Wembanyama looked up, sweat still clinging to his lashes like dew, and his jaw tightened when he saw Lin Mo. "I don't need advice," he said, voice sharp. "I just need to… adjust."
Lin Mo didn't speak. He held out the phone, the photo lighting up Wembanyama's face. "This rim's 3 centimeters off," he said, tapping the screen. "First time I played there, I missed 17 shots in a row. Old Man Joe—he ran that court, lived in a trailer behind it—sat me down and said, 'You're aimin' for the rim you think is there. But that rim? It's got a grudge. You gotta aim for where it is.'" He zoomed in on the rim, its metal warped into a lazy C-shape. "Said I had to aim an inch left. Not 'cause the rim was wrong. 'Cause I was seein' it wrong."
Wembanyama's thumb traced the crooked rim on the screen, crumpling the wristband in his fist until his knuckles whitened. "In France, every play had coordinates," he said, like he was reciting a prayer. "You knew where the 4 would set the screen, where the 2 would cut. Here—" he gestured vaguely at the court, where the Hornets' bench horsed around, one guy fake-punching another, no one glancing at the playbook "—they're like dandelions. Blow, and they scatter. No rhyme. No reason."
"Dandelions are the ones that grow fruit," Lin Mo smiled, sitting down beside him, the phone still in his hand. "Chaos ain't random. It's just… alive. See that Hornets rookie in 32? The one with the neon socks? He touches his earlobe before he drives—nervous habit. You can time it. And your guy Barlow—" he nodded toward their power forward, who was chugging water "—his left knee twitches when he's open on the baseline. Like a dog waggin' its tail. That's him saying 'pass here.'"
Wembanyama frowned, like he was decoding a foreign Morse code—dot-dot-dash, what the hell does that mean? But he didn't look away.
The third quarter started, and the Hornets double-teamed Wembanyama again, just like they had all half. This time, he didn't check the playbook—his eyes flickered to Barlow, planted in the corner, and sure enough: Barlow's left knee gave a tiny jerk, once, twice. Wembanyama's wrist flicked, quick as a snake, the ball threading between two defenders' outstretched hands and landing in Barlow's palms.
Swish.
Barlow whooped, clapping Wembanyama on the back as they ran back. "Took you long enough to notice!" he yelled, grinning.
Booker whistled from the stands: "Hey, the gears are turning. Slow, but… turning."
With 2 minutes left, Wembanyama caught the ball under the hoop, a defender's hands in his face, blocking his view. But he noticed Brannum, standing at the free-throw line, squinting into the lights—dry eyes, Lin Mo had mentioned during warm-ups, needs half a second to focus. Wembanyama held the ball, counting to three in his head, then fed Brannum, who laid it in clean.
When the game ended, Wembanyama's stat line was still ugly: 7 points, 5 rebounds, 4 turnovers. But as he walked back to the bench, Barlow clapped his back, Brannum grinned at him, and even the water boy—who'd been snickering at his misses—gave him a thumbs-up.
Lin Mo slipped his phone back into his pocket, and Booker nudged him: "Nice, old man. Better than any coach's speech. You didn't teach him plays. You taught him to see."
Wembanyama approached, holding out the wristband like an offering, his ears pink. "Can you… fix this?" he said. "Make it… mean something."