughout the process, Nash didn't scream again. He just gritted his teeth so hard his lips began to bleed.

This resilient veteran was using his last ounce of strength to maintain his dignity.

The stretcher was slowly lifted.

As he passed by Kobe and Lin Feng, Nash, about to be carried off the court, used all his strength to reach out.

He grabbed Kobe's jersey.

Kobe leaned down.

"Win it!"

Enduring the heart-wrenching pain, Nash squeezed those two words through his teeth.

His gaze then turned to Lin Feng. In those eyes, glazed with pain, the final embers of fire burned.

"Win it!"

After saying that, he could no longer hold on; his head slumped to the side as he lost consciousness.

The stretcher was carried into the player tunnel, disappearing from everyone's sight.

The entire Lakers bench was enveloped in an atmosphere of grief and oppression.

Gasol slammed a fist into a chair, his eyes rimmed with red.

Artest stood up abruptly and started cursing in Howard's direction.

The referees eventually assessed Howard with a Flagrant 1 foul.

The call felt more like a consolation and did nothing to quell the Lakers' fury.

Howard spread his hands, looking completely indifferent.

The game had to continue.

D'Antoni clapped his hands, trying to pull the players' attention back.

"Guys, for Steve, we have to win this game!"

His words sounded somewhat hollow and weak.

The players returned to the court, but every face was etched with confusion and anger.

The soul of the team, the brain of the team, had fallen.

The thread that connected everyone had snapped.

Play resumed.

The Lakers' offense instantly became incredibly stagnant.

The ball no longer flowed smoothly; everyone played with immense impatience.

Kobe took over ball-handling duties, beginning to attack the Rockets' defense with one unreasonable isolation play after another.

Every shot he took carried a sense of desperate fury.

But basketball isn't a sport won by anger alone.

The Rockets seized the opportunity. Harden hit consecutive threes, and Parsons frequently scored on back-door cuts.

The lead was pulled apart bit by bit.

The fourth quarter.

The Lakers were already trailing by 12 points.

D'Antoni looked at Lin Feng.

"Lin, go score."

Lin Feng nodded, shed his warm-up gear, and stepped back onto the court.

His expression was as cold as a block of ice.

He took the baseline inbounds pass and brought the ball up the court alone.

Beverley pressed up on him as before, his mouth non-stop with trash talk.

"Hey, rookie, is your old buddy already in the operating room?"

"Will he even be able to walk on that leg again?"

Lin Feng's footsteps paused for a moment.

He turned his head and stared at Beverley with the look one might give a dead man.

Beverley felt a chill down his spine from the look and subconsciously took half a step back.

Lin Feng said nothing and looked away.

In the next second, he suddenly accelerated!

He blew past Beverley in a single step!

Harden came over to help.

A step behind the three-point line, Lin Feng ignored Harden's defense and pulled up directly!

The basketball traced a cold arc through the air.

*Swish!*

It went in!

On the other end, the Rockets' attack missed.

The Lakers grabbed the rebound, and the ball was handed to Lin Feng again.

He was in the same position, facing a double-team from Harden and Beverley.

He didn't pass.

Because he didn't know who to pass to.

Without Nash's orchestration, everyone was like a headless fly.

He could only trust himself.

Formless Shot!

His body contorted in the air, throwing the ball in a posture no ordinary person could imitate!

*Swish!*

Another one!

Six points in a row!

He was like a frenzied lone wolf, tearing through the Rockets' defense in the most primitive and savage way.

Single-handedly, he ignited a wave of momentum to close the gap.

The fans at the Toyota Center were stunned.

They watched as that Eastern youth narrowed the lead time and again with high-difficulty shots.

But basketball is, after all, a five-man sport.

When the Rockets started using three people to triple-team Lin Feng, the Lakers' offense ground to a complete halt.

When the ball reached other hands, it resulted in hesitant shots and the repeated clanging of the rim.

Kobe was tired too; he had expended too much energy in the first half and was clouded by anger in the second.

Ultimately...

With a game-sealing layup from Harden...

The game ended.

The Lakers lost this crucial battle for seeding.

The players walked back to the locker room in silence; no one spoke.

The frustration of the loss and the worry for Nash's injury weighed on everyone's heart like two mountains.

Lin Feng sat in his spot, covering his head with a towel.

He had given his all, yet was still unable to bring home a victory.

A deep sense of powerlessness enveloped him.

Just then, the locker room door was pushed open.

The team's General Manager, Kupchak, walked in, his face looking terrible.

He looked at everyone and spoke with difficulty.

"Guys, I just got news from the hospital..."

"Preliminary diagnosis: Steve... fractured left tibia. He's out for the season."