Chapter 0096: Mountains High, Rivers Long: There’s Nothing You Can’t Win

Xia Chiyi grit his teeth and forced himself up for the contest, but Zhao Lingcong flicked the ball in midair to the other side.

Zhou Zhexiao reacted lightning-fast—his fingertips grazed it, but he couldn’t knock it loose, and that split second still scared Zhao Lingcong into a cold sweat.

On the weak side, Ma Tao caught it and pulled up for a standing jumper.

The instant Xia Chiyi’s toes hit the floor, he burst forward. Ma Tao’s heart jumped—Is this kid even human? How the hell is he accelerating that fast?

“Hah—!” The veins on Xia Chiyi’s forehead bulged. He was clearly shorter than Ma Tao, yet the block carried a momentum like it could swallow mountains and rivers whole.

Countless spectators craned their necks, eyes wide. Xia Chiyi’s fingertips touched the ball.

“Rebound—” Xia Chiyi shouted, twisting his head around.

Shuai Bei and Du He had already charged the paint, but Li Renjie beat them to it—he lifted his hand and nudged the ball that had rattled off the rim, guiding it back in.

“Sorry.” Ma Tao lowered his head to look at Xia Chiyi. “Still went in.”

But deep down, he sincerely admired Xia Chiyi—his reaction, his nerve.

28 seconds remained.

This would be Ningchang University’s final chance.

“This has to be the toughest game Ningchang University has played. Even in the group stage against Fǔgong University, the outcome was decided in the last thirty seconds. But Southeast Mining University… they’ve got that big heart for a last-second finish,” Liu Suchen said, chin propped on his hand, watching Xia Chiyi’s back.

Coach Li Xiaoran spoke up: “Win or lose, for Ningchang University, this is nourishment for growth.”

Especially mentally.

Xia Chiyi’s palms were slick with sweat. His wristbands were soaked through; he could only wipe them on his jersey.

“Sorry… I got fooled by Zhao Lingcong’s fake.”

“If you hadn’t bitten, he would’ve actually shot.” Zhou Zhexiao glanced at Xia Chiyi. His voice was low, resonant—vocal cords vibrating with his chest. “What truly makes a game worth enjoying isn’t the win or loss, but those moments wedged in the cracks. A white colt flashes past in an instant—then comes the vast, surging torrent.”

So now, it was time to break through that moment.

On the sideline, Ling Huanzhen raised his fist. The whole team understood.

Xia Chiyi widened his eyes. He hadn’t expected that with the final 28 seconds, Ling Huanzhen would choose this play.

Ye Chaoying inbounded from the baseline. In the paint, Ma Tao body-checked Xia Chiyi and pinned him.

Ma Tao stared at the top of Xia Chiyi’s head and told himself: No way am I letting this guy get a look at the basket!

Shuai Bei ran toward the baseline. Du He and Zhou Zhexiao were on the other side of the paint. The moment the ball was released, Xia Chiyi exploded past Ma Tao—his route went opposite the pass, like a bolt of lightning. When Ma Tao whipped his head around, all he caught was a glimpse of the jersey tugged by Xia Chiyi’s speed.

He’d been running for tens of minutes—how can he still be this fast?

Du He and Zhou Zhexiao each sealed off Li Renjie and Zhao Lingcong, clearing space. Xia Chiyi sprinted through it.

He was like a horse that had snapped its reins, launching over a cliff.

Zhao Lingcong and Ma Tao realized at once what the opponent was doing—but Xia Chiyi was simply too fast!

Zhou Zhexiao had already extended his arm. Zhao and Ma couldn’t catch Xia Chiyi, so they pivoted hard toward Zhou Zhexiao—whatever happened, they couldn’t let Zhou Zhexiao receive the ball!

They never expected Ye Chaoying to pass to Shuai Bei instead. Shuai Bei snapped it to Xia Chiyi.

Zhao Lingcong and Ma Tao tried to close out on Xia Chiyi, but Du He and Zhou Zhexiao had already dropped in front of them—like guillotine blades—shutting the road to Xia Chiyi.

Xia Chiyi rose and released calmly. After two full quarters, the crowd finally saw his jumper again.

