The final buzzer at TD Garden rang like a dull death knell, hanging over the green wave of fans. 89-109. The blinding numbers on the scoreboard told the brutal story of this Game 5 loss without a word. Fans stared at the court, stunned that their home team had collapsed so completely. LeBron James strode toward the tunnel without looking back, his sweat-soaked jersey clinging to a body more tired than it had ever been. His face was blank—cold, like stone.
The locker room was dead silent—so quiet it hurt. The only sounds were heavy breaths and the soft squelch of ice packs pressing into sore muscles. Paul Pierce sat in front of his locker, face buried deep in a towel. Antoine Walker's face was pale, his eyes darting away—like taking the blame for the defensive failure alone in the mixed zone had drained every bit of his energy.
LeBron was the last one out of the shower. He slipped into a crisp suit, his hair perfectly styled—as if he was trying to use a sharp exterior to fight the defeat and the storm brewing inside him. He didn't look at any teammates. He just grabbed his bag.
"Rest tonight. Leave your phones alone," he said, his voice hoarse but sharp with command. "This series isn't over."
With that, he walked out first, leaving an even heavier silence behind.
Back in his hotel suite, LeBron locked the door. The cold calm dropped from his face in an instant—replaced by smoldering anger and the sharp focus of someone plotting. He opened his laptop; game highlights played on the screen, zeroing in on Bruce Bowen's near-perfect defensive plays—every timely slide, every precise steal, every edge-of-the-rules physical bump.
"Force jumpers, not drives… close out tight… Duncan waiting to help inside…" The words raced through LeBron's head, pricking at his past memories. This time, Bowen's defense was even tougher, more effective than he remembered. The Spurs had done their homework—they knew every one of his go-to moves, every spot he liked to jump from.
But LeBron James—the reborn king—would never drown in the same river twice. A loss on the court needed to be fixed, twice over, off it. He needed a new story—one that turned this humiliating defeat into sympathy, even a setup for future wins.
He pulled out his encrypted phone and called Lisa Kruger.
"Lisa," he said, no small talk—straight to the point, cold as a scalpel. "Change of plans. We move up the schedule. Starting now, shift all media focus—away from me vs. Duncan, full stop. To Paul Pierce."
Lisa didn't sound surprised on the other end. "Angle?"
"Angle: LeBron James, the lone hero, gave everything for this team—too much. He couldn't do it alone. His All-Star teammate, Paul Pierce? This series, especially in crunch time, hasn't brought the fire we need. He can't take the load off LeBron. Emphasize my fatigue. Emphasize how stuck I was. Emphasize the struggle. For Pierce? Use stats, use his on-court play—but keep the tone 'objective.' Like we're just sorry for him." LeBron spoke fast, his mind sharp as a blade.
"Need a trigger?" Lisa asked.
"Find our most reliable reporter. Tomorrow's presser—ask Danny Ainge this: 'Given the team's future and the weight on LeBron, is management considering trading Paul Pierce this offseason to get LeBron a better sidekick?'" A cold glint flashed in LeBron's eyes. "Make it sharp. Make it public."
"Risky, LeBron. This could make Pierce snap. Tear the locker room apart," Lisa warned.
"Do it," LeBron said, no room for argument. "The ground's already fertile for division. I need everyone to see who the real core is—who's expendable. Execute."
He hung up, walked to the window, and looked down at Boston's sleeping skyline. His reflection stared back from the glass—young face, but eyes that were old, deep, and worn.
The next day, Boston's sports media—even America's—was swept up in a new storm.
The Boston Globe's headline screamed: Drained Dry: LeBron Fights Alone as Celtics Crash in Game 5. The article painted LeBron as a "tragic warrior" trapped between Bowen and Duncan, detailing every tough drive to the rim, every minute he fought through exhaustion. It made him out to be a hero with no help.
ESPN's special segment asked: Where's Pierce? Celtics' Second Star Goes MIA in Finals. Pundits pulled up cold stats: Pierce's points were way down from the regular season, he barely shot in crunch time, and he had no answers for Bruce Bowen on defense.
Online, Lisa's trolls flooded feeds with "reasonable takes": Let's be real—Is Paul even good enough for LeBron anymore? Look at Duncan's guys—Ginobili, Parker. Then LeBron's stuck with Pierce. Feel bad for him. Ainge has to do something this summer—can't waste LeBron's prime!
