The final buzzer of Game 7's overtime hung in the air like a heavy sigh, fading slowly through TD Garden. 105-115. The blinding score glowed on the jumbotron, casting light on faces etched with exhaustion, defeat, and defiance. The San Antonio Spurs huddled in the center of the court, celebrating. Tim Duncan held the Finals MVP trophy, his expression as calm as ever—only a faint spark in his eyes betrayed how hard this win had been.
The Celtics players hurried toward the tunnel, heads down, as if staying another second would burn them with the sting of loss. Paul Pierce walked last, his steps unsteady. He glanced over the sea of green—the same crowd that had roared for him, that he'd fought for—now silent, littered with stray confetti. The few touches he'd gotten in overtime, the three missed shots… they pricked at his mind like cold needles. A few feet ahead, LeBron James was surrounded by staff, heading straight for the locker room, never looking back.
In the mixed zone, the air felt thick with tension—like the calm before a storm. Reporters waited, cameras and microphones aimed at the incoming Celtics. First to arrive was Paul Pierce.
He'd changed into a clean team T-shirt, but his hair was still damp, and the loneliness in his eyes was impossible to hide. The second he stopped, questions rained down like hail—sharp, unforgiving.
"Paul, you vanished in overtime—only three shots, all misses. Is that a playcall issue? A confidence issue? Do you think you failed to step up when it mattered most?" one reporter fired first.
Pierce's Adam's apple bobbed. His voice was hoarse. "San Antonio's defense was locked in. They… they cut off some of our looks. I tried to find openings, but the pace was fast, and—"
Another question cut him off, sharper than the first: "LeBron James had a historic series, especially tonight—stats, plays, everything. You struggled when it counted. Does that mean this team's core has fully shifted? Are you no longer Boston's 'Truth'—is LeBron the only king now?"
The question cut like a knife into the most sensitive spot. The room went quiet. Every camera zoomed in on Pierce's face, capturing every flicker of emotion.
Pierce's face paled. His lips pressed into a tight line. He stayed silent for seconds that felt like an hour. He could feel the weight of every gaze on him.
"I…" He spoke slowly, his voice low but stubborn, unyielding. "I gave this city, this team everything. No holding back. All of us fought, every game this series. Losses are team things. You don't pin them on one guy."
"But stats don't lie, Paul!" another reporter pushed, almost shouting. "LeBron scored 10 in overtime—you scored zero. That last turnover? It cost you the game-winner. Do you think that play was the turning point? Do you take most of the blame for this loss?"
They didn't say "scapegoat," but the word hung in the air.
Pierce's hands tightened at his sides, his knuckles white. Blood rushed to his head—shame and anger mixing. But he looked at the cameras, waiting for him to snap or crumble. Finally, he took a deep breath.
He lifted his head, his eyes scanning the reporters—pain, tiredness, and a cold, betrayed glint in them. "I said it's a team loss. We win together, we lose together. And that play…" He paused, as if tasting something bitter. "I'll always regret not catching that pass— the one that could've won it. But I'm not carrying the whole series on my back. That's it."
His answer danced around the hard parts, clinging to what dignity he had left. But the helplessness showed.
Then LeBron James appeared at the entrance to the mixed zone. He wore a crisp suit, his hair perfectly styled. His expression was perfectly calibrated—mixing just the right amount of sadness, tiredness, and quiet resolve, like he'd given it his all. The second he showed up, every camera swiveled to him.
He walked straight to Pierce, slinging an arm around his shoulders in a move that felt staged—like he was performing "team unity" for the world.
"Folks," LeBron said, his voice steady and deep, taking control of the room instantly. "This was a tough one. We left everything out there. The Spurs are a great team—they earned this."
First, he praised the opponent. Then he turned to Pierce, his eyes warm, "sincere." "Paul's my brother. He's given this franchise everything—his whole career, this postseason. Without him, we never get to Game 7. Those questions? They're ridiculous. Unfair."
It sounded like loyalty, like defending a teammate. Pierce's body tensed slightly. He didn't look at LeBron.
But LeBron's next words shifted the narrative, subtle as a knife. "Basketball's a five-man game. Wins and losses belong to all of us. We'll go into the offseason, learn from this—fix the little things, the execution, the choices at the end. We'll come back stronger."
He talked about "team responsibility," but he'd dropped "execution and choices at the end"—subtly steering attention back to Pierce's costly fumble and his quiet overtime. His defense felt like a final jab: honoring Pierce's past, while hinting at his present failures.
A reporter jumped in, asking LeBron: "How do you see your role on this team now? Do you think you're the only core—now and for the future?"
LeBron didn't answer directly. Instead, he smiled—a tired but determined smile. "My role's simple: do whatever helps the team win. Score, rebound, pass, defend—whatever Coach and the guys need. As for 'core'? The Celtics' core's always been the hunger to win, the team first. Nothing else."
He dodged the question, lifting it to "team spirit"—and everyone in the room nodded, impressed.
After the presser, LeBron kept his arm around Pierce as they walked toward the tunnel. The second they were out of camera range, LeBron dropped his arm. He leaned in, his voice flat, no emotion: "Get some rest, Paul. Offseason's long."
Pierce stopped short. He stared at LeBron. But LeBron didn't pause. He kept walking, leaving a cold, final背影 (back) in his wake.
Pierce stood alone in the dim tunnel. Far away, he could hear the Spurs' cheers. He knew it now: this loss wasn't just a championship gone. It was the end of his era in Boston. LeBron James had used a brutal defeat to crown himself. And Paul Pierce? He'd become the most visible sacrifice on the new king's path to the throne.
Green glory and personal shame tangled together—Boston's most complicated summer melody, just beginning.