That ball seemed to grow wings—dragging countless breaths, heartbeats, and gazes as it traced across the arena.

At the moment of release, Xia Chiyi suddenly understood what Zhou Zhexiao meant by that fleeting flash of time.

And that shot—was the vast torrent itself.

It pierced the net, and opened a broader world for Ningchang University.

The entire venue fell silent—then erupted into an explosive roar.

Xia Chiyi stood where he landed, his right hand raised high, watching the numbers on the timer drop to zero.

The commentator sprang to his feet. “Too dangerous! Too beautiful! Ningchang University executed the elevator-doors set perfectly in the final twenty-something seconds! Seriously—don’t fear Southeast Mining University’s fierce wings; fear Ningchang University’s elevator doors! This is the classic late-game play that only a team with an elite perimeter shooter can run in the final moment!”

Xia Chiyi’s ears rang. Then Zhou Zhexiao walked up to him, caught that raised hand, and pressed it against his own heart.

“Thump—thump—thump—”

“Don’t hold it in. You can breathe now,” Zhou Zhexiao leaned close and murmured by his ear.

Right after that, the rest of the teammates rushed over.

“It went in! Xia Chiyi, you made it! That was insane!” Ye Chaoying grabbed at Xia Chiyi’s hair in a messy ruffle.

Du He wrapped both of them in his arms, tears streaming down his face.

Shuai Bei saw Ye Chaoying run over, so he ran over too. His face stayed blank—because he genuinely wasn’t sure whether they’d really won.

Xia Chiyi’s fingers curled slowly into a fist. His throat was tight, voice stuck as if something had lodged there.

This was the highest-level game he’d ever played in his life.

And in that game, he hit the final shot—the winning shot.

He wanted to grab hold of something, but for a moment he couldn’t even tell what this roaring possessiveness was.

What he wanted wasn’t only victory, but… Zhou Zhexiao’s heart.

Because Zhou Zhexiao… was a goal even farther away than the win in front of him—his ultimate dream.

Countless spectators stood and applauded them.

In the stands, Du Luan applauded without reservation. He looked at Xu Run beside him. “See? Compared to the experience failure brings, I’d rather see him withstand the pressure of a clutch shot and win to the end. That’s also growth.”

Xu Run nodded. “Yes. He’s grown up.”

No long interviews were needed. No psychological analysis. Just the shooting form on that last release—it carried a transformation that felt unstoppable.

Ma Tao and his teammates returned to their bench area in silence, their whole squad so quiet it felt like they belonged to another world.

Cheng Kuang was the first to bury his face in a towel and start crying. Zhao Lingcong sat down beside him and took a deep breath.

“Little Cheng, what’re you crying for?”

“If I’d guarded Xia Chiyi in the first quarter and didn’t let him rack up so many points… maybe we wouldn’t have lost…”

“Like that, Tao-tao won’t even have the nerve to cry.”

Ma Tao swung his towel at Zhao Lingcong. “Get lost. Which eye of yours saw me wanting to cry?”

“Both eyes.” Zhao Lingcong held up two fingers and pointed at his eyes.

“Why would I cry?” Ma Tao demanded, hands on hips.

“Because in the end you and I both got locked outside the ‘elevator doors,’ didn’t we? Otherwise would Xia Chiyi’s three have gone in?”

The next second, Ma Tao actually rushed over and hugged Zhao Lingcong.

Zhao Lingcong felt the heat soaking into his shoulder and froze—he hadn’t expected Ma Tao to really cry.

“Don’t be upset… At least we made nationals. We’ll have a chance for revenge.”

“I’m upset for you. You swore up and down you ‘watched Xia Chiyi grow up.’ And then what?”

“Hey, the Yangtze’s later waves push the earlier waves—the earlier waves die on the beach. Happens all the time…”

“Spit, spit, spit!”

Coach Liu came over and patted their shoulders.

“Alright. Southeast Mining University has never been a team that can’t take a loss. Go line up.”

It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

Zhao Lingcong lifted his head, glancing toward the seating sections for the various university teams. “Yeah, it’s not like we can’t take it. We just gave them a free pile of XP, and it’s annoying.”