The noise spread like a virus, sparking fan wars. Even Pierce's old supporters, raw from the loss and fed the planted narratives, started to waver—some even joined the criticism.
The locker room turned toxic. Pierce stared at his phone, face flushed red. He wanted to smash it more than once, but forced himself to hold back. He could feel his teammates' eyes—sympathetic, judging, even a little dismissive. Walker and the others clammed up, scared to get dragged in.
LeBron was still the first to the gym, putting in extra work alone. When a few friendly reporters swarmed him, he showed tiredness for the first time, his voice low. "I gave everything. No holding back. But I need help… We all need to step up." He didn't name names—but every word felt like a needle in Pierce's side, in every role player's.
Media day before Game 6 was packed. Tension hung thick in the air. LeBron and Pierce sat side by side, with Coach O'Brien in between.
Early questions were about Game 5's loss and Game 6's plan. LeBron stuck to the script—"team," "confidence," "bounce back"—words that sounded good but meant nothing.
Then, a reporter—Lisa's plant—stood up. He locked eyes with GM Danny Ainge, his voice clear and sharp:
"Mr. Ainge, I'm with Sports Illustrated. Game 5 exposed a big hole in this roster—especially when LeBron James needs support, your second scorer's been ice cold. Given LeBron's prime and the team's future, do you think Paul Pierce is still the right partner for him? Are you considering trading Paul Pierce this offseason to get LeBron a younger, more dynamic helper?"
The question hit like a thunderclap. Every camera snapped to Ainge—then whipped to Pierce. Pierce's face went white. His fist tightened under the table, knuckles turning bone-white. He spun to Ainge, eyes blazing with shock and rage.
Ainge clearly hadn't seen this coming. He froze, his face turning ugly. There was no good answer—any response would destroy team morale.
Just as Ainge opened his mouth to sputter a PR line, LeBron James moved.
He shot an arm around Pierce's shoulders, yanking him so hard Pierce almost fell out of his chair. He faced the cameras, his face burning with more passion and sincerity than ever. His voice boomed, thick with feeling:
"Paul is my brother!" He practically yelled it, his gaze cutting across the room—finally landing on the reporter. "We're warriors. We've bled together, sweated together. This series? We've all struggled—me, too. Paul, too. But doubt? Division? That doesn't make us stronger. Only standing together gets us through this."
He slammed a hand on Pierce's shoulder. "I believe in Paul—same as I believe in myself! Game 6? San Antonio? We're gonna step up together. Win together. Nobody splits us up. Right now, the only thing that matters is winning the next game! And every other question?" LeBron's eyes sharpened on the reporter. "We'll talk about that when the season's over. Not a second sooner!"
He held Pierce tight, their "unbreakable brotherhood" on full display under a storm of flashbulbs.
Pierce was stunned by the sudden move. His body went stiff in LeBron's grip. He could feel the raw strength in LeBron's arm—control he couldn't fight. Looking at LeBron's "sincere" profile, listening to his "heartfelt" words, Pierce's chest twisted. There was a flicker of gratitude—someone had his back. But more than that? A suffocating, absurd feeling—like he was stuck in quicksand, unable to control his own fate.
Ainge jumped in, rushing to end the presser.
LeBron kept his arm around Pierce, walking him through the chaos of reporters into the tunnel. The second they were out of sight, LeBron dropped his hand. The fire, the sincerity—all gone. Back to his usual calm.
He looked at Pierce, his tone flat but loaded. "You heard 'em, Paul. Everyone's questioning us. Game 6? It's our only shot. Play well for me—and you prove 'em wrong about yourself."
Pierce stared into LeBron's deep eyes. He opened his mouth—then closed it. He just nodded, hard. He knew he was cornered. Follow LeBron. Play his script. There was no other way out.
LeBron turned toward the locker room. A faint, almost unnoticeable smirk tugged at his lips. The media pieces were in place. Pierce's fire was stoked. The stage was set for a do-or-die fight.
Now, all he had to do was turn it all into a win in Game 6. The reborn king had paved what he thought was the surest path to the next battle—even if that path was lined with his teammate's pride and his team's fragile peace.