Zhao Dong had done his homework on Coach Henman Edwards before arriving at the Jets' facility. Known for his iron-fisted discipline and no-nonsense coaching style, Edwards had quickly built a reputation in the NFL. After all, leading the Jets to the AFC East title in just his first season was no small feat—and it had solidified his authority within the organization.
Sure enough, Edwards didn't waste any time asserting that authority.
As Zhao Dong reached out for a handshake, Edwards met his gaze sharply and said in a cold, commanding tone:
"Zhao Dong, I don't care if you're a billionaire or that you used to own this franchise. This is the NFL—a professional battlefield. Here, your only identity is that of a player. No special treatment. No exceptions. You will obey any coaching directive without question. There are no moguls here, just football players. Understood?"
Zhao Dong nodded without hesitation, his expression firm.
"Understood, Coach."
Edwards gave a slight nod, released his grip, and said nothing further.
Team owner Robert Johnson stepped in with an apologetic smile, trying to ease the tension.
"Zhao Dong, Coach Edwards is still new to the organization. He's strict, but he gets results—"
Zhao Dong waved it off with a casual chuckle.
"It's fine. Honestly, I like it. I didn't come to the NFL for vanity or headlines. I came to compete. I expect to be held to the same standards as everyone else."
Johnson exhaled in relief.
"That's good to hear. That's very good."
Privately, Johnson had no interest in crossing Zhao Dong. The man had powerful connections—especially with the likes of Mrs. Lindsay, a woman whose mere name caused billionaires to tread carefully. Johnson himself was just one of thousands of mid-level investors in Tianlong Investment Bank. Poking the beast wasn't in his best interest.
Later that morning, Zhao Dong officially signed with the Jets. The deal? A one-year minimum salary contract worth $350,000 before taxes.
The number raised a few eyebrows in the media. A global sports icon, former NBA MVP, billionaire investor—signing for peanuts? But Zhao Dong insisted on the terms himself.
Unlike the NBA, where the salary cap is soft and luxury taxes offer loopholes for rich franchises to build super-teams, the NFL cap is rock-solid. No exceptions. No luxury tax. No billionaire hacks.
Zhao Dong didn't want to chew up valuable cap space with a bloated contract. More importantly, he understood that with his current third-tier football skills, anything more would be unjustified. Status meant nothing here.
The 2025 NFL Draft had long concluded. The league was deep into its offseason. Preseason would begin in August, with the new season kicking off on September 5th. But league rules didn't allow players or coaches to use the training facilities until full-squad practices were authorized—15 days max, starting mid-July.
With two weeks to kill, Zhao Dong had already made arrangements. Stony Brook University had agreed to let him train on campus. He could even bring in Jets coaches on his own dime—or use Stony Brook's staff if necessary.
After the media dispersed, Zhao Dong followed Coach Edwards and the Jets' coaching staff into a private conference room. Johnson and general manager Maureen Phillips trailed behind.
Outside, reporters swarmed, left to speculate.
Inside, coffee was served.
Edwards sat down and got straight to the point.
"Zhao Dong, what positions have you played before?"
Zhao Dong leaned back with a relaxed smile.
"Back at Stony Brook, I'd join the football team after basketball practice. I've dabbled in everything—tried every position on the field. I'd say my skills are fairly comprehensive."
Coach Edwards frowned.
"Comprehensive usually means mediocre."
Zhao Dong's smile faltered slightly.
If not for Zhao Dong's reputation and past ownership of the franchise, Edwards might've thrown his clipboard across the table. In the NFL, there were only 53 roster spots. Every single one mattered.
This wasn't the NBA, where a superstar like Karl Malone or Shawn Kemp could drag a team to the playoffs. Football was chess with human pieces—offense, defense, special teams. The field was thirteen times larger than a basketball court. One weak link could blow an entire game.
Edwards rubbed his temples.
"Even a substitute needs to be sharp. We can't afford to carry anyone just because of their name."
Zhao Dong nodded, understanding the tension in the room.
"Then I'll start from the bottom. I'm willing to be a backup."
"Even backup spots are earned." Edwards' tone was sharp.
That's when Coach Melos, an older assistant and a long-time friend of Zhao Dong's, finally spoke up.
"Coach Edwards, if I may—Zhao Dong might not have the technical skills yet, but his physicality is off the charts. Strength, speed, agility—you name it. Even by NFL standards, his athletic metrics are elite."
Melos glanced around the room, adding weight to his argument.
