Final scrimmage: Lin Mo back in, knee wrapped, Wembanyama matching him step for step. The score was tied with 30 seconds left, ball in Lin Mo's hands.
Wembanyama locked in, recalling his notes: Lin Mo: 80% chance to go left off a high screen. He shifted, ready to cut it off.
But Lin Mo didn't set a screen. He dribbled right—his weak side—slowing down, like he was waiting. Wembanyama hesitated; Lin Mo's left shoulder dipped, a fake, and suddenly he was driving left, Wembanyama scrambling to recover.
Then, at the last second, Lin Mo stopped. He passed to the corner—again, the rookie, whose jersey was still loose but whose eyes lit up. Three-pointer. Buzzer.
The gym erupted, but Lin Mo and Wembanyama just stared at each other.
"You faked the shoulder dip," Wembanyama said, voice flat.
"You hesitated," Lin Mo said, grinning. "Because you saw the rookie's jersey. Not the play."
Wembanyama didn't deny it. He pulled off his wristband, the sagging hoop stitch now frayed from rubbing. "Here," he said, shoving it at Lin Mo. "You win the stupid dinner."
Lin Mo laughed, handing it back. "Keep it. It's got your first real stitch now." He nodded at the sagging hoop. "Remind you to see the rim, not the idea."
Wembanyama hesitated, then slipped it back on. "Regular season," he said, walking toward the locker room. "I'll outshoot you. Properly."
Lin Mo watched him go, then looked at the playbook on the wall. Someone had added a doodle: a tall figure shooting at a sagging hoop, a shorter figure grinning in the corner.
Booker clapped him on the back. "Rivalry's just friendship in sneakers, man."
Lin Mo smiled. Training camp was over, but something else was just starting—something that didn't need stats, or playbooks, or even words. Just two guys, learning to see the game, and each other, a little clearer.