The final minute stretched like a taut wire. 102-100, Bulls. Lin Mo's knee felt like it was on fire, his lungs burning, but when he looked up, the crowd was on its feet—even the Bulls fans, some of them, chanting "70! 70! 70!" like a prayer.
The Bulls guard had fouled out, his mom consoling him in the stands. Their center was cramping, leaning on a trainer. And Lin Mo? He was staring at the red string, still tied to the stanchion.
"Last play," the coach barked. "Get Lin the ball."
They swarmed him as soon as he crossed half-court—two defenders, then three, arms outstretched. He dribbled, once, twice, feeling the worn sole grip the floor. Old Man Joe's voice in his head: "When they crowd you, look for the space they forgot."
He found it: the rookie, hiding in the corner, nails chewed to the quick. Just like three days ago, when he'd missed the same shot.
Lin Mo faked a shot, drawing the defense, then fired a pass. It sailed through, clean as a whistle. The rookie caught it, hesitated—then let it fly.
Swish.
The buzzer screamed. The rookie collapsed to his knees, sobbing. Lin Mo stumbled over, grinning, and hauled him up. "Told you. Nerves mean you care."
In the locker room, the celebration was louder than Boston's. The rookie kept hugging him, muttering "thank you," while Booker doused them both with a water bottle. Old Man Joe appeared in the doorway, leaning on a cane, and Lin Mo's chest tight—he hadn't noticed the cane before.
"Got old," Joe said, by way of greeting. "But not too old to see a good story."
Lin Mo laughed, then winced as he pulled off his sneakers. His fingers brushed something hard in the heel—a lump he'd never felt before. He dug it out: a folded scrap of paper, yellowed with age.
"When you're tired, when it hurts, when they say you can't—remember the kid who played in the rain. He's still here. And he's just getting started."
Dated: the day he'd torn his ACL, 5 years ago.
Lin Mo looked up, blinking hard. Joe winked. "Told you shoes carry stories."
Outside, Chicago's rain had turned to mist. The rookie bounded over, holding up his phone—Wembanyama's text, sent to the group chat: "80's looking lonely. Who's gonna visit?"
Lin Mo typed back, grinning, as he tucked the note into his pocket: "Tell it to save a seat. We're coming."
He laced up the old sneakers, one last time. The sole creaked, like it was laughing.
The story, it seemed, was just getting good.