“You little brat,” Wu Bolan muttered, her face flushing slightly as she noticed several staff members glancing their way with suppressed smirks.
“Since when did you get so bold?” Usually, when the seventeen-year-old saw her, he was somewhat reserved.
Today, however, his posture was relaxed, his grin sharp, and his eyes carried an unmistakable aura of calm authority.
“You just hadn’t noticed before, Sister Bolan,” Wang Zhelin replied with a light shrug.
Wu Bolan exhaled, trying to regain her composure.
“How did you even know we were looking at foreign imports?
The club hasn’t made any public announcements.” “It isn’t hard to figure out,” Wang Zhelin explained calmly.
“The club has been pushing for deep playoff runs since 2009, but last season’s performance regressed.
When management gets desperate for results, the fastest move is spending big on overseas frontcourt talent.
Add in a six-foot-eleven guy standing right next to you, and the math does itself.” Wu Bolan stared at him for a moment, silently realizing she had underestimated the young center’s situational awareness.
Meanwhile, Will McDonald began his physical and skill evaluation.
While his baseline numbers were decent for a European veteran, they looked decidedly ordinary next to Wang Zhelin’s metrics.
McDonald managed just 4 reps on the 84kg bench press, relying primarily on short corner jumpers and finesse post hooks during shot drills.
His defensive lateral mobility and physical presence inside were visibly lacking.
Coach Fan Bin and the senior staff exchanged looks, shaking their heads in unison.
Against a standard domestic big, McDonald’s skill set might pass, but next to Wang Zhelin’s historical static frame and 115kg max bench, the contrast was night and day.
“Mr.
Wu,” Fan Bin said quietly to Wu Bolan.
“We have our answer.
I’ll leave the communication to you.” Nodding, Wu Bolan walked over to the American import.
“Mr.
McDonald, thank you for your time today, but our club has decided not to proceed with a contract offer.” McDonald blinked, caught completely off guard.
“Wait…
Miss Wu, what do you mean?
The contract details were already mapped out in Europe.” “Our roster priorities have shifted,” Wu Bolan explained calmly.
“The club will cover your full travel expenses and provide a compensation stipend for your time.” “Shifted?” McDonald’s expression darkened.
He looked around the gym, his eyes locking onto Wang Zhelin, who was calmly stretching near the bench.
“Are you serious?
You’re telling me I lost an import spot to a seventeen-year-old kid?” Wu Bolan remained composed, handing him the printed side-by-side metric report.
“Here are the objective combine numbers from today’s evaluation.
You can review them yourself.” McDonald snatched the paper, scanning the columns.
When his eyes hit Wang Zhelin’s line—212cm barefoot, 227cm wingspan, 115kg max bench, 9.6% body fat—a harsh, mocking laugh broke from his throat.
“Is this a joke?” McDonald sneered, tossing the paper back onto the table.
“You expect me to believe a seventeen-year-old local kid is pushing those numbers?
These test results are completely faked.”