“Please show some respect, Mr.
McDonald,” Wu Bolan said, her voice turning icy.
“We are a professional basketball organization.
We do not falsify physical evaluations.” McDonald sneered, ignoring her warning.
“A seventeen-year-old kid with a seven-foot-five wingspan and a 115 kg bench press?
Even Yao Ming didn’t have those static metrics at seventeen.
If your club thinks you can insult my intelligence with fake sheets, you’re mistaken.” Wu Bolan’s throat tightened.
Though she hated his arrogant attitude, a tiny seed of doubt flickered in her mind.
She hadn’t personally supervised Wang Zhelin’s combine test, and specs like those were virtually unheard of in domestic prospects.
Before she could speak, Wang Zhelin picked up a basketball and stepped smoothly between her and the American import.
“Mr.
McDonald,” Wang Zhelin said in fluent, effortless English.
“We’re both basketball players.
Words are cheap—let’s let the ball do the talking.” McDonald blinked in surprise at the teenager’s direct challenge, but a venomous smile quickly spread across his face.
“Fine by me, kid.
Let me show you what real professional basketball looks like.” “Simple rules,” Wang Zhelin said calmly.
“First to ten baskets, 14-second shot clock, winner keeps possession.” “Deal,” McDonald replied immediately, adding with a smirk, “but I take first ball.
After all, isn’t respecting your elders a traditional virtue in China?” Knowing his own defense was weak, McDonald wanted the first shot to establish momentum early.
“Zelin is giving up too much ground,” Wang Changhai muttered nervously from the sidelines.
“Relax, Old Wang,” Liu Yudong chuckled, keeping his eyes on the court.
“The boy knows what he’s doing.” Off to the side, Wu Bolan looked at Wang Zhelin in mild astonishment.
Where did he learn to speak English so naturally?
On the floor, McDonald checked the ball outside the arc.
He took two dribbles inside, leaning his shoulder hard into Wang Zhelin’s chest to set up a post move.
Wang Zhelin braced his legs, holding his position firm.
Surprised by the teenager’s raw frame, McDonald lowered his center of gravity and delivered a sharp, violent shoulder bump.
The impact forced Wang Zhelin back half a step.
Taking advantage of the brief separation, McDonald rose into a quick fadeaway jumper.
Swish!
1–0.
“Come on, baby!
Is that all you’ve got?” McDonald barked, clapping his hands arrogantly.
Wang Zhelin remained entirely unbothered.
He retrieved the ball, analyzing the rep in his head.
His physical attributes were superior, but his lack of live high-level game experience had shown—he had over-committed his weight on defense instead of absorbing the contact fluidly.
He flipped the basketball back to McDonald with a completely stoic expression.
“Again.” Seeing no frustration or fear in the seventeen-year-old’s eyes, McDonald’s smile flickered.
His mental games had completely failed.