"What does that have to do with me?" Chen Yilun's confusion only deepened as he listened to Buford, his mind now filled with even more questions than before.
Buford didn't answer right away. He casually picked up an empty Coke can, flicked his cigarette butt into it, and said, "Because they want reform—but there aren't many people willing to take on the mess that is the Kings."
"They originally wanted to poach me, but I ignored them. So now, they've set their sights on you."
So I'm the fall guy, huh? Chen Yilun almost cursed on the spot. Couldn't get the veteran, so now they're after the rookie, is that it?
"Of course, I've already reviewed the salary and authority the Kings are offering—it's a sincere deal. Maybe they've heard about your good reputation in the league, or maybe they just want to bask in a bit of championship glow. Either way, the offer's on the table."
Buford stood up, brushing the ash from his clothes. "Pop and I both believe that even though you're still young, you're ready to stand on your own in this league. We kept you close before only because we didn't want to see you go. Sacramento may be shunned by general managers across the league, but don't forget—"
"You're our student!"
With that, he walked out, leaving Chen Yilun frozen in place.
His mind churned. The Spurs, with their unique culture, had always carried a quiet sense of composure and humility—whether among players or the front office staff.
Come to think of it, in his three years here, this was the first time he had ever heard Buford speak with such confidence, even a touch of arrogance. But he was right—Chen Yilun was a disciple of Popovich and Buford, the greatest coach and one of the best general managers in NBA history.
Maybe it was because they rarely boasted, preferring to let their work speak for them, that so many people had forgotten—the Spurs didn't just have Popovich; they had one of the strongest front offices in the league.
But now… should he accept the Kings' offer? He'd always wanted to step out from under their protection and stand on his own. Now that the chance was here, the decision felt impossibly hard.
...
"You have doubts."
As the evening lights of San Antonio began to glow, Popovich swirled a glass of red wine slowly, then drank it in one gulp. A flush spread across his wrinkled cheeks.
"It's not your fault—you're only 26. Taking on a mess like that all at once is a lot to ask." He spoke as if to himself, but his eyes never left Chen Yilun.
"Pop, I'm willing to take the challenge. But I don't want to do it recklessly or irresponsibly. This is about running an entire team—drafts, arenas, ticket sales, sponsors. I'm just not sure I can handle it all."
Chen Yilun took a small sip from his glass, voicing his concerns.
To his surprise, Popovich burst into hearty laughter. "Yilun, before this, I told Buford your chances of success or failure in Sacramento were fifty-fifty. But just from what you said now—"
He refilled his glass and grinned. "I can guarantee you'll be an excellent general manager."
"A GM isn't like a coach. A coach works with the roster he's given and puts together the best lineup he can. But a GM… you have to search, pan for gold in a crowded mine, argue endlessly with other GMs over the smallest deals—and all of it is for the good of the team."
"I'm too old now. I've seen people come and go in this league—countless faces, countless motives. Most arrive full of ambition and leave quietly when the wave passes. But in this endless tide, there's one kind of person who always comes out smiling in the end."
Popovich's slightly drunken gaze locked on him. "The ones who merge themselves with their team, who truly put the team's interests first, and are willing to sacrifice for it. And you… already have that quality."
"So… you think I should take the Kings' offer?" Chen Yilun straightened, asking nervously.
For just a moment, Popovich's eyes turned razor-sharp—clear and focused, like the commanding presence he had on the sidelines. Then, just as quickly, he slipped back into the look of a tipsy old man.
"Kid, this is your call. We can only give advice."
And with that, Popovich went back to sipping his wine, ignoring him.
This sly old fox—he's not drunk at all!
Chen Yilun cursed inwardly. How could a man famous for holding his liquor get drunk after just one bottle between the two of them?
But soon, the irritation in his chest was replaced with warmth. This aloof old man had been pretending to be drunk just to open his heart.
With that realization, Chen Yilun clenched his fists and stood. "Pop, I've decided. I'm going to be the Kings' GM. And in the future, I'll develop the greatest players—and challenge you!"
"Good!"
Popovich's eyes gleamed with pride as he stood as well. "Go. Go make your mark in this league, your way. And I, San Antonio, and the Spurs will be right here, waiting for your challenge!"
The two gripped hands firmly.
"Don't make me wait too long—you know I'm getting old," Popovich said with a playful wink.
"Don't worry, mentor," Chen Yilun replied, shaking his hand hard. "It won't be long!"
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