Fourth quarter, 6:12 left. Lin Mo sat at 49, his knee throbbing so loud he could barely hear the crowd. The trainer pressed a heat pack to it, frowning. "One more quarter. That's it."
But Boston wasn't letting up. Their point guard, now chewing gum like it was a lifeline (nervous, rushing), fouled Lin Mo hard on a drive, sending him sprawling. As he hit the floor, he saw it: the Celtics' bench, heads down, no more smirks. Even their coach looked stunned, his tie hanging loose (defeated, Lin Mo cataloged).
He hauled himself up, using the referee's shoulder for balance, and made both free throws. 51. The arena erupted.
"Should've sat," the Celtics guard muttered, as they lined up for the inbounds.
Lin Mo laughed, wiping blood from a cut on his elbow. "Joe once played with a sprained ankle, a broken finger, and a hangover. Said, 'Quitters don't get to tell the story.'"
What happened next was a blur of will. Lin Mo stopped looking for assists, stopped hunting stats—he just played. A step-back three over the center (who'd forgotten to tie his shoe again). A layup off a behind-the-back dribble, knee screaming but body moving on muscle memory. A fadeaway over two defenders, the ball hanging in the air like it knew the story, too.
With 2 minutes left, he hit 62. The crowd, once hostile, now chanted his name.
In the huddle, Miles, the rookie, clapped him on the back. "My kid's watching. He thinks you're a superhero."
Lin Mo shook his head, grinning. "Just a guy in old shoes."