By the fourth Summer League game, against the Rockets, Wembanyama hit a real wall. The Rockets had done their homework: they'd watched tape, noted the knee twitches and wrist pinches, and snuffed out every signal. Someone always rotated early when Barlow's knee twitched; defenders fronted the captain before he could pinch his wrist. Wembanyama turned it over 3 times, even got blocked on a fastbreak dunk—his long arm swatted, the ball flying into the third row.
He collapsed onto the bench, yanking off the wristband so hard the "2" stitch frayed. The crooked rim looked like a mistake now, the "2" like a lie. "They figured it out…" his voice cracked, small. "All of it. I'm just… predictable."
The captain sat beside him, tossing him an ice pack that landed with a wet thud. "Know this scar on my elbow?" He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a jagged scar, pink and raised, like a lightning bolt. "2018 playoffs. We were up 3-2, heading to Game 6. Opponents read all my fakes—knew I'd drive left, knew I'd pull up at the free-throw line. I went 11-for-0 that game. 0-for-11. Coach benched me in the fourth. Felt like I'd burned the jersey."
Wembanyama looked up, his throat tight.
"Old Man Joe found me after," the captain said, smiling at Lin Mo, who was leaning against the scorer's table. "He dragged me to that street court, made me shoot on that crooked rim till midnight. 'Scars aren't for hiding from,' he said. 'They're to remind you it hurt, then find a new way.'" He nodded at the court, where Barlow was hunched over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. "Barlow's not twitching his knee today, but he creeps toward the paint when he's out of breath—shoulders hunch, feet shuffle. You weren't watching. You were too busy looking for the old signal."
Lin Mo pushed off the scorer's table, sliding a phone across the bench. It was footage from the first half, slow-mo: sure enough, Barlow had hunched to catch his breath beyond the arc, his feet inching toward the lane like he was drawn by a magnet. "Signals change," Lin Mo said. "Like that crooked rim—sags more when it rains, stands straighter when it's hot. You don't fight it. You adapt."
Wembanyama stared at the screen, then at Barlow, who was now jogging back downcourt, shoulders still hunched. Breath, he thought. He's tired, but he wants it.
In overtime, Wembanyama stopped watching moves, started listening. He heard Barlow's breath quicken, saw his shoulders hunch deeper, and suddenly fired a pass into the lane—no signal, just a feeling. Barlow cut in, caught it, and laid it in, grinning like he'd been in on the secret.
Afterward, Wembanyama found Lin Mo, the wristband clutched in his hand. "Can you add one more thing?" he said. "A tiny ellipsis. Three dots." He nodded at the court, where Barlow was laughing with the captain. "So many signals left to learn. I don't need all the answers now. Just… room to find them."
Lin Mo threaded his needle. "Joe used to say, 'The best stories ain't finished. They're just getting good.'"