“Right? Qincheng University, Qing University, Southwest Aviation University… they’re the ones who benefited—got plenty of data on Ningchang University,” Ma Tao said, still adjusting his breathing, teeth clenched.

Both teams returned to the court. The spectators stood; thunderous applause rolled through the arena.

Players shook hands. Zhao Lingcong stopped in front of Xia Chiyi and smiled. “You looked so dazed after hitting that last shot. Pathetic.”

“I was savoring it—savoring how you tried to block me and got walled off.”

“You itching for trouble?” Zhao Lingcong asked with a laugh.

“Yeah. C’mon, bro—scratch it for me?”

Xia Chiyi even turned around and deliberately bumped his butt into him.

Standing nearby, Zhou Zhexiao’s brows knit slightly.

Zhao Lingcong chuckled under his breath, opened his arms, and hugged Xia Chiyi tight.

“You’ve grown up. Even if you’re itching, you’ve gotta scratch it yourself.”

The moment he heard that, Xia Chiyi’s nose stung.

The road ahead would be harder. Zhao Lingcong could only walk with him this far.

In the stands, Liu Suchen watched the two former teammates embracing and sighed. “Zhao Lingcong is really something. Even nationwide, his fakes could be king.”

Coach Li Xiaoran’s eyes rested on the top of Xia Chiyi’s head. “But Xia Chiyi absorbs too fast. Zhao Lingcong just demonstrated firsthand—what truly high-end fakes can look like.”

The corner of Liu Suchen’s lips slowly curved upward. “Xia Chiyi’s already very agile, and he’s got plenty of moves. He just lacked experience against top-tier opponents. Now he’s absorbed Zhao Lingcong’s entire ‘skill pack’… that’s going to be a headache.”

“It’s fine,” Li Xiaoran said. “When they open against Qincheng University, we’ll see how fast he can absorb.”

“He’s not just loaded with skill packs—his HP bar is thick too,” Liu Suchen laughed. “After a full-court run, his last-second shot still didn’t deform. He’s a little monster.”

He liked unpredictable opponents. Today’s Xia Chiyi and tomorrow’s Xia Chiyi wouldn’t be the same—and that filled him with anticipation.

Both teams began packing. In an hour, Qincheng University would play Fusheng University of Industry.

As Xia Chiyi’s group packed up, official reporters and Coolang’s reporters rushed over, microphones nearly shoved into Ling Huanzhen’s face.

After retiring, Ling Huanzhen hadn’t felt this kind of media swarm in ages. Sensing Principal Feng’s excited, expectant gaze, he had no choice but to deliver a speech that sounded like an Oscar acceptance.

“Thanks to Ningchang University, thanks to the school leadership’s trust and support, thanks to the alumni who traveled far to cheer for us…”

Xia Chiyi chewed on an energy jelly, sucking on it while trying not to laugh—because Ye Chaoying was right behind him muttering, “Thanks to Jin Province TV, thanks to Ningchang TV, for giving me this award…”

When Xia Chiyi choked, his elbow bumped someone beside him. He turned his face and saw Zhou Zhexiao already finished packing his sports bag, a towel draped over his shoulder, chin propped on his hand as he watched Xia Chiyi.

Without the decisive battle intent from the court, Zhou Zhexiao’s brows and eyes softened—like a midsummer field at night, wild grass tips reflecting starlight like ocean waves, connected to the sky, swaying all the way into Xia Chiyi’s heart.

He suddenly remembered their pre-game agreement. A premonition rose up—tiny, hidden, suppressed cravings bubbled to the surface. All his timidity and anxious hesitation seemed confiscated by Zhou Zhexiao’s eyes, leaving only hot blood rumbling quietly and magnificently in his chest.

Xia Chiyi subtly edged closer, feeling the process of Zhou Zhexiao resting his chin toward the top of his head.

Just then, someone stepped in front of them, blocking the light.

“Player Xia Chiyi—you’re the leading scorer this game. Could you share your thoughts?”

Zhou Zhexiao’s breath brushed the top of Xia Chiyi’s head, sending an itch through his chest. That low chuckle in Zhou Zhexiao’s throat carried a rare helplessness.

