The buzz from the scrimmage hadn't fully died, but the vibe in the Celtics' gym had shifted. LeBron James' dominant showcase was like a boulder thrown into a lake—rippling with awe, but also quiet pressure, a silent acceptance of the new order. In that subtle air, LeBron and Ray Allen's interactions became the center of attention—two core gears in a precision machine, testing, aligning, holding massive potential in every touch.
After practice, in the film room, Coach Doc Rivers drew up a new "Horns Flare" play on the whiteboard. The core: LeBron holding the ball at the elbow, Ray using two screens to loop up from the corner, catching LeBron's pass for a 3.
"Ray, you need to pop out 0.3 seconds faster," Rivers tapped the board. "LeBron's pass'll be there the second you move."
Ray frowned slightly. He pushed an imaginary pair of glasses up his nose—a habit when he thought—then spoke. "Coach, I get it. But if they read the play, their wing'll挤过 the screen early. Maybe… I fake a cut to the baseline first, then use the screen. It'll make 'em hesitate longer."
Before Rivers could answer, LeBron's calm voice cut in. He'd wandered over to the board, grabbing another marker.
"Ray's right," LeBron said, glancing at Ray with a nod of approval. "But we can go bigger." He drew a new dashed line. "If they挤过 early, Ray—don't stop. Slide along the 3-point line to the wing. And me?" He pointed to his spot on the board. "I won't wait there. The second you fake that cut, I'll dribble to the strong-side elbow. Now, whether you pop or slide, my pass angle and your spot stay dynamic. They can't read it."
LeBron's add-on turned the play from a fixed pass-and-shoot into a flexible attack—multiple options, multiple threats. He didn't just get Ray's concern; he made the solution more aggressive.
Ray looked at the board. Surprise flashed in his eyes, then a spark—like he'd found a kindred spirit. He nodded, simple and sharp. "Good read. Defenders'll hate that."
Rivers watched them, grinning. "Guess you two don't need me drawing up much. Let's run it like that."
No yelling, no arguing—just calm analysis, quiet agreement. But everyone in the room felt it: respect, built on top-tier basketball IQ, was clicking fast between the two stars.
Later, in the locker room, guys filtered out. LeBron packed his shoes. Ray walked over, holding a black VHS tape—no label (it was 2003, still common).
"LeBron," Ray said, calm as always. "Watch this if you got time. Clips I put together—little things I noticed about Bruce Bowen's defense when I studied the Spurs. Might… help."
LeBron looked up, surprised, taking the tape. Ray was known for his work ethic—but sharing targeted scouting on their biggest rival's top defender? This was more than help. It was a statement: I'm with you. We want the same thing.
"Thanks, Ray," LeBron said, serious. "I'll watch it close."
Ray just nodded and left. LeBron stared at his back, eyes deep. He knew Ray—proud, focused, not one to suck up. That tape wasn't just film. It was proof of Ray's drive to win… and silent recognition of LeBron's leadership.
That night, LeBron popped the tape into his private player. Ray's edits were sharp: Bowen's footwork, his tiny hand checks, even little facial ticks when he got frustrated. Precise, thorough—impressive, even to LeBron.
LeBron's eyes narrowed. This wasn't just useful. It showed how deep Ray's professionalism went—how hungry he was. A killer, ready for a title.
A few days later, optional practice. The gym was almost empty. LeBron did strength drills; on the other end, Ray worked on his famous "300 3s" routine. His moves were mechanical—catch, jump, shoot. Balls arced perfectly, most swishing. Boring, repetitive, but oozing focus.
When LeBron finished, he didn't leave. He stood by the court, watching Ray shoot. When Ray bent to grab balls, LeBron picked one up, stepping to the top of the 3-point line.
Ray stood up, looking at LeBron—no words.
LeBron didn't speak either. Just a simple gesture: point to the floor, then to Ray's go-to spot.
Ray got it. He took position in the corner.
LeBron dribbled twice, then fired a cross-court bounce pass. It flew like a guided missile, bouncing once on the floor right in front of Ray—perfect, easy to catch, no adjustment needed.
Ray caught it, jumped, shot.
Swish.
LeBron passed again—this time to the other wing, 45 degrees.
Swish.
For ten minutes, no talking. LeBron passed from different spots—bounce, chest, straight line—each one landing exactly where Ray liked it. Ray moved to the spot, caught, shot, made.
Smooth, silent. Only the swish of nets and squeak of shoes filled the gym. A quiet play, but powerful, beautiful.
When Ray made the last shot, he turned to LeBron. Their eyes met—still no words. But默契, trust—built in that silent workout—hung in the air.
LeBron nodded, then left.
Ray watched him go, wiping sweat from his brow. A tiny, satisfied smile flickered on his usually calm face.
Doc Rivers "happened" to see the end of that workout from his office window. He set down his coffee, telling his assistant: "See that? The best chemistry don't need words. A passer who knows how to make a shooter comfortable, a killer who needs half a second to finish… God, I feel bad for the other 29 teams."
Danny Ainge heard about the "silent workout" soon after. In his memo to the owner, he wrote: "LeBron and Ray are clicking faster than we hoped. This ain't just on-court fit—it's mental. We didn't just get a good lineup. We got a backcourt that could define the era."
LeBron drove his sports car away from the gym, calm but content. His time with Ray only confirmed he'd made the right call that offseason. Pierce's one-man show was exciting, but Ray—efficient, calm, matching LeBron's IQ—was the better path to a title.
The reborn king had found his perfect "royal shooter." He knew, as the season went on, Ray Allen—this deadly weapon—would, under his command, cut through every team standing in the Celtics' way. Their tacit understanding? It would become every other team's worst nightmare.