Taking down the Nets for their first playoff win was a crucial morale-boosting victory for Boston—but for LeBron James, it was just another mandatory hurdle in his plan. Media praise poured in, hailing him as a "Playoff Rising Star" and "Boston's New Engine," but he stayed cool as ice, shutting out all the noise. He knew the real test was only just beginning.
The smell of celebratory champagne still lingered in the locker room when LeBron called a team film session. No coach leading it—he held the laser pointer, stood in front of the screen, and calmly broke down every detail of the game.
"Jason Kidd's got a pick-and-roll habit here—he tends to go left, then look for the corner shooter," LeBron paused the clip, the laser's red dot locking onto Kidd. "Kenyon Martin rolls to the rim fast, but if our big shows early to force Kidd baseline, Eric Williams, you can slide over from the weak side for help defense. Disrupt his passing lane."
His voice was steady, his analysis sharp—like a veteran who'd been around the league for years. Teammates, even the older ones, leaned in to listen. Paul Pierce sat in the corner, arms crossed, expressionless. He had to admit: LeBron's understanding of the game and preparation were amazing. This leadership, rooted in logic and preparation, stood in stark contrast to his own style—built on instinct and experience. And it left him feeling a deeper kind of powerlessness.
"They'll adjust next game," LeBron turned to Coach O'Brien. "I say we add more off-ball screens. Get Paul more one-on-one looks at the high post. When they lock in on me, his scoring's our deadliest weapon."
The suggestion surprised O'Brien and the team. LeBron was volunteering to design plays for Pierce? Pierce looked up too, a flash of surprise in his eyes.
LeBron met his gaze, voice sincere: "Paul's one of the league's best scorers. We can't waste that. Especially when they try to shut me down—his scoring matters." He'd cleverly framed Pierce as "the key to our tactical shift" and "the beneficiary of my defense-drawing." It soothed Pierce, but also reaffirmed his own status as the core.
Pierce was quiet for a second, then slowly nodded. He couldn't say no—it would get him more shots, even if they felt like a "gift" from LeBron. Humiliation mixed with resignation settled in his chest.
Game 2: The Nets adjusted, stepping up their double-teams on LeBron. But the Celtics stuck to the game plan LeBron had mapped out. When LeBron drew the double-team, the ball moved fast to Pierce—who'd gotten open off off-ball movement. Pierce delivered, hitting his signature mid-range jumpers to punish the defense. He finished with a series-high 28 points.
Post-game, media talk shifted to Pierce's "comeback" and LeBron's "selflessness."
"LeBron, you dished out a lot of assists tonight—especially finding Paul after drawing doubles. How do you feel about that connection?" a reporter asked.
LeBron smiled: "Simple. Paul's a scoring machine. My job's to find him, get him the ball in a good spot. When he's hot, giving him the ball's the right call. We're a team—this win's for everyone."
The line earned him more praise as a "selfless leader." Pierce, in his own interview, acknowledged the win—but his tone turned complicated when talking about LeBron: "He… made the right reads. We won. That's what matters." He couldn't spout the same "team-first" lines as LeBron. The grudge in his chest still lingered.
But surface harmony was enough. The Celtics took two straight, heading to New Jersey up 2-0.
Road games were different. Nets fans were hostile, and refs' calls seemed to lean toward the home team. Game 3 turned into a grind-it-out dogfight.
Then came the controversial moment. Late in the fourth quarter, Boston was down by 1. LeBron drove to the rim, made contact with Nets center Jason Collins mid-air, and missed the shot. No whistle. The Nets secured the rebound, and Kidd hit a buzzer-beating three to seal the win.
LeBron landed, gesturing to the refs—but they didn't budge. The whole Celtics team swarmed the officials, fired up. Pierce led the charge, yelling at the refs, barely avoiding a technical foul.
Post-game, the locker room was tense. Losing a game they should've won—like that—left everyone frustrated.
Pierce was still fuming, complaining about unfair calls to a reporter he knew. His words got amplified, sparking talk of "refs favoring the Nets."
LeBron took a different approach. In the mixed zone, he answered questions calmly.
"LeBron, that last play—did you think that was a foul?"
LeBron shook his head: "If the refs didn't call it, it wasn't a foul. We need to do better—make the shot in that spot, not hope for a call. I missed. That's on me."
He took full blame for the loss.
The reporter pressed: "But Paul seemed really upset about the calls…"
LeBron cut him off, firm: "I get Paul's frustration—he wants to win. But we can't get hung up on calls. As a team, we gotta move forward. I know we'll respond next game."
The difference was stark. Pierce looked like a star complaining after a loss; LeBron looked like a leader—accountable and calm. Even with the loss, LeBron's reputation grew. Media and fans praised him for being "mature" and "a leader." Pierce, meanwhile, got criticized for "losing his cool" and "making excuses."
The contrast eroded Pierce's image—both in the locker room and with fans. Even some teammates who'd backed him started thinking: In tough spots, LeBron's calm, logical approach felt more trustworthy.
Danny Ainge read the reports in his office, talking to Coach O'Brien: "See that? That's the gap. LeBron knows how to turn a bad situation into good press for himself. Paul? He's still handling things the same way he did a decade ago."
O'Brien sighed, nodding. He knew: After all this, the team would never be the same. LeBron James wasn't just the on-court core—he'd built unshakable authority in the locker room and with the media, too.
Game 4: The Celtics, fighting for their season, watched LeBron take over. He dropped a playoff career-first triple-double—36 points, 10 rebounds, 12 assists—and led Boston to a blowout win. They took the series 3-1, advancing to the next round.
When the final buzzer sounded, LeBron high-fived teammates. As he walked toward the tunnel, Pierce followed a few steps behind.
LeBron stopped suddenly, turning around.
The tunnel lights behind him cast a tall silhouette. His face was hidden in shadow—only his eyes glowed sharply in the dim light, like they could cut through the haze.
He didn't say a word. Just stared at Pierce.
Pierce stopped too, locking eyes with him. They were alone in the tunnel, save for faint noise from the court far away.
In that moment, Pierce didn't see victory joy in LeBron's eyes. No provocation toward a veteran. Just a calm that felt bottomless—and a quiet confidence, like he'd known how everything would play out, like he controlled it all.
LeBron nodded slightly—a wordless greeting—then turned, walking away with firm steps, disappearing at the end of the tunnel.
Pierce stood there, finally letting out a slow breath. He knew: From this moment on, the Boston Celtics belonged to LeBron James' era. And he—Paul Pierce, "The Truth"—would be a footnote to this new legacy.
LeBron walked toward the locker room, his mind calm. Taking down the Nets was just a speed bump. His gaze was already past New Jersey, locked on their potential Eastern Conference Semifinals opponent—the Detroit Pistons. The team known for its tough defense, the team that'd left him with countless regrets early in his past life's career.
This time, the ending would be different. He vowed it.