The arena lights hit like a physical weight—too bright, too eager, as if demanding a spectacle to fill the void. LeBron's locker loomed empty, his custom shoe rack stripped bare, save for a single note he'd left: "They don't know what you carry. Show 'em." Lin Mo ran a finger over the edge of the note, then tucked it into his gym bag, next to the old sneakers.
The sneakers were relics: white leather faded to cream, soles ground thin as paper from years of street court concrete, a frayed patch on the right toe where Old Man Joe had stitched over a hole. "Joe said these soles remember every hoop they've kissed," Lin Mo murmured, more to himself than anyone.
Booker clapped him on the back, nodding at the Celtics' bench, where their star guard was laughing with teammates, pointing at Lin Mo's shoes. "They think it's a joke. Let 'em." He tossed Lin Mo a water bottle. "You ever see Joe back down from a crowd? He'd shoot until the rim begged."
In the pregame huddle, the coach's voice wavered—he'd drawn up 17 plays, all designed for LeBron's iso game. "We adjust," Lin Mo said, cutting through the silence. He pointed to the rookie guard, who was twisting his wedding ring (nervous, needs a quick pass to settle). "Miles gets the first touch. He's got a kid at home—wants to send a highlight."
The rookie's head snapped up, ring twisting faster, but his eyes lit up.
As they jogged out, Lin Mo passed the Celtics' coach, who smirked. "Enjoy your moment, Lin. It won't last."
Lin Mo stopped, glancing down at his sneakers. "Old Man Joe used to say, 'Moment's just a word. What matters is who's still standing when it's over.'" He tapped the patch on his toe. "These shoes? They've outlasted a lot of smirks."