Chapter 82

February 2nd. Private villa in the eastern suburbs of Philadelphia.

As Su Feng stepped through the front door, he had a fleeting moment where he genuinely thought he'd accidentally wandered onto the set of a reality TV show. And not just any reality show — the kind that airs at 2 a.m. after you've had a few too many drinks and you start questioning your life choices.

The scene in front of him was... extra.

In the swimming pool, a group of young black men and women in matching 404 clothes were splashing around like they were auditioning for a beach party scene. Over the smoky lawn, it was impossible to tell if the air was thick with tobacco smoke or the scent of sizzling barbecue. Either way, it was all a little too much for Su Feng's mild-mannered sensibilities.

Massive chunks of beef and sausages were sizzling on the grill, while a short, round, black guy in a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops was rummaging around with an air of someone who'd found themselves in charge of the BBQ by accident — but was now too proud to leave.

This was no ordinary gathering. Oh no. This was a special party, thrown by none other than Allen Iverson and his crew, to celebrate his newly minted "Number One Show" status and his move into his fancy new crib.

And if you think this was just a one-time thing, think again. Parties like this were going to be Iverson's thing from here on out, until one fateful day when he discovered that his bank account had stopped mysteriously printing money.

Oh, the life of an NBA star.

But there was one surprise awaiting Su Feng that he wasn't prepared for: Iverson's mom, Ann Iverson.

Su Feng had already met her a few times, but now, in full party mode, Ann was rocking a fur coat, even though it was a scorching hot summer day. And she wasn't just wearing the fur for fashion's sake. Oh no. It was a special gift from Iverson, and she was wearing it like she was the queen of the social scene.

Her neck was draped in more jewelry than the King of Zamunda's treasure chest. And every time she kicked one foot up, it was like she was signaling her VIP status to the crowd.

Su Feng couldn't help but laugh. He thought to himself, "Alan, if you don't go bankrupt with all this spending, who will?"

It was clear that the Iversons had mastered the art of living like there was no tomorrow, especially when their "friends" seemed to be perfectly happy siphoning their cash with zero regard for the future. "Afraid of poverty" was practically their family motto.

At this point, Su Feng was starting to realize that this party — and Iverson's lifestyle — was practically a textbook example of what happens when you combine fame with a complete inability to manage money. And Su Feng had read that textbook cover to cover.

Not to mention that he was already aware that most NBA players eventually went broke after retirement. Case in point: Scottie Pippen. That man was going to be on TV for years trying to dunk on Michael Jordan just to stay relevant.

Suddenly, a voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Sue! You made it! We've all been waiting for you!" Iverson, clad only in a pair of swimming trunks and looking like a walking flex, walked up to Su Feng with a grin that could only be described as "I'm about to have a lot of fun with you."

"Waiting for me?" Su Feng raised an eyebrow. "Do you guys really have that much interest in me?"

"Of course! This is a party for the two of us to celebrate making it into the NBA!" Iverson patted Su Feng on the back with enough force to make him stumble, then he waved his hand dramatically, signaling for Su Feng to follow him.

As Iverson led him deeper into the party, Su Feng felt a little... confused. "Alan, if I remember correctly, we haven't really spent much time together before?"

Iverson's eyes twinkled mischievously, and he shot Su Feng a playful wink. "Follow me, Su. You're about to learn the ropes."

They entered the quieter part of the villa, away from the chaotic outdoor scene. Inside, the mood was calmer — just a few black guys puffing away on cigars, exchanging what could only be described as "spiritual wisdom."

It was at that moment that Su Feng noticed something strange. While Iverson's friends were clearly curious about him, there was an unexpected air of... respect in their eyes.

"Is this... some sort of shrine?" Su Feng wondered aloud.

Before he could ponder further, a giant of a man wheeled a chair towards them. Sitting in the chair was a black youth in a white hat who stared at Su Feng with intense focus.

Iverson gestured to the man in the wheelchair. "Sue, meet Roberts. He's the one I've been telling you about."

Su Feng stared at Roberts, unsure how to respond. But before he could ask anything, Roberts spoke up.

"Hello, Su. I know you probably don't remember me, but I want to thank you. You saved my life two years ago."

Su Feng blinked. "Saved your life?"

Roberts nodded. "Yeah. May 28, 1994. I was in Philly visiting family, and things went sideways fast. If you hadn't stepped in, I don't think I'd be here today."

Su Feng's mind scrambled to make the connection. May 28, 1994? That sounded oddly familiar.

And then it hit him.

"Oh, wait. You're the guy I helped during the shootout at school?" Su Feng said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awkwardness.

"Yeah, that's me," Roberts grinned. "And I remember everything. You saved me."

Su Feng, slightly embarrassed, scratched his head. "Wow... I really didn't think much of it at the time, but... I guess I did help."

Iverson clapped him on the back again. "We all wanted to thank you, man. Roberts is doing better now, but you're the reason he's still with us. Now we're here to help you. You're family."

Su Feng was flabbergasted. "Wait, what do you mean family?"

Iverson winked. "You saved my boy, so you're good in my book. We're friends now, Su. Anything you need, just let me know."

At that moment, Su Feng realized something that no one had ever quite spelled out for him before: Iverson had a special kind of loyalty. A loyalty that meant his crew would stick by him no matter what — even if it meant draining his bank account.

"Alright, alright. I get it. You're all loyal and stuff. But, uh... I'm kind of more into practicing right now than partying."

Iverson stopped in his tracks, giving Su Feng a bewildered look. "Wait, you want to practice? Now?"

Su Feng grinned. "Yeah. Why not? I've got work to do."

Iverson stared at him for a long time, as if trying to process this new development. But then, like a true ballplayer, Iverson shrugged. "Alright, then. You wanna practice? I've got a court in the back. Let's go, show me what you got."

In Iverson's backyard, Su Feng and Iverson squared off on the basketball court. Iverson, showing off his own dribbling skills, asked, "So, Sue, I heard you and Kobe have this crazy move called 'samgord.' You mind showing me?"

Su Feng smirked. "Sure, why not?"

He demonstrated the move, and Iverson's eyes lit up. "Damn, that's smooth. I think I can make this my own!"

The two went back and forth, testing each other's skills. And while Su Feng might've been a bit skeptical about Iverson's lifestyle, he couldn't deny one thing — the man had raw talent.

It was moments like these, when it was just about basketball, that Su Feng realized maybe — just maybe — the Iversons had a point. Even in the chaos, there was something real here.

And if that meant getting his hands dirty and learning how to dribble like a pro... well, who was he to argue?