Xia Chiyi looked up and saw a sports reporter with a work badge. Probably because Ling Huanzhen’s thank-you speech was long and boring, the reporter had come over to Xia Chiyi instead.

A camera was aimed right at him. For a moment, he truly didn’t know what to say.

Zhou Zhexiao broke the awkward silence. “Your last shot was handsome. I was ready to crash the rim for a putback dunk, but you made it.”

Xia Chiyi’s eyes widened as he leaned on his knees and stared at him. “Oh please! When I shot, you knew it was going in, so you just stood there and watched. You didn’t even run to the basket.”

Zhou Zhexiao smiled; faint lines lifted at the corners of his eyes. It was as if a delicate wind rose in his brows and eyes, and a wild emotion spread through Xia Chiyi’s chest.

“I was going to. But the moment you released it, all I had left in my eyes was the arc.”

The reporter looked shocked. At that instant, he had no doubt this interview clip would perform.

The crowd had seen Zhou Zhexiao expressionless. They’d seen him sharp and unstoppable. But eyes that looked like they could knead light into being—this was special.

“Congratulations to Ningchang University for breaking the ‘dark horse’ rule in the Division I league and advancing to the Southeast regional finals,” the reporter said.

Xia Chiyi tilted his head. “Uh… I thought ‘dark horse’ describes a winner no one believed in? Does nobody think Ningchang University’s team… isn’t a dark horse?”

“Not a dark horse?”

Xia Chiyi nodded seriously. “If being Jin Province champions means nothing, then taking first in the Southeast regional group stage should prove our strength, right? Whether it was the knockout round, the Elite Eight, or the Final Four, none of our wins were beyond expectations. Sure, maybe lots of people hoped we’d lose to Southeast Mining University, but winning wasn’t some impossible fantasy either—right?”

Stared at by Xia Chiyi’s eyes, the reporter nodded too.

“And from a roster standpoint, Ningchang University has a big-heart coach like Ling Huanzhen, and at every position our players are top tier for this region.” Xia Chiyi lifted his face. Maybe it was the lighting, but his eyes looked clear and bright—making it easy to believe every word he said.

The reporter nodded again.

“Like Ye Chaoying—try finding a point guard in the whole region who dribbles faster and picks pockets cleaner than him. And our Shuai Bei—how many wings can block Li Renjie at the rim? Du He’s buzzer-beater—wasn’t that a throat grab? And Zhou Zhexiao—”

Xia Chiyi hooked an arm over Zhou Zhexiao’s shoulder. As he leaned in, the crown swirl of his hair brushed Zhou Zhexiao’s cheek. “He’s the baddest small forward in Division I. Blocking Ma Tao, locking Zhao Lingcong, backing down into a fadeaway, drifting layups with huge extension—only the audience can fail to imagine it; there’s nothing Zhou Zhexiao can’t do!”

Because to me, you’re a legend that never fades.

Xia Chiyi’s smile was wild and spoiled—not drunk on victory, but filled with absolute trust in Zhou Zhexiao’s ability.

“You’re also the best combo guard I’ve ever seen.”

Xia Chiyi froze, then turned his gaze toward Zhou Zhexiao.

Did he just say… not the best “shooting guard,” but the best “combo guard”?

Right then, a weight dropped onto Xia Chiyi’s shoulder—Ye Chaoying’s loud voice barreled in: “I’m willing—”

“Willing for what?” Xia Chiyi snapped.

“I don’t know what I’m willing for. Anyway, whatever Zhou Zhexiao says, you’re willing, right?” Ye Chaoying raised an eyebrow as if to say, Was I wrong?

The reporter laughed.

Xia Chiyi’s face turned red instantly. If he could, he really wanted to beat Ye Chaoying up.

Assistant coach Cheng Qing came over and politely told the reporter they had to leave—the next game would be held here soon.

Back in the locker room, everyone pulled out their phones in sync.

Chen Chuan shouted first: “We won—time to settle grudges and pay back insults!”

Ye Chaoying immediately demanded the “list of people who sprayed me” from Cheng Qing, not even changing clothes before preparing to start an online flame war.

But when he opened the file Cheng Qing sent, his brows drew together line by line.

Shuai Bei passed behind him and asked casually, “You look troubled. Want us to help you think up some comebacks?”