"He's not even that old. Most senior-year draft picks are around his age. And don't forget, NCAA athletes often cross over—there have been guys who played both basketball and football in college, and some made it into the league."
"Zhao Dong might've dominated the NBA for seven years, but that just means he knows how to train, how to compete. He's not just some celebrity stunt—he's a raw asset. And we got him for nothing. That's not a risk—it's a steal."
Zhao Dong couldn't help but chuckle at Coach Melos' words. Despite knowing that his football skills were still raw and his strength underwhelming, his confidence hadn't wavered.
His body, though tempered by seven grueling years of professional basketball, had barely accumulated any wear. Thanks to his unique injury immunity, he remained physically pristine—like a race car that had never been pushed past second gear. At twenty-six, he was still in his athletic prime. And he truly believed he could make football his next conquest.
Coach Edward, however, wasn't buying it.
"Zhao Dong may only be twenty-six," he said, shaking his head at Melos, "but seven years of pro-level basketball isn't nothing. Do you even know the state of his body? He's not like some NCAA kid fresh off a March Madness run."
Melos opened his mouth to reply, but quickly fell silent. He couldn't argue with that. Zhao Dong had skipped the standard physical entirely when he signed his contract. Nobody in the room could guarantee what condition he was in.
Zhao Dong raised his hand. "Simple solution: run the physical. If I'm not up to standard, I'll walk away."
"No, no, no—absolutely not."
Team owner Johnson nearly jumped out of his seat, waving his hands like he was trying to swat down the very idea. "Zhao Dong, you had seven years in the NBA without a single injury. You're the model of durability. We're not throwing you to the wolves now over a formality."
He turned to Edward, expression firm. "Coach Henman, don't pretend you don't know who Zhao Dong is. Even if you don't watch basketball, you've heard the name."
Edward leaned back, face like stone. "I'm not questioning his fame. But this isn't the NBA. This is the NFL. And the NFL is ten times more violent, more ruthless, more... unforgiving."
His eyes turned cold. "Every year, players leave this league broken. Disabled. Some don't walk off the field at all. Off-court altercations are bloodier than anything in basketball. This isn't a sport—it's war. This place isn't a league. It's an arena."
He looked straight at Zhao Dong. "And I don't want your death—or your paralysis—on my conscience."
Truth be told, Edward wasn't afraid of Zhao Dong's lack of skills. No, the bigger problem was the potential fallout. If something happened to him on or off the field, the blame wouldn't stop at the sideline. It would ripple through the ownership. And no one—not even a battle-hardened coach like him—wanted to cross the likes of Madam Lindsay.
The NFL was a wild jungle compared to the polished hardwood of the NBA. The worst brawlers from the NBA would look like choirboys here. It wasn't uncommon for players to be assaulted off the field—some even fatally. The NFL's brutal reputation had already sparked multiple congressional investigations and calls for reform.
And worst of all, racial tension ran deep.
In Edward's eyes, Zhao Dong was walking into a minefield. A wealthy, foreign celebrity stepping onto this battlefield? He might as well have painted a target on his back. And he knew for a fact that some of the Jets' own locker room held players with deep-seated aggression—and worse.
But Zhao Dong met Edward's warning without flinching. "Coach Edward, I knew exactly what I was signing up for. I've made peace with it. This was my choice."
There was silence.
Eventually, Edward exhaled. "Fine. But before we talk positions, let's run the physical and see exactly what we're working with."
"I'm ready." Zhao Dong stood up without hesitation.
Melos chimed in, eager to help. "Zhao Dong is fast—one of the most explosive players in NBA history. I think we should consider testing him as a wide receiver."
Edward nodded, finally relenting. "We'll start there. Let's go."
The group stood and headed out toward the training complex. Although the facility was technically closed for team practices during the offseason, physical evaluations were still permitted.
Naturally, a swarm of media trailed behind them like sharks chasing blood.
Owner Johnson and GM Maureen Philip didn't follow. Now that Edward had agreed to give Zhao Dong a real shot, they had their own fires to put out—managing the salary cap, negotiating extensions, and fielding a thousand calls about Zhao Dong's headline-grabbing contract.
After all, no one joins the NFL's New York Jets from the China league without making waves. Especially not someone like Zhao Dong—a man who had dunked on Karl Malone, stared down Shawn Kemp, and once walked away from a max contract just to prove he could dominate somewhere else.
And now?
He was ready to conquer the gridiron.
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