The Bulls' arena roared like a storm, but Lin Mo barely heard it. He was too busy watching the guard—beads clinking, jaw tight, eyes darting to the corner.
"Who's he looking at?" the rookie whispered, as they huddled.
"His mom," Lin Mo said. "She's in the third row, wearing a 'Proud' shirt. He's gonna try too hard."
Sure enough, the first play: the guard blew past Lin Mo, but instead of laying it up, he tried a 360 dunk. It clanged off the rim, and Lin Mo grabbed the rebound, tossing it to the rookie for an easy layup.
"Told you," he muttered, as the crowd booed.
But the Bulls fought back. By the second quarter, their zone defense had clamped down, and the lead shrank to 2. The coach called a timeout, slamming his clipboard. "They're keying on your left! Go right!"
Lin Mo nodded, but his eyes were on the Bulls' center—sweat dripping down his neck, fingers plucking at his jersey. Anxious, Old Man Joe would've said. Anxious men make mistakes.
When play resumed, he drove right, as the coach ordered. The center lunged, arms flailing—and Lin Mo stopped short, letting him sail past. A behind-the-back pass to the corner, where the rookie was waiting. Three-pointer, swish.
The bench erupted. Lin Mo jogged back, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw it: a flash of red, tied to the Bulls' basket stanchion. A string, frayed and familiar. Just like the one on Old Man Joe's hoop.
He froze. The ref blew his whistle, but Lin Mo didn't move—until he spotted the man in the crowd, waving. Old Man Joe, grinning, wearing a Lakers cap backwards.
The guard crashed into him, hard. "What're you staring at, old man?"
Lin Mo smiled, pushing himself up. "The future. It's got good aim."