By their third loss, Lin Mo's shoulders ached. Not from the physicality—these guys weren't pros, but they hit harder, scrappier—but from the frustration of miscommunication. He'd shout "Screen!" and his teammates would stare, like he'd spoken a foreign language. Meanwhile, the other team moved like a school of fish: a nod, a elbow nudge, a quick tap on the hip, and suddenly they were swarming the basket.
"Stop yelling," Booker said, shoving a water bottle at him. "They don't hear words. They hear vibes."
He pointed to a guy in a faded Lakers jersey, who kept adjusting his hat—brim up, brim down, brim sideways. "Brim up: post up. Brim down: cut. Brim sideways? He's tired—get him the ball, let him rest."
Lin Mo watched, skeptical—until Lakers Jersey adjusted his brim up, and sure enough, he planted himself in the paint. When Lin Mo passed it, the guy scored, then winked. "You're catching on," he mouthed.
It wasn't just signals—it was trust. When Lin Mo fumbled a pass, the guy in khakis didn't hesitate; he darted, snatched the ball, and fired back, like they'd played together for years. In the NBA, a turnover felt like a crime, logged and dissected—but here, it was just a blip, a chance to fix it, not fear it.
His phone buzzed again: the analytics app, now showing a new stat. [Unstructured teamwork: 78% success rate on improvised plays. Structured teamwork (NBA): 52%.]
"Crazy, huh?" Booker said, following his gaze. "In the league, we plan so hard, we forget how to react."
That night, Lin Mo texted the boy: "Played with guys who don't need tatical board. They just… know."
The reply came with a video: the boy sitting in his wheelchair, grinning, as a fellow patient—an older woman with a cane—lifted her left hand, palm out. Instantly, the boy wheeled over, helping her grab a water bottle. "Mrs. Chen lifts her palm when she's thirsty," he wrote. "No words. Just… know."