Lin Mo's left arm burned. He'd been practicing floaters for 20 minutes, arcing the ball just high enough to clear an imaginary Jaren Jackson, and his shoulder ached. The team doctor appeared, holding a roll of tape, and tossed him a small box. "From the kid," he said, nodding at the label.
Inside was a light blue resistance band, frayed at one end, with the boy's scrawl: "Tried 3 tensions. This one? Holds tight but gives—like Morant's crossover. Stiff enough to control, soft enough to adapt." Lin Mo wrapped it around his wrist, leaving a sliver of space. "Prosthetics need wiggle room," the boy had told him once, over a video call. "Too tight, and they fight you. Like the Grizzlies' defense—bulldoze, and they'll swarm. But give 'em an inch…"
The scrimmage started. Their point guard, mimicking Morant, came at him hard, left shoulder dipping—tell, the boy had texted: "Morant leads with left before crossing right." Lin Mo shifted, and the resistance band bit into his wrist, a sharp pinch. It was the same sting the boy described when his prosthetic socket rubbed raw: "Pain's just the joint saying, 'I'm working.'"
Morant's stand-in crossed right, and Lin Mo reacted, left hand shooting out to knock the ball loose. It skittered to a teammate, who drained a three. Coach Chen barked, "That's the read! Not brute force—feel." Lin Mo touched his wrist; the band had left a pink ridge, like a tattoo of focus.
Later, he checked his phone. Booker had sent a photo: his shoes, laced in Lin Mo's double-loop knot. "Grizzlies love stepping on laces," the caption said. Lin Mo smiled. He typed back: "Try the resistance band. Tension = control."
The boy texted an hour later: "Saw your scrimmage clip. That wrist flick? My old prosthetic did that. Stiff at first, then—pop. Smooth." Lin Mo flexed his hand. The band hummed, a quiet reminder: strength wasn't about being unbreakable. It was about knowing when to give, and when to hold.