"Buzz, buzz, buzz…"
Night had fallen, but Metropolitan Stadium was on fire—figuratively speaking.
Under the glare of the floodlights, over 80,000 fans packed the stands, each one drenched in sweat, shouting, stomping, and buzzing with energy. The heat of August football weather mixed with adrenaline to create an electric atmosphere. The entire stadium felt like it might ignite from excitement.
In the midst of the crowd, Yang Yi made his way to his designated media seat. Thanks to Zhao Dong, he was officially listed as a Jets reporter, giving him full access to the team's training facility and the stadium. His seat—like those in the NBA—was located near the end zone, ideal for capturing both plays and emotion.
Looking around at the roaring sea of fans, Yang Yi couldn't help but sigh to himself:
"It's a shame no one in China really understands this sport. If only Zhao Dong had chosen to play soccer instead…"
---
Up in the TNT broadcasting booth, two commentators were on air: Cecil Noby, a sharp-tongued white veteran, and Philo Ras, his calm, quick-witted Black co-host.
And right now, their topic of choice was, of course, Zhao Dong.
"So Zhao Dong chose number 1, huh, Philo?" Noby began. "You know what that means?"
"I have a feeling you're about to tell me something ridiculous," Ras said with a smirk.
"It's very deep, very philosophical," Noby said with mock seriousness. "He chose it because… it's the first number!"
"Genius," Ras deadpanned. "Remind me to nominate you for a Nobel Prize in idiocy."
"Alright, alright," Noby laughed. "Back on topic. This is the preseason, normally a stage for the backups. But this game's nationally televised. That means Coach Herman Edwards might play a few starters. What do you think? Will Zhao Dong get on the field?"
Ras paused thoughtfully.
"Honestly? I think so. He's a global superstar. Even if it's just the preseason, I believe he might actually start. It's still an official NFL game."
"Start?" Noby raised an eyebrow. "You really think Coach Edwards would put Zhao Dong ahead of career backups who've been grinding for years? Guys will start asking, 'Why's this celebrity getting snaps when I've busted my ass for this shot?' That messes with morale."
"Maybe," Ras shrugged, "but it's also about ticket sales, marketing, and hype. The Jets sold out overnight. You think that's a coincidence?"
"Alright, you wanna bet?" Noby grinned.
"Let's do it. Loser eats three giant hamburgers—and the winner buys." Ras smirked.
"You trying to kill me?" Noby laughed. He pulled a $100 bill from his pocket and slapped it on the table. "There's your burger money."
"Make it medium rare," Ras chuckled, tossing his own bill down.
Just then, Noby pointed excitedly out the booth window.
"Oh, look! It's Jordan, Barkley, and all those NBA guys. They're here for Zhao Dong, no doubt."
Sure enough, the stands lit up with camera flashes as NBA royalty—Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, and a host of stars—took their seats, instantly drawing the attention of fans and media alike.
---
Meanwhile, in the Jets' locker room, Coach Herman Edwards stood over a clipboard, finalizing the lineup for the special teams unit.
In the NFL, starting lineups are never static. Every down can involve formation changes, especially on offense. Need one running back? Fine. Need two or three wideouts next play? Swap them in. Same with defense—sometimes more linebackers, sometimes extra cornerbacks.
But before the game kicks off, it's the special teams that hit the field first. And tonight's opening play would be a kickoff return.
There are three key positions in special teams that aren't normally filled by offensive or defensive backups—returner is one of them.
The Jets had two returners on roster:
The starter, Lex Teshinem
The backup, Winston John
Both players had one thing in common: they didn't get along with Zhao Dong.
---
Edwards read off ten names from the kickoff squad list. One returner spot remained.
Winston John leaned forward in anticipation, confident that this was his moment. After all, starters rarely play in the preseason. Teshinem usually sat these games out.
Then Edwards spoke:
"Zhao Dong."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"Zhao Dong?" Winston blinked. "Wait… that's that damn Chinese guy!"