Ye Chaoying propped his chin, deep in thought. “I’m thinking… can I pay someone to make a program so the computer automatically flames them for me?”

“Why make it so complicated?” Xia Chiyi leaned over to peek—then got shocked. “Five hundred-plus lines? This many people trashed you? That’s… a bit much.”

“The way you said ‘a bit much’—what exactly do you mean?” Ye Chaoying tilted his head and asked coldly.

Xia Chiyi didn’t know what to say. “I… I just…”

“You don’t have that much presence,” Zhou Zhexiao said.

A bullseye. Knee-capping Ye Chaoying with one sentence.

Ye Chaoying put his hands on his hips and pointed at Zhou Zhexiao. “You—next time don’t expect me to buy you milk tea!”

Everyone burst out laughing.

Before the game, Du He and Shuai Bei had sworn they’d clap back at everyone who mocked them. Now that they’d won, they didn’t even care.

What’s a better slap than winning?

But one person’s evaluation still stuck in Xia Chiyi’s craw.

Xia Chiyi opened Weibo and searched “Yuan Tingxuan.” Under that username: China Men’s National Team player; Shenghai Tianyuan Pharmaceutical Men’s Team.

Yuan Tingxuan was the first pro athlete who, in an interview, said Ningchang University couldn’t beat Southeast Mining University.

That sparked a wave of pessimism about Ningchang University.

Good thing Du He and Shuai Bei were used to being belittled. Otherwise, facing the tide stirred up by a rising pro, their mindset might’ve collapsed.

Xia Chiyi wrote seriously on his own Weibo:

“Mountains high, rivers long—there’s nothing you can’t win. @YuanTingxuan.”

After posting, Xia Chiyi couldn’t be bothered to watch the chaos. He turned off his phone and tossed it into his sports bag.

Pang Shuai was the first to notice and yelled, “Xia Chiyi is insane! He actually called out a CBA player on Weibo!”

“What? Let me see!” Zhang Xiulin pulled out his phone and looked, awe rising in his chest.

When would their soccer team ever have this kind of confidence?

Ningchang University advanced to the Southeast regional finals. Alumni retweeted nonstop.

Yuan Tingxuan had plenty of fans—and he endorsed Zhengfeng Sports. His first Weibo post even happened to be a repost of Zhengfeng’s new basketball-shoe ad, so many people saw Xia Chiyi’s post.

Some thought Xia Chiyi had guts—newborn calves aren’t afraid of tigers; youthful arrogance; this is what the next generation of men’s basketball should look like.

But plenty of comments were ugly:

[You made the Division I finals—just the Southeast regional finals—and you’re acting this cocky?]
[When Yuan Tingxuan played the Asian Championship, you were still digging wild vegetables back home.]
[Pro ball isn’t the same as college kids playing pretend. Don’t use your hobby to challenge someone else’s profession!]
…

Ye Chaoying had been replying one by one to people who looked down on him. Now Yuan Tingxuan’s fans set him off. Even after Xia Chiyi grabbed his toiletries bag to shower, Ye Chaoying was still on the bench fighting in the comments.

Ling Huanzhen pressed down on Ye Chaoying’s head. “You little brat, what are you doing? Go wash up—your body’s about to get pickled!”

“Old Ling, grab your weapon—we’re going to war with these rumor-chasing idiots online—”

“Grab my weapon? What weapon?” Ling Huanzhen looked confused.

Ye Chaoying slapped his thigh. “Yes! That’s the vibe—Yuan Tingxuan—who the hell is he?”

Ling Huanzhen always said “I don’t do online mouth-fights,” but the moment he saw comments belittling Ningchang University’s team, his temper flared. He raised his phone and joined Ye Chaoying in the trenches.

Not only did he repost Xia Chiyi’s Weibo—he also started messaging old friends like Gao Jinshu, Ji Bo, and others on WeChat, telling them to remember to cheer for his apprentice.

Even Jiao Yingfeng got pestered to the point of annoyance, but he also felt the kid’s performance was spectacular. He rubbed his chin, deciding he’d handed out enough beatings lately—it was time for candy. So he opened his main account and reposted with a comment:

[You can shine even brighter.]

