The locker room's roar dimmed to a murmur, leaving only the sticky hum of victory in the air. Lin Mo's phone vibrated against his thigh, still damp from post-game showers. He fished it out, and the screen lit up with a photo: the rehab kid, propped up on his crutches, grinning beneath a wall covered in printouts. At the center was the 70-point box score, circled in neon green, with a crayon drawing taped beside it—Lin Mo in his tattered sneakers, soaring over a hoop.
"The kid stayed up till 2 a.m. cutting out articles," the nurse's text read. "Says your shoes are his new lucky charm. Taped a piece of his old cast to the sole of his own sneakers—'for street cred,' he said."
Lin Mo huffed a laugh, turning the phone toward Booker, who was still peeling off his compression sleeve. "Look at this. Kid's out here starting a cult of broken shoes."
Booker leaned in, snorting. "Better than a cult of crowns.Lebron just quote-tweeted your post-game interview. Said 'the throne's got new upholstery.'" He tossed his phone over—there it was, LeBron's profile picture grinning beneath the words, tagged with a crown emoji tilted sideways.
The理疗师shouldered through the door, her tray clinking with tape and ice packs. "Don't get too cozy with glory," she said, nodding at Lin Mo's knee. "This scar's yelling louder than that kid in the stands. Let me rewrap it, and then you're benched for the morning session."
Lin Mo didn't argue. He stretched his leg out, wincing as she peeled back the blood-tinged tape. The old scar, a jagged line from his rookie year, pulsed—faintly, but enough to remind him of the night he'd thought his career was over. "Old Man Joe used to say scars are just stories the body won't shut up about," he murmured.
The therapist paused, scissors mid-air. "Well, tell your body to pipe down. Three days of rest, minimum. No exceptions."
But when she left, Lin Mo reached for his gear bag. At the bottom, beneath a crumpled towel, lay the sneakers—soles gaping like a second mouth, the patch frayed at the edges. He ran a finger over the stitching, where Old Man Joe's hand had slipped, leaving a wonky stitch that looked like a comma. A pause, not an end, he'd said, when Lin Mo was 16 and convinced a sprained ankle meant he'd never play college ball.
He pulled out his own phone, snapping a photo of the comma-stitch. Typed: Still got more to say. Sent it to the rehab kid.
By dawn, his phone buzzed again. The kid had replied with a photo of his own: a crutch propped against a hospital window, with a sticky note stuck to the glass: Me too.