Butler didn't hesitate—he launched the three.
The ball traced a perfect arc toward the rim.
Inside the vast Oracle Arena, it was as if someone had hit pause. Every eye was locked on the ball in flight.
The only sound left in the world was the countdown ticking away.
Clang!
The ball struck the front of the rim and bounced out weakly.
"WAAAH!"
Oracle exploded like boiling oil hit by a drop of water—an earth-shaking roar filling the arena.
Emotions didn't cross sides. The Kings players stood frozen, staring coldly as the Warriors stormed the floor in celebration, then turned silently and walked off.
In the visitors' locker room, even from a distance, the cheers from the other end of the arena echoed faintly.
The entire Kings squad sat in icy silence, each man quietly packing his gear.
"My fault."
Butler broke the silence.
"I rushed it. I should've driven inside. Worst case, we'd have forced overtime."
"Jimmy!"
Rudy Gay cut him off before he could say more.
"This isn't on you. When we handed you the ball, however you chose to play it, that was our decision as a team. Don't carry the blame alone."
"Yeah, that's right!"
CJ jumped in, seeing the two leaders speak.
"And honestly, I don't think it was a bad shot. None of us had the legs left for another overtime anyway."
Watching his players comfort one another, Coach Malone felt his throat tighten.
"It's okay. We only lost Game 5. It's not the end of the world. Rest up and get ready—we still have two games left!"
But reality proved otherwise.
History showed that teams who took Game 5 in a tied series advanced 81% of the time.
After four grueling battles, both sides were running on fumes. The outcome of Game 5 usually decided who had just enough left to finish the job.
Back in Sacramento, the Kings fought tooth and nail, but again they came up short.
After three quarters of close play, the Warriors pulled away in the fourth with a double-digit lead.
With a minute remaining, Coach Malone pulled his starters, raising the white flag.
"What a pity."
In the stands, an elderly fan with a white beard and a deep purple Kings cap slapped his thigh regretfully.
"Just a little more and we'd have reached the Finals."
No one could blame the fans for feeling crushed. The Kings had been irrelevant for so long. Even their most dazzling Princeton offense era only reached the Western Conference Finals.
To find their last Finals appearance, you'd have to go back to the 1950s.
Disappointment was inevitable.
"You old geezer, still complaining?"
A younger fan in a Kings jersey laughed beside him. "Come on, it's been years since we've had a run like this. And the roster's full of young guns—next year we'll be even better!"
The veteran fan couldn't help but chuckle at his friend's words.
"You're right, you're right. Rome wasn't built in a day. We're the rising young guard now."
The thought brought him comfort.
"This year's trophy's yours to fight for. Next year, it'll be ours."
As the buzzer sounded, music congratulating the Warriors on reaching the Finals played throughout the Kings' home arena.
Curry, Thompson, and others walked over to embrace the Kings players in respect.
Rivals during the game, but friends once the clock expired.
"You guys played incredible," Curry whispered to Butler as they hugged.
"So did you." Butler smiled—not bitter, just calm.
"We couldn't beat you this year, but we'll be back to challenge you."
"I'll be waiting."
Curry laughed. "Jimmy, we haven't swapped jerseys yet. Let's do it now."
In the NBA, jersey swapping has its unspoken rules. During the regular season, anyone can ask.
But in a battle of this magnitude, Curry's request was a gesture of respect—an acknowledgment that Butler stood as his equal.
Watching the lively exchanges on court, Chen Yilun stood, stretching his legs, numb from sitting too long.
"We just couldn't get over that last hurdle," he sighed.
It would be a lie to say he hadn't dreamed. To have come this far, Chen Yilun had hoped the team could push beyond their limits and seize the O'Brien Trophy.
But miracles don't come easy.
"We'll need to keep building," he muttered, yawning and preparing to leave.
Just then, a fist slammed into his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.
"Man, you're even tougher than I thought!"
Steve Kerr wrapped him in a bear hug. "I couldn't sleep these last two nights. I really thought we might lose."
"Cut it out!"
Chen Yilun glared at the beaming Kerr, trying to shove him away. But Kerr, a former pro, was too strong. After a couple of futile pushes, Chen Yilun gave up.
"You're the head coach! Shouldn't you be celebrating with your players instead of coming here to mock me?"
"Mock you? Never!"
Kerr pulled an exaggerated face, then leaned close. "Listen, I'm serious. Your contract's nearly up. Quit and come join me. Jerry already said it—if you come, the spot's yours."
Another operations president was calling.
"No way!"
Chen Yilun shook his head furiously. "You just knocked me out and now you're trying to poach me? Bribe me? Not happening!"
"Don't be so quick."
Kerr grinned knowingly. "I get it—you're mad about losing to me. But don't turn down money. Jerry will talk to you himself soon. I'm just giving you a heads-up."
What neither of them noticed was a reporter nearby, snapping shots of the players. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the two mentors whispering.
A veteran of the press, he immediately sensed they were plotting something.
He swung his lens their way.
Click!
(We're shifting gears now! Since the Finals plot doesn't concern us, I'll be skipping ahead straight to the free-agent market!)