Though Jiao Yingfeng had been retired for years, no one had taken the title “Asia’s Three-Point King” from him. When he reposted Xia Chiyi, it carried the weight of passing the torch.

Fans were slow to catch on: [Xia Chiyi’s shot kind of feels like Jiao Yingfeng…] [DNA inheritance detected in that step-back three] [Jiao Yingfeng, did you secretly take a student?]

Jiao Yingfeng only smiled and said nothing. Coach Xie of the U19 team and Coach Li Xiaoran of Qing University already knew Xia Chiyi was his student.

He didn’t make it public because he didn’t want Xia Chiyi distracted by unnecessary halos. He didn’t need to become “the next Jiao Yingfeng.” Xia Chiyi only needed to walk his own road, steady and firm.

The sports brand Boiling Point posted Xia Chiyi’s last-second game-winning three photo the moment they heard of the win, captioned:

“Trample through thorns; blaze with brilliance!”

It was just a standard ad line—but the college fans who followed Division I all knew what that moment meant.

Xia Chiyi was like a firework in a dark night, lighting up a Division I league that had been quiet for too long.

Boiling Point, once overlooked, was gradually being recognized by more college students.

But Xia Chiyi had already set it aside. Under the shower, hot water ran down his nose bridge and jawline, washing fatigue off bit by bit.

The neighboring stall door slid open. He didn’t even have to open his eyes to know who it was.

His heart jolted again. Xia Chiyi tried to inhale—then got choked by the water, instantly shutting it off and bracing the wall as he coughed.

“You okay?” Zhou Zhexiao’s voice.

Xia Chiyi waved frantically. “I’m fine! I’m fine!”

He lowered his head, panicked. Oh… oh no.

He’d read somewhere that after intense competition you can get overly excited. He hadn’t taken it seriously—until now, when he finally understood the embarrassment.

He only hoped Zhou Zhexiao would finish quickly and leave so Xia Chiyi could relax.

But Zhou Zhexiao actually knocked on the divider between their stalls. “How long are you going to take?”

“I… I want to wash a bit longer. You finish first and go out.”

A soft, low laugh echoed faintly with the bathroom acoustics.

Xia Chiyi’s back and shoulders tensed. Nervousness surged.

“Are you laughing?”

Zhou Zhexiao didn’t look at him. Standing under the water, his broad shoulders were absurdly eye-catching. Calmly, he said, “You don’t seriously think a quick cold rinse will fix it, do you?”

So… he noticed again.

“Th-then… what do I do?”

Zhou Zhexiao took the wristband Xia Chiyi had hung on the pipe, rinsed it under the water, wrung it out, and held it toward Xia Chiyi between two fingers.

“Take it.”

“What am I supposed to do with—” Xia Chiyi suddenly realized, and stared at him in shock.

No way. Impossible.

That’s a wristband!

“Just treat it like I’m helping you… maybe it’ll be faster.”

Zhou Zhexiao’s brows and eyes were soaked; black hair clung along his ear. That alone wasn’t lethal—until he lifted a hand and slicked his hair back.

Pure hormonal devastation. Scorched earth.

“Y-you…” Xia Chiyi stammered, unable to form a sentence.

Zhou Zhexiao’s teasing smile slowly faded. He yanked a towel, reached one arm over, and with one hand clasped the back of Xia Chiyi’s head.

Without warning, Xia Chiyi was pulled forward. He reacted fast, bracing both hands on the divider—“BANG”—the impact rang out.

Now others noticed.

Ye Chaoying’s voice called out. “What happened? What happened? Did someone fall?”

Shuai Bei shouted too. “Who is it? Still alive? Say something!”

Xia Chiyi’s head buzzed. Zhou Zhexiao’s towel pressed over Xia Chiyi’s nose.

What just happened?

Xia Chiyi looked up at Zhou Zhexiao. Zhou Zhexiao’s brows were furrowed.

“It’s nothing,” Zhou Zhexiao answered. “He turned and bumped the partition.”

“As long as you’re okay!”

When Zhou Zhexiao lifted the towel, Xia Chiyi realized he had a nosebleed—bright red staining the clean white towel.

He wiped instinctively; blood smeared onto his knuckles.

