Rain drummed on the training gym roof, a steady rhythm—like the boy's prosthetic hitting the floor during his 100m walks, like the bounce of a basketball before a free throw. Lin Mo knelt in front of his locker, tucking the Rookie of the Year trophy into the bottom shelf. On top, he stacked the Western Conference Finals tapes, their labels smudged from too many viewings.
The boy's video popped up: him standing in the rehab center courtyard, rain spattering his wheelchair, his prosthetic propped on a curb. He was trying to step down, the foot slipping a little on the wet concrete.
"See?" he said, grinning despite the wobble. "Rain's got the same friction as Game 7's court. I made 5 steps today without grabbing the rail. That's… what, 50% better than your pass? Progress, right?"
Lin Mo's thumb brushed the locker door, where he'd taped a photo: the team huddled after Game 7, heads down, but hands on each other's shoulders. He typed: "Progress is just failure with a better memory. Next year, we both make the step."
He pulled out a new notebook, its cover blank. On the first page, he drew a tiny wheelchair, then a lopsided sock, then a screen play with a big red checkmark. Below it, he wrote: "All-Rookie First Team is a receipt. This? It's the contract."
The system flickered, projecting a memory—accidental, from months ago: "March 17. 3:47 PM. User Lin Mo searches: 'How to make them care about the things he notices.'"
He thought of Booker teaching rookies to watch socks, of the center noting headbands, of the boy counting knee tilts. They cared. They were learning.
He texted the boy: "Next season, when we play the Wolves? You're front row. Not to watch me. To watch us turn your 17 details into 17 wins. Deal?"
The reply came fast: a photo of the boy's prosthetic, the word "DEAL" scrawled on the knee in marker.
Outside, the rain slowed. Somewhere, a basketball hit the court—once, twice, three times. A new rhythm, starting over.