In the All-Rookie First Team photo, Lin Mo's tie hung askew—half an inch, the same margin by which his final pass in Game 7 had missed its target. He'd tugged it during the group shot, a nervous habit, like Booker yanking his socks up when he was tense, like that Timberwolves guard scuffing his heel before a jump shot.
The boy's text arrived with a zoomed-in screenshot, a red arrow jabbing at the tie: "See? Your tells are just like ours. Towns' first All-Star pic? His cuff buttons were mismatched. Said it's 'proof you're still learning to wear the uniform.'"
Lin Mo stared at the image, the camera flash burning in his memory. He'd stood between two veterans, their suits crisp, their smiles practiced, while his hands had trembled around the trophy. Booker had elbowed him backstage, grinning: "Google says 82% of Rookie of the Year speeches mention 'the guys who taught me.' You gotta say I taught you to spot loose laces." At the time, he'd thought it was a joke. Now, staring at the team's group chat—Booker sending blurry photos of a new guard's frayed shoelace, the center replying with a meme of a sock puppet—he got it: the trophy was a mirror, showing not just his own reflection, but the cracks where the team still fit together.
The system chimed, projecting a new graph: [First Team All-Rookie: Individual stats vs. Team Impact. Lin Mo: Offensive Rating 112 (1st), Assist-to-Turnover Ratio in Clutch 1.2 (4th). Note: 67% of clutch turnovers linked to uncommunicated details.] Below it, a clip: Game 6, Lin Mo spotting the backup forward's wrist tap (a tell for a pick-and-roll), but failing to yell it out—Booker had crashed into the screen, fouling.
He forwarded the graph to the team chat. Within seconds, Booker replied with a selfie: him holding a notebook, its pages covered in doodles—socks sliding, laces loosening, wrists tapping—each labeled with a scrawled "LIN MO SAID!"
"See?" the message read. "We're learning to speak your language."
Later, in the training gym, Lin Mo found the rookies huddled around Booker, who was paused on a clip of that Timberwolves guard. "Watch his left foot," Booker said, pointing. "Scuffs three times before he shoots. Lin Mo says that means he's rushing. We contest early." The rookies nodded, scribbling in their own notebooks.
Lin Mo lingered in the doorway, the All-Rookie plaque heavy in his bag. It wasn't a finish line, he realized. It was a measuring stick—marked with the team's footprints, not just his own.