Zhou Zhexiao rinsed the towel twice and pressed it back for him.

“You’ve got that much ‘hot blood’?” Zhou Zhexiao lowered his head slightly, voice even lower, echoing near Xia Chiyi’s ear.

Xia Chiyi’s face flushed deeper, thinking: It’s because you handing me the wristband like that is an illegal hint.

Zhou Zhexiao moved the towel. “Looks like it stopped.”

“If it keeps going I might die,” Xia Chiyi muttered.

“Turn the temperature down a bit. The game was intense—your capillaries might’ve dilated.”

And plus you provoked me, Xia Chiyi added silently in his head.

By the time Xia Chiyi finished, the other teammates had already left.

They all had short hair—two circles with a hairdryer and they were dry.

After Xia Chiyi blew his fringe, it turned fluffy and soft. He fussed with it in the mirror. “Alright. I can go out.”

Zhou Zhexiao stood nearby, carrying both of their bags—one strap over each shoulder.

“Didn’t you want to know what I did in the elevator?”

“Ah—yeah.”

Xia Chiyi turned his head—then Zhou Zhexiao’s hand slid around, long fingers easily covering Xia Chiyi’s whole face.

Before Xia Chiyi could pry it away, he felt something soft and warm touch the top of his head.

A solemn, reverent touch—landing right on Xia Chiyi’s heart.

Very quickly, Zhou Zhexiao let go and turned toward the exit.

Two or three seconds later, Xia Chiyi snapped back and chased out.

“Hey! I didn’t see!”

How are his legs so long?

Xia Chiyi grabbed his bag strap. Zhou Zhexiao hadn’t even completed his next step before Xia Chiyi yanked him back into a stumble—his back bumping right into Xia Chiyi’s chest.

The scent of orange body wash drifted out through Zhou Zhexiao’s T-shirt collar. Xia Chiyi’s soul practically floated out of his body.

“Don’t smear your nosebleed on my back.”

“I didn’t. I mean—what did you do? I didn’t see!”

In Xia Chiyi’s chest was a frantic, unprecedented anticipation.

“I was ‘sniffing’ Xia Chiyi,” Zhou Zhexiao glanced back.

“I’m not a cat. What are you sniffing me for?”

Zhou Zhexiao turned, hung Xia Chiyi’s sling bag onto him. “When you grow up, I probably won’t be able to sniff you anymore.”

“Am I that young? We’re the same age,” Xia Chiyi protested, punching his chest lightly.

Zhou Zhexiao looked at him for a while, then smiled faintly.

He had endured discrimination and brutal failure. He’d been abandoned by sponsors because of injury. He’d been told countless times, “You’re already good enough.” He’d tasted star treatment, and he knew what loneliness felt like.

He understood even more clearly: love isn’t only possessiveness. It can also make someone grow.

As Zhou Zhexiao turned and walked down the corridor, Xia Chiyi suddenly felt infinite panic—like years ago, seeing the news of Sheng Xingming’s death.

Xia Chiyi rushed forward without thinking and jumped onto Zhou Zhexiao’s back.

Zhou Zhexiao swayed, then lifted Xia Chiyi’s legs and carried him forward.

“What are you doing?”

“Sniffing Zhou Zhexiao!”

Xia Chiyi grabbed Zhou Zhexiao’s hair, making two little tufts, then rubbed his nose wildly on the top of Zhou Zhexiao’s head, brazenly pressing his lips there again and again.

“If I end up with a receding hairline, are you taking responsibility?”

Xia Chiyi imagined it and felt his aesthetic sense collapsing.

“Zhou Zhexiao, are you a demon?”

“If you’re disgusted, get down.” Zhou Zhexiao loosened his hands.

But Xia Chiyi clung tighter.

“I just remembered—Zhou Rong’s hair is thick as hell. There’s no receding-hairline gene!”

Staff passed by occasionally. Seeing the two close teammates, they smiled.

Qincheng University vs. Fusheng University of Industry was about to start—this was a must-watch game.

When Xia Chiyi and Zhou Zhexiao reached the spectator seats Cheng Qing had reserved, Xia Chiyi froze.

