Chapter 33: Taylor Swift Gets Soaked, and the Game Heats Up!
Durant barely had time to warm up before he was immediately targeted on defense.
Brewer took control of the offense and ran a pick-and-roll with Noah. After the switch, it was Durant guarding Noah in the post. Brewer lobbed it inside, setting Noah up to go one-on-one with Durant.
Now, Noah's post game? Honestly, weak. But he saw Durant already had three fouls and wasn't willing to take risks on defense. That was enough.
As soon as Noah caught the ball, he went straight at him. Durant kept his arms straight up, careful not to draw contact—didn't even jump.
Noah hit him with two shoulder bumps, then faked awkwardly before going into a stiff little baby hook.
"WHAP!!"
Before the ball could reach the rim, BOOM! Chen Yan came flying in out of nowhere—right from Noah's blind spot—and swatted the ball deep into the stands!
He'd read it the moment Noah caught the ball. After half a game, Chen Yan had Noah's entire offensive package figured out—basic mid-range jumper, second-chance putbacks, and that painfully predictable fake-spin hook.
At this point, it was like Noah's whole playbook was transparent—like his underwear got exposed under a spotlight.
The crowd exploded!
"SWAT CITY! That's a spicy hot pot special!"
A defensive masterpiece, the kind of block that turns a game into a highlight reel.
Then the jumbotron cut to a close-up... and the crowd lost it.
Taylor Swift. Front row. Drenched.
Turns out Chen Yan's monster block sent the ball flying into the stands—and it directly hit Taylor Swift, knocking a drink clean out of her hands!
Selena Gomez, sitting beside her, frantically tried to dab her with napkins, but it was too late. Half the cup ended up on Taylor's clothes.
The internet would've broken if it had been live.
"This is what I call a precision strike!"
"Chen Yan just made Taylor Swift wet!"
"Think she'll write a diss track about it?"
Taylor didn't look too thrilled at first—who would be, getting soaked mid-game?
But when she looked up and saw Chen Yan's face, those frowns faded quick. That smile? Dangerous.
Chen Yan gave her an apologetic wave from the court. He even mouthed, "I'll get you a new drink after the game."
Taylor gave a nod. "It's alright. Just a small accident," she mouthed back.
As the game resumed, Taylor turned to Selena, whispering, "Wait... did he just ask me out for a drink?"
Selena nodded, totally serious. "Absolutely. He's asking you out."
Taylor bit her lip. "What do you think of him?"
Selena glanced at the court. "Got a good look at him earlier. Dude's crazy handsome. But you never know if he's actually... useful."
Taylor smirked. "Why are you so excited? I'm the one who's gonna try him!"
And just like that, the two girls giggled like schoolkids, playing their own sideline game. Girls' imaginations are another kind of magic.
Back on the court, Texas locked in on defense. Florida's Brewer bricked a three, and Pittman hauled in the rebound.
He didn't hesitate—got it to Chen Yan instantly.
Pittman's role at this point was simple: grab boards, pass to Chen. That's it.
Chen Yan sprinted down the floor, drawing in three defenders like a magnet. The crowd held its breath, expecting another solo highlight.
But instead, Chen whipped a behind-the-back pass—casual, but pinpoint—right into the path of a trailing Kevin Durant.
Durant caught it mid-stride, cocked it back with one hand...
"BOOM!"
The backboard shook. That wasn't just a dunk—that was a message.
This wasn't finesse. This was pure release.
Durant had been benched too long. He needed that one.
"There we go, KD! Keep killin'!"
Chen clapped him on the back and slapped him on the butt like a seasoned vet.
Over the next few plays, Chen let Durant take over. He shifted to off-ball movement, giving KD the floor to get his rhythm.
Durant, with his long frame and killer instincts, didn't disappoint. He was hungry.
Florida's side wasn't going down without a fight, though. Al Horford stepped up big time. Team-first style or not, he was their go-to guy in the paint.
Horford kept Florida ahead with a string of mid-range jumpers and a smooth turnaround hook.
With 10:07 left in the second half, the scoreboard read: Florida 64, Texas 62.
"Swish!"
Durant answered immediately—stepping just inside the three-point line and drilling a shot straight through the net!
Tie game, 64-64!
Durant had aimed for a three, but his size-18 feet betrayed him again. The guy's kicks were practically boat-sized—he even wore them a size up for comfort, which often led to him stepping on the line. Tough break.
Back on defense, Noah drew contact inside and earned a trip to the line. He sank both free throws, putting Florida back up by two.
The final 10 minutes were shaping up to be a bloodbath.
Texas came down with a high pick-and-roll. Chen Yan attacked off the screen, made a sharp cut, and dished to Durant slicing into the paint.
Durant rose up for the hammer on Noah—
"BEEP!"
A sharp whistle pierced the moment. The ref threw up the offensive foul signal.
Durant's fourth personal.
Noah, laid out on the floor, roared and pumped his fist like he just hit a buzzer-beater.
Coach Rick Barnes had no choice. Durant was pulled once again.
It was a frustrating night for the future NBA star—like he had the weapons but was never allowed to fire.
"Durant was just getting into rhythm," Mike Breen commented on the broadcast. "He's been in and out all night. No flow."
"He's spent more time walking between the bench and the scorer's table than actually playing," Van Gundy deadpanned.
With Durant sidelined again, Texas went back to the Chen Yan Show.
Florida doubled—sometimes tripled—him on nearly every touch. Still, Chen kept pushing. He attacked, distributed, and refused to fold.
"Win or lose," Breen said, "Chen is the best player on the court tonight."
"No question," Van Gundy agreed. "He's sitting on 38 points and 8 assists, and he's done that under constant pressure."
Despite the suffocating defense, Chen kept Texas alive, keeping the score within a possession or two every trip. Every shot, every dime—it came under heavy fire.
His relentless pace was fueled by that freakish Iverson-tier endurance. A normal player would've been gassed after two quarters. Not him.
With four minutes left, it was all-out war.
Coach Barnes looked to his bench. Time to go all in.
He waved Durant back in.
As soon as Durant stood up, the Florida fans exploded:
"FIVE FOULS! FIVE FOULS! FIVE FOULS!"
The crowd was relentless, chanting like sharks smelling blood. The pressure was real—Durant's confidence wavered.
But even with four fouls, just having him on the floor shifted the defense. Florida couldn't recklessly double Chen anymore.
Durant played cautious D, avoiding contact and praying he didn't get whistled. Eyes locked in, hands high, but no swipes.
Still, what had to happen... happened.
With 2:11 left, Brewer cut baseline. Durant rotated late, jumped to contest—
"BEEP!"
Foul number five.
Durant froze in place. His head dropped. The whistle felt like a dagger.
The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers. Florida fans raised their arms and made their signature gator chomp gesture—tens of thousands moving as one.
They didn't just want to beat Durant—they wanted to break him.
Durant fouled out.
He walked to the bench, devastated. The moment crushed him.
Brewer stepped to the line and coolly knocked down both free throws.
Florida 79, Texas 75.
The arena buzzed with energy as the crowd kept the gator chomp going.
The pressure got to Texas. D.J. Augustin fumbled the ball under backcourt heat, and Tauren Green pounced—picked his pocket and scored in transition!
81-75.
Florida was pulling away.
"Time-out!"
Rick Barnes slammed his clipboard and called a timeout to regroup.
The camera zoomed in on Chen Yan.
Texas fans weren't blinking. The scoreboard was slipping away, the game teetering on the edge.
All eyes were on Chen.
He had already carried them this far.
Now, the entire stadium waited to see if he had one more miracle left.
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