His eyes widened in disbelief—then narrowed in anger. He shot up from the bench.
"Coach, why the hell is he returning kicks?"
---
Edwards turned his cold eyes on him.
"John, what exactly are you trying to say?" His tone was sharp, his patience thin.
Edwards had only been with the Jets for one season. This was his first head coaching job—he had no legacy to fall back on, and no tolerance for insubordination.
Winston quickly backpedaled.
"I just mean… Coach, the returner spot is highly specialized. No team just throws a guy in there, especially not someone with zero reps."
"Shut up," Edwards snapped. "You trying to teach me how to coach now?"
Winston fell silent, eyes darting toward Lex Teshinem, hoping for support.
---
Teshinem stood up slowly.
He wasn't as loud, but his disdain for Zhao Dong was well known. He didn't speak it publicly—but he'd always said yellow was the color of "cowards."
Now his playing time was being threatened, and he couldn't stay quiet.
"Coach, I'd like to play tonight," he said firmly.
Edwards clenched his jaw.
"Oh, now you want to play?" he said under his breath. "Last year you sat out the entire preseason. Now you want to lace up?"
He was furious, but Teshinem was a starter, a known asset. He couldn't chew him out the same way he did John.
What made it worse was the reality: this decision didn't come from Edwards alone. Upper management—even the team owner—had urged him to get Zhao Dong on the field tonight, and not just anywhere.
The kick returner position was high risk, high visibility—perfect for a debut.
Zhao Dong hadn't practiced the returner role during the two-week camp, but his physical tools—power, speed, vision—made him a decent candidate. He was also a running back, with basic route-running skills. That was good enough for a preseason trial.
But now with Lex suddenly volunteering, Edwards was pinned.
Had he been a more seasoned coach, he might've benched Lex out of spite. But in this fragile position, with the regular season looming, he couldn't risk alienating the locker room.
---
Zhao Dong sat quietly on the bench, watching the drama unfold.
He didn't flinch.
Across from him, both Winston John and Lex Teshinem stared daggers into him, their faces tight with frustration and contempt.
Zhao Dong knew exactly where he stood.
As the first Chinese player in NFL history, he was an outlier—not just in the Jets' locker room, but in the entire league. He was fully aware that many of his teammates didn't want him here. Truth be told, in a league of over a thousand players, nine out of ten might hate his guts.
This wasn't the NBA. This was the NFL—a raw, violent, deeply entrenched culture that had long been dominated by Black and White athletes. In this world, locker rooms often stuck to tribal lines, and outsiders were rarely welcomed.
Even among the thirty or so teammates who had publicly supported him, he knew some were only doing so out of personal interest, not loyalty.
In this league, survival wasn't about being fit—it was about being ruthlessly strong. Fame and wealth didn't matter here. Even if Zhao Dong was one of the richest men in the world, none of that could protect him from the racism, the jealousy, and the violence that simmered beneath the surface.
But so what?
"If you won't accept me," Zhao Dong thought, "then I'll break you down. Or I'll beat you until you do."
---
Zhao Dong stood up from his seat.
It was time to speak.
Coach Herman Edwards had just put his trust in him by naming him the returner for the opening kickoff. Zhao Dong knew he had to respond, and back his coach publicly.
"Coach…"
Edwards looked up, curious. He hadn't always been fond of Zhao Dong at first—the player's status, fame, and entourage made him wary—but over time, he'd grown to respect his work ethic and professionalism.
"What is it, Zhao Dong?" Edwards asked.
Zhao Dong gave a slight smile.
"Coach, I can handle the return duties. Thank you for the opportunity."
For a second, Edwards blinked. He hadn't expected that.
But before he could respond, Lex Teshinem exploded.
The Jets' starting returner stormed forward, eyes burning with rage.
"You? You think you're qualified to be a returner?" he shouted, finger jabbing toward Zhao Dong. "You're just a damn Chinese! You don't belong here!"
---
BANG!
The locker room door flew open.
