Inside the house in Safford, rented by Durant and his two teammates.
Durant was half-lying on the sofa, his sprained left foot propped up on a footstool. His ankle was red and swollen, and he was staring blankly at the ceiling.
Next to him, Harden was holding his phone, but his wide eyes showed his attention was elsewhere.
Only Little Jordan was restlessly shaking his leg, his brows furrowed into a deep frown. He suddenly shot up and said angrily, "You two, are you really just going to let this go?"
"An accident? I don't buy it!"
"Did you see what that guy said at the post-game press conference? 'It was an accident,' 'I lost control'—it's all bullshit! I saw him struggling to keep from smiling smugly!"
"That bastard. He can't win by playing fair, so he resorts to injuring people on purpose. I'm not letting him get away with this."
"James!"
Little Jordan roared at Harden.
Harden snapped out of it, a look of confusion on his face.
