Three days later, against the Trail Blazers, Wembanyama's wristband looked different. Lin Mo had borrowed a trainer's needle and thread, and beside the plain black fabric, he'd sewn a tiny, lopsided hoop—its metal curved, just like Old Man Joe's. "Old Man Joe's rim," Lin Mo said, when Wembanyama held it up, confused. "Reminds you to stop looking for straight lines. The world's full of bends."
Wembanyama ran his thumb over the stitch, the thread rough against his skin. Warmth spread in his chest, like someone had lit a match in his ribs.
He dished 3 assists in the first quarter alone, all off "live signals" Lin Mo had pointed out: Barlow's knee twitch (open), Brannum's squint (wait), even the backup point guard's habit of tapping his shoe (needs a screen). Booker leaned over to Lin Mo, nodding at Wembanyama: "Kid's a human radar now. Who needs sonar?"
But the real breakthrough came with 10 seconds left in the fourth, the score tied at 89. Wembanyama had the ball at the top of the key, the shot clock winding down, when he spotted it: the veteran captain, planted in the post, pinching the inside of his wrist twice—a quick, almost invisible flick, like he was brushing off a bug.
"That's the cue," Lin Mo said to Booker, leaning forward in his seat. "He pulled Wembanyama aside last night. Told him, 'Two pinches mean I'm open. Don't overthink it.'"
Wembanyama didn't hesitate. He lofted the ball high and soft, arcing it over the defender's outstretched hands. The captain rose, his legs coiling like a spring, and caught it mid-air, floating a fadeaway that kissed the net as the buzzer blared.
The bench erupted. The captain clapped Wembanyama's shoulder hard enough to sting, his voice gruff but warm: "Took you long enough to trust someone else. Thought you were a solo act."
Wembanyama grinned, rubbing his shoulder. "In France, we practiced fades. Not… flying."
In the locker room, Wembanyama stared at his wristband, turning it over in his hands. The crooked rim stitch glinted under the lights. He found the trainer, who was taping Barlow's ankle, and held it out. "Can you add something?" he said. "A tiny '2.' For the pinches."
The trainer smiled, threading her needle. "My kid's on a soccer team. They have a secret handshake. Said it's 'team glue.' This?" She nodded at the wristband. "Same thing."
Lin Mo laughed when he saw it later—Booker was already scribbling on the whiteboard: "Wemby's wristband = new playbook. X's and O's? Nah. Stitches and signals."