NBA: The Dynasty Crasher

On the February 25, the Knicks were set to take on the Jazz in an away game.

From the moment they left the hotel until they stepped into the Delta Center, a mob of rowdy Jazz fans followed the Knicks' bus, throwing insults and making a damn scene. The players weren't happy about it, but security got them into the underground parking lot without any issues.

Inside the locker room, Van Gundy walked in, followed by GM Ernie Grunfeld and assistant coach Tom Thibodeau. The tension in the room was thick even before the game plan was laid out.

Van Gundy cleared his throat and got straight to the point. "Starting lineup stays the same," he said, "but we're making a switch. Oakley and Zhao Dong will swap positions—Zhao's moving to the three."

The room went dead silent for a second before Patrick Ewing, usually the quiet type, immediately spoke up. "What? Why?" His eyes locked onto Van Gundy, demanding an explanation.

Alan Houston had the same reaction, glancing between the coach and Zhao Dong.

Both of them knew the deal—Zhao had been getting his touches taken away lately, and now? He was pushing back.

Van Gundy kept his expression neutral. "Nothing major. Zhao's been wanting to play the three for a while now, and he's been putting in the work. I think he's ready, so we're giving it a shot."

Ewing's face darkened. His voice was low and heavy. "Then who's running the low-post offense?"

Van Gundy hesitated. He looked at Thibodeau, who was just as uneasy.

"Patrick, you're our core. Our franchise center. That's on you." Van Gundy finally said, gritting his teeth.

He knew where this was headed. He and Grunfeld both felt Ewing had been in the wrong lately, so their stance leaned toward Zhao Dong. But he also knew this move was going to piss Ewing off even more.

And it did.

Ewing shot up from his seat, staring daggers at Zhao Dong. His voice was ice cold. "Guess somebody doesn't wanna play ball anymore. Maybe the team needs to make a trade." His eyes flickered toward Grunfeld, testing the waters.

He knew what was up. Back when Don Nelson suggested trading him for Shaq, it was Grunfeld who shot it down and got Nelson fired. He figured the front office had his back.

But Zhao Dong wasn't backing down. "Then trade me," he snapped, standing up. "If the management thinks you've still got ten years left in your prime, trade me."

Truth be told, after living two lives, Zhao Dong never understood why the Knicks refused to trade Ewing for Shaq. Loyalty? If that was the case, why did they end up trading Ewing later anyway?

So yeah, he said it, but deep down, he wasn't 100% sure of what would happen next. If management doubled down on Ewing, he was ready to be shipped out in the offseason.

Grunfeld, Van Gundy, and Thibodeau's faces fell. This was worst-case scenario—Zhao and Ewing weren't just beefing anymore, they were straight-up calling for trades.

The locker room went dead silent. Nobody dared to speak.

Charles Oakley was the only one who moved, stepping between the two before things got physical.

"Cut the shit," Oakley snapped.

Grunfeld stood up, his voice firm. "Patrick, you know Zhao is the future of this team. What's with this attitude? You don't support the team's decisions?"

"I'm not washed yet," Ewing fired back.

"Then get your ass in the paint and prove it," Zhao Dong shot back. "Instead of jacking my touches."

Ewing's blood boiled. "You little shit, what's your problem?"

Van Gundy and Grunfeld shook their heads. This was beyond fixing. Ewing was cussing now, which meant all logic had left the building.

"What's my problem?" Zhao Dong scoffed. "You're stealing my shots, messing up the team's chemistry, and trying to run shit like it's still the '80s. You're not fit to be the leader anymore."

"Shut your mouth, rookie!" Ewing roared.

"I'm with Patrick." Alan Houston suddenly stood up, his face tight.

"Sit your ass down," Oakley barked, his thumb pointed right at Houston's face. "You don't get to talk here."

Houston stiffened, his face pale.

Zhao Dong chuckled darkly. "Houston, no matter who wins this fight, I guarantee you're getting traded."

"The hell did you just say?" Houston snapped.

He looked at Ewing for support, but Ewing ignored him. He turned to Grunfeld, but the GM's gaze was cold as ice.

Houston's stomach dropped.

Oakley had seen enough. He turned and threw the locker room door open.

"Everybody out. Let them handle this."

Grunfeld and Van Gundy didn't hesitate—they got everyone out fast and moved far enough down the hall so they couldn't hear anything.

Van Gundy glanced at Grunfeld. "What do you think's happening in there?"

Grunfeld let out a long sigh. "No clue. Just hoping they don't kill each other."

Back inside, only Oakley, Ewing, and Zhao Dong remained.

Oakley wasn't about to sugarcoat shit. "You two dumbasses realize we finally have a shot at a title, right? You wanna throw it away? Jordan's gonna be laughing his ass off when he hears about this."

Ewing frowned, staring at his old friend. "Charles, what the hell are you saying?"

Oakley had always been his guy. Seeing him take this stance now felt like betrayal.

He already felt humiliated—Zhao had gotten more All-Star votes than him by 200,000. He was supposed to be the face of the Knicks. The leader. The franchise. But now?

Now, he felt like he was slipping. That's why he took those extra shots. Why he let Houston take some, too. He was trying to hold onto his throne.

Oakley turned to Zhao Dong first. "Zhao, you really think you can take out Jordan and the Bulls by yourself?"

Zhao Dong didn't hesitate. "Charles, I'll be real with you. No, I can't beat them alone. But…"

His eyes cut to Ewing. "If Ewing keeps playing like this, we won't beat them anyway."

Ewing clenched his fists. "The hell did you just say?"

"I said you're the cancer of this team. You got a problem with that?"

Ewing damn near lost it. "Rookie, I've bled for this team for over a decade! When I was grinding for this franchise, you were still in diapers."

Zhao Dong's expression didn't change. "Yeah, and that was then. Right now, you're killing this team. History doesn't give you the right to fuck it up."

"Alright, enough," Oakley cut in, raising a hand toward Zhao Dong.

Zhao Dong's lips curled. "You know what? I don't think talking's gonna work. Why don't we just beat his ass and wake him up?"

"Shut up, dumbass!"

Oakley and Ewing snapped at him at the same time.

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