Because the people sitting right next to them were all in Southwest Aviation University uniforms—every collar flipped neatly, even Zhuo Zheng had his jacket zipped all the way up.

And the game hadn’t even started, yet Southwest Aviation’s guys weren’t chatting. Every single one sat bolt upright.

Not just quiet—there were no drinks, no snacks. Nothing.

This serious, intense atmosphere… it felt less like watching a game and more like military training.

Xia Chiyi spotted a cold-faced guy with arms crossed—Lu Yingnan, last year’s steals leader, known as Division I’s number-one point guard.

His presence was intense, like a black hole radiating pressure in every direction.

And there were only two empty seats left—right next to Lu Yingnan.

Ye Chaoying, that coward, always talked about replacing Lu Yingnan, yet now he didn’t dare sit beside him.

Xia Chiyi patted Shuai Bei’s shoulder and flicked his eyes toward the two empty seats: What’s this supposed to mean?

“Saved for you two,” Shuai Bei said, then looked away toward the court, already putting on his “serious scouting” face even before tipoff.

Who’s he performing for?

Even Ling Huanzhen, fearless as he was, chose a row behind. He didn’t want to exchange a few words with an elite younger player like Lu Yingnan at all?

Xia Chiyi was about to say something to Zhou Zhexiao—only to find Zhou Zhexiao already sat down, leaving the one seat right next to Lu Yingnan.

It’s just Lu Yingnan. Who’s afraid of who?

Xia Chiyi put on a calm expression and sat.

Maybe it was because Southwest Aviation was so close—Xia Chiyi unconsciously straightened his back too.

After a game that drained his stamina bar, staying this stiff was honestly painful.

Lu Yingnan sat right beside him. Not a pro superstar, but still one of the highest levels in college ball. If Xia Chiyi said he wasn’t curious, he’d be lying.

Xia Chiyi turned his face to look at Lu Yingnan.

Sharp, defined side profile; dense, long lashes—unlike Zhou Zhexiao’s “sunflower” vibe, Lu’s lashes hung naturally downward. Clean, decisive jawline. His whole aura was taut and efficient.

Maybe he sensed Xia Chiyi’s gaze—Lu Yingnan turned his face. His eyes were deep and bottomless, releasing a cold, clearly bounded pressure that said: don’t test me, don’t cross the line.

Xia Chiyi tensed.

“Your last shot was steady,” Lu Yingnan said. “You played beautifully.”

“Thanks.” Xia Chiyi dipped his head slightly.

“I thought you were only fast at getting your shot off,” Lu Yingnan continued, “but I didn’t expect your fakes and your rim cuts to be this strong. Swinging between wing and guard is no problem for you.”

So… he’s praising me again? The tone, though, was like a high school disciplinarian.

Xia Chiyi nodded dumbly. “Th-thanks…”

“But actually,” Lu Yingnan said, “you’re more suited to being a combo guard.”

Lu Yingnan’s gaze had a heavy, covering weight to it.

“Why?” Xia Chiyi asked.

“Because your basketball IQ is high, your court vision is wide, your handle is fast—do I really need to keep praising you?” Lu Yingnan turned his face a fraction. His neck line tightened; his Adam’s apple rose and fell with a pressure like a storm about to break.

The real subtext was: We’ve already studied you thoroughly.

Xia Chiyi’s lips parted. He didn’t know what to say.

Lu Yingnan’s gaze didn’t move—like a silent, seasoned hunter already looping a rope around his prey’s neck.

Then, suddenly, an arm slid around Xia Chiyi’s neck from behind, pulling him in. A palm lifted and pressed to Xia Chiyi’s cheek, turning his face forward.

“Even as a guard, his killing power is huge,” Zhou Zhexiao said, eyes on the court. “From far, he has threes. Up close, he can attack the rim. In the backcourt, he can control and accelerate. In the frontcourt, he can move the ball and crack defenses. Is Southwest Aviation University really ready?”

Zhou Zhexiao stared straight ahead, but Xia Chiyi could feel the invisible clash between the two.

__

[Author’s Note]
Xia Chiyi: If you two want to PK, why stick me in the middle?
Zhou Zhexiao: Because you’re the target.
Xia Chiyi: Jump up and spit-pffft!