It happened on a routine screen: Lin Mo's knee buckled, a sharp pain shooting up his leg. He hit the floor, breathless, and when he looked up, Wembanyama was standing over him, arms crossed—but his thumb was rubbing his own wristband, a nervous tick Lin Mo had noticed.
"Stay down," Wembanyama said, voice gruff. "No need to limp through drills."
Lin Mo laughed, wincing. "You care? Thought I was just a 'chaos player' to you."
"Not care," Wembanyama said, but he stepped back to block the sun from Lin Mo's face. "Just don't want you using injury as an excuse when I outplay you."
The trainer ruled Lin Mo out for two days, but he showed up anyway, sitting on the bench with a clipboard. Wembanyama, running through pick-and-rolls, kept glancing over—once, twice, three times. On a fast break, he had an open dunk but slowed, passing to the rookie in the corner instead. The kid (whose mom was still in the hospital) grinned, hitting the layup.
Lin Mo raised an eyebrow. Wembanyama looked away, but his ears turned pink.
Later, Wembanyama found Lin Mo icing his knee. He tossed him a water bottle, avoiding eye contact. "The rookie's mom is better," he said, sudden. "Booker told me."
Lin Mo smiled. "Good."
"His jersey's still loose, though," Wembanyama added, like it slipped out. "Needs a stitch."
Lin Mo nodded. "You noticing that now?"
Wembanyama mumbled something about "attention to detail" and left, but outside, he paused, touching the sagging hoop stitch on his wristband. Maybe Lin Mo was right—some details weren't in the playbook.