Roger Hanks, Zhao Dong's head of security, stepped in with a face like stone. Behind him, eleven other bodyguards marched in, filling the room like a tactical unit.
Their eyes swept the players, but quickly locked onto Lex Teshinem.
Their mission—assigned by Mrs. Lindsay, Zhao Dong's legal representative—was clear: ensure Zhao Dong's safety at all costs. If anyone physically threatened him off the field, they had authorization to use deadly force—with legal protection and multi-million-dollar compensation guaranteed.
Lex froze. His outburst turned cold in his throat as he remembered what happened to Venis.
Venis was still in the hospital. Crushed ribs. Concussion. Career over.
Under the pressure of the bodyguards' stare, Lex's rage dissolved into instinctive fear. He slowly backed away and slumped onto the bench, lowering his head.
(Bro is using the power of money hahahah)
---
Zhao Dong stepped forward, his voice calm but icy:
"Anyone else got a problem with me?"
He scanned the room, eyes locking on the twenty or so players who had refused to stand beside him earlier. He'd promised not to rely on fame or power to win a starting spot—but screw it.
"Change of plans. I'm taking a starting role. And if anyone doesn't like it... they can line up and get dropped."
The tension in the locker room snapped.
Muscles tensed. Veins bulged. The air turned thick with hostility.
The twenty-odd players—those who had openly despised him, who saw him as a foreign invader—shot to their feet, fists clenched, eyes full of rage. They looked ready to tear Zhao Dong apart.
But before they could move, Zhao Dong's thirty-man crew stepped in behind him, forming a protective wall.
And then came the thunder—Twelve bodyguards rushed forward, forming three rows of defense around Zhao Dong like a fortress.
---
Coach Edwards' heart dropped.
"Security! Get in here!" he shouted toward the hallway.
Seconds later, twenty-plus team security personnel burst into the locker room. The space was instantly overcrowded, with benches knocked over, trash cans sent flying.
"Back up! Sit down! Let's go!" one of the guards barked, pushing the angry players away.
Gradually, the explosive pressure in the room began to settle. Carnes Lewis, Lex Teshinem, Winston John, and the rest of the dissenters were forced back to their seats—gritting their teeth in rage, but powerless.
Edwards exhaled slowly.
This could've been a disaster.
As a veteran coach—even if it was his first head gig—he knew how volatile NFL locker rooms could be. Fights happened every year. Players had been crippled, even killed, in locker room brawls. One misstep, and the Jets would've made national headlines for all the wrong reasons.
Even Zhao Dong's previous fight with Venis had been swept under the rug—but a full-scale locker room war? The league wouldn't cover that up. The consequences would be massive.
---
Just then, General Manager Maureen Philip entered the room.
The moment he stepped in, the entire atmosphere seemed to tighten further.
Philip had been with the Jets for years. He knew the culture. He knew the egos. And he'd anticipated all of this the moment they signed Zhao Dong.
In fact, he himself wasn't immune to prejudice. He disliked Latinos, Asians, and frankly wasn't fond of Black players either. But Zhao Dong was different.
Zhao Dong was rich, famous, connected—and more importantly, his boss's golden goose.
Now it was time to assert control.
---
Philip stepped forward, face expressionless, voice like thunder:
"Listen up, you idiots…"
He turned slowly, making eye contact with everyone—Zhao Dong's supporters and haters alike.
"If anyone causes trouble again—I mean anyone—I'll bury your ass so deep on the bench, your grandkids will feel it. You'll be banned from practice. You won't even see a locker."
He pointed at the dissenters.
"I'll rip your heads off, pull your brains out, and shove them so far up your asses, they'll come out your damn mouths. Do. You. Understand?"
The room went dead silent.
Nobody moved.
"I said, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"
> "Understood!" came the chorus—some shouted, some mumbled, but all responded. Even Zhao Dong added his voice.
And just like that, under the iron hand of Philip, the Jets locker room finally fell silent.
For now.
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