"Oh, is there gonna be a fight?"
The four commentators across the two broadcast booths immediately perked up, their voices practically vibrating with excitement.
"Here we go—this might get ugly!"
Eighty thousand fans—none of them strangers to drama—buzzed instantly with anticipation.
"Sit down! SIT DOWN!"
On the Lions sideline, dozens of players saw their captain, nicknamed the Angry Lion, charging toward the Jets' bench. They wanted to follow, but a wall of coaches and front-office staff physically blocked the exit, shoving them back.
---
"What's their deal?"
On the Jets' side, players, coaches, and staff saw eleven Lions barreling toward them and immediately stood to respond.
Zhao Dong stepped forward, parting two teammates in front of him so he could see the oncoming group. His twelve personal bodyguards sprinted in from the tunnel, forming a shield in front of him.
"Hurry!"
General Manager Philip had already ordered stadium security in. A large squad of guards rushed over and braced for impact.
The Angry Lion slammed into the security line like a battering ram. Four guards went down hard, but the rest held firm. His helmeted face twisted with rage as he bellowed past the barrier at Zhao Dong.
"Coward! Why won't you play? COME ON! You damn Chinese!"
The earlier taunts rolled off Zhao Dong's back—he knew better than to give in to pure impulse. But that last sentence hit like a slap. His jaw tightened, and he stepped forward, trying to shove past his bodyguards. They locked their arms and held him back.
"Come on!"
The Angry Lion strained against several guards holding him, still shouting at Zhao Dong. Behind him, more Lions were blocked by Jets security. A crew of referees sprinted into the chaos, forcing themselves between both sides and ending the standoff before fists could fly.
---
Zhao Dong's eyes locked on his rival.
"Sooner or later, I'll make you fall at my feet."
The words came through clenched teeth, his voice low but lethal.
He turned to Philip and Head Coach Edwards.
"Let me play. I'm not injured at all."
"No, Zhao Dong. Absolutely not tonight." Philip's tone was sharp and final. He knew the Lions' captain was gunning for his rookie.
Edwards added, "You already gave the NFL a 100-yard return touchdown tonight. That's enough to put your name in every highlight. Don't waste your time on cheap provocation—it's not worth it."
The two of them kept him anchored to the bench. Zhao Dong sank back in frustration.
---
The Lions had already lost three players—two with potentially career-ending injuries—and tempers were boiling. What followed was a preseason game that felt more like the Super Bowl: collisions everywhere, sideline flare-ups, bodies leaving the field.
For fans and broadcasters, it was ratings gold. For the players, it was war.
When the final whistle blew, the Jets had edged out the Lions 35–30 in a nail-biting preseason opener.
---
"Keep visiting team security tight," Philip ordered after the game. "No chances for them to start something."
He was right to worry. Frustrated by the loss and their injured teammates, several Lions lingered instead of returning to the locker room. Fueled by adrenaline, they stormed down the service corridor toward the Jets' side.
But NFL stadiums weren't like NBA arenas—home and visitor tunnels were far apart, and a wall of security guards met them before they got close.
"Get out of the way!"
"Back it up! Don't make us put you down!"
The Giants Stadium security—big, broad-shouldered, and unamused—pushed them back. After a brief shoving match, the Lions retreated, their leftover aggression spent.
"Idiots," one guard muttered, watching them go.
"Should've let Zhao Dong run over more of 'em."
The others burst into laughter.
---
An hour later, Zhao Dong was about to head with Coach Edwards to the postgame press conference when Philip pulled him aside.
"Zhao, injury reports just came in. First guy you hit—two broken ribs, mild concussion. Second guy—four broken ribs, internal bleeding, moderate concussion. Third guy—six broken ribs, lung punctured by bone, internal bleeding, moderate concussion. Both of those last two… yeah, their careers are over."
The Jets' locker room erupted in cheers. To them, it wasn't cruelty—it was football. In the NFL, careers ended every season. Tonight had simply claimed three more.
---
Fifteen minutes later, the press conference began. The room was packed—dozens of cameras lined the front, more in the back. Every lens locked onto Zhao Dong.
Yang Yi, squeezed among the reporters, snapped photo after photo. It was his first live NFL game. His first thought: thrilling. His second: brutal.
When the Q&A session opened, every reporter shot a hand into the air. The host was about to pick a New York Times correspondent—until Zhao Dong pointed into the crowd.
"Give it to him."
The host nodded, and the mic made its way to Yang Yi.
"Zhao Dong, congratulations on your first touchdown in the NFL—"
Zhao Dong cut in with a grin.
"Not officially. This is preseason, so it doesn't count toward my career stats. And I wasn't facing the Lions' full starting defense. So no, not my 'first career touchdown.'"
Yang Yi smiled. "Then I believe you'll make it happen in the real games."
"Of course," Zhao Dong replied, confident.
The next question came from the New York Times reporter.
"Zhao Dong, you made the right career move—football clearly suits you. I believe you'll succeed here."
>"Thank you. What's your question?"
