In the final Summer League game, against the Nuggets, Wembanyama's wristband was running out of space: the crooked rim, "2," ellipsis, even a tiny smiley (for Brannum's squint, stitched after he'd hit three straight threes). The sun blazed through the arena's skylights, turning the court into a oven, but no one cared—the score was tied with one second left, and Wembanyama was trapped beyond the arc by two defenders, arms flailing, nowhere to go.
Then a whistle cut through the noise from the stands: two short blasts, sharp and clear. Booker, leaning over the railing, grinning. It was the rehab kid's signal—the one he used when he stood for the first time, when he took a step, when he wanted to say I'm here.
Wembanyama's head snapped up. He spun, flinging the ball toward the bench—where the captain had snuck in, cutting behind the defense, his shoulder dipping (old signal, new moment). The captain caught it, leaped, and sank the buzzer-beater, the ball swishing through as the horn screamed.
The arena's heat seemed to cool, just like that. Wembanyama was tackled by teammates, bodies piling on, the wristband digging into his palm—stitches prickling, but reassuring, like a hand gripping his.
Lin Mo and Booker stood in the tunnel, watching the chaos. "Kid's come a long way," Booker said, shaking his head. "From robot to… human. Kinda beautiful."
"Became human," Lin Mo corrected. "The breathing kind. Not just moving, but living in it."
Wembanyama pushed through the crowd, wristband soaked, and held it up. Sunlight filtered through the stitches, castingspots on the floor—like stars, or confetti, or tiny pieces of the street court. "Thanks," he said, voice thick. "This summer, I learned… stop reading the playbook. Start seeing them. All of them."
Lin Mo thought of Old Man Joe's words, whispered over that crooked rim: "Basketball's not a machine. It's a bunch of people, breathing in rhythm." He clapped Wembanyama's shoulder. "This is just the start. Regular season? It's a whole new court. More bends, more signals. More… life."
In the far gym, the one with the old crooked rim propped against the wall, a note Lin Mo had stuffed in its net yesterday fluttered: Welcome to basketball that breathes.
Summer wasn't over, not really. But something had grown—stitch by stitch, breath by breath. And when Wembanyama packed his bag that night, he tucked the wristband next to his passport, his sneakers, his heart.
He had a feeling he'd need it.