"You've played running back, linebacker, tight end, and now returner. Which position do you actually want to focus on?"
Zhao Dong mentally pulled up his system interface—returner now added to his resume at level 73, alongside his three other positions.
"What about on offense?"
Zhao Dong thought for a moment, a cold smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm interested in any position," he said, voice low but carrying through the room, "as long as I can hold the ball and charge straight into the formation."
---
The press hall erupted.
It wasn't a loud statement, but the edge in his tone sent a ripple through everyone listening.
Given that he'd just flattened three opponents in a 100-yard return earlier that night—two of them likely done for their careers—the words carried even more weight.
---
A reporter, leaning forward eagerly, asked, "What about on defense? Is there a position you prefer?"
"Anywhere on defense works for me," Zhao Dong replied with an easy smile. "I'm not picky. My physical tools and fundamentals let me adapt to any role."
Meanwhile, across the stadium, the Lions' press room was packed.
"Hard Micas," a New York Sports Daily reporter began the Q&A with a sharp grin, "what's your take on Zhao Dong's performance tonight?"
The Lions' captain's jaw clenched under his helmet visor.
"He's a coward," Micas spat. "Wouldn't dare face our starters. Hides behind special teams. Shameful. Cowardly Chinese."
The reporter smirked. "Well, Captain, good news. You'll get your chance. The Jets are in the National League North this year. October 8th, at your house. You can go right after him. Only downside—it's a daytime game, no national broadcast."
"I know," Micas growled. "And I'm counting down the days."
No matter how he tried to mask it, he knew the truth—Zhao Dong had humiliated the Lions. Three of his teammates were carted off the field; two might never play again. Injuries were part of football, sure, but this one stung worse.
And what burned him most wasn't the loss.
It was the fact the man responsible was Chinese.
---
Next Morning
The next day, New York—and the entire country—was buzzing.
"The 100-Yard Return of the Century!" screamed the New York Times headline.
"Rookie's Debut for the Ages!" ran the New York Sports front page.
Michael Jordan, still hyped after seeing the play live, told reporters:
"Oh, I saw a beast out there last night. Horns on his head, couldn't be stopped. Golden Tyrant doesn't even cover it anymore—we need a new nickname."
---
Not everyone was cheering.
NFL legend Lawrence Taylor dismissed it in an interview:
"A Chinese kid running against backup special teamers? Please. Put him in front of the Lions' starters, and one hit from Hard Micas ends him. Shameful. Chinese coward."
Taylor's disdain was personal. Even after Zhao Dong left New York three years ago, his shadow still loomed large—bigger, in fact, than Taylor's own in the city he once ruled. For a proud Hall of Famer, that was unforgivable.
---
Home Life
There was no practice that day. Zhao Dong stayed home, enjoying time with his kids.
One perk of switching to the NFL—more home time.
In the NBA, 82 regular-season games plus playoffs meant months on the road.
The NFL? Sixteen regular-season games, a handful of playoff rounds, and that's it.
---
"Dad, I want to play football like you!"
His youngest, Rongxing, came running in with a football clutched to his chest.
"Nope," Zhao Dong said flatly. "You're playing basketball."
"Why?" the boy protested.
Zhao Dong grabbed a nearby Superman action figure, folded it in his hands, and snap—broke it in half.
"Because if you play football, you'll end up like this."
Rongxing's eyes widened. "If I break… can you glue me back together?"
"No. You'd be done." He tossed the broken toy in the trash. "Now give Dad the ball. Not your sport."
The boy pouted but handed it over.
---
A second later, the other three kids came barreling in—each holding a football of their own.
Zhao Dong's face darkened. Great. Now it's a full mutiny.
He could play football—he had the size, skill, and a system behind him. But his sons? Without those advantages, the sport was too brutal. He didn't want to see any of them spending their lives recovering from injuries.
"Alright, new plan. We're playing basketball."
He confiscated the footballs and herded them into the indoor court.
---
"Dad, can we ever play football?" the eldest, Ronghua, asked.
"Sure," Zhao Dong said with a smile. "When you're grown, strong, and smart enough to handle it."
In truth, he pictured them all towering over two meters, inheriting his strength and build. Basketball would be safer and just as rewarding. He even imagined the four of them as a national team unit one day—like a family version of Pat Riley's dream frontcourt.
---
After some shooting drills, Zhao Dong's phone rang. It was his agent, Ringo Wells.
"That bastard," Wells fumed. "Taylor's out there calling you a Chinese coward."
Zhao Dong's expression hardened. "Then we deal with him."
"How?"
"Call the lawyers. Dig up everything. We'll put him on the stand, and if we can, we'll put him behind bars."
There was a pause on the line, then Wells chuckled darkly. "Alright. You know once you go after someone… they're finished."
Zhao Dong didn't answer—he didn't need to.
With Storm Fund and Tianlong Investment Bank's legal team behind him—over thirty lawyers, two of them former U.S. Deputy Attorneys General—burying a retired star with a messy past would be child's play.
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