The lights in the Nuggets' home arena blazed like high noon. Lin Mo stepped on the carpet of the player tunnel, his heartbeat thudding against his ribs—not from nervousness, but something hotter, like the red-hot iron needle Old Man Joe used when mending shoes.
"Heard Wembanyama stayed till three a.m. practicing," Booker clapped him on the back, harder than usual. "The arena security said he was watching your tapes, practicing blocks, even bent the rim."
Lin Mo tugged at his jersey collar, his gaze drifting over the crowd to the Nuggets' warm-up area. That lanky shadow was leaping beyond the three-point line, fingertips grazing the edge of the backboard; the ball sliced through the net without a sound. Like a feather, but weighted with hail.
"Second-year vs. rookie," the physical therapist appeared behind him, clutching kinesiology tape. "Don't bicker with a kid. Your knee's more valuable than his draft pick."
As she spoke, Wembanyama turned, their eyes locking across half the court. Lin Mo spotted the graffiti on his sneakers—a "70" crossed out with a big block gesture.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was the rehab kid: "Begged the nurse for a wheelchair. Gonna watch you 'crush that long pole' tonight!" Followed by a grinning emoji.
Lin Mo smiled, texting Old Man Joe: Remember you said not to fight shadows?
Old Man Joe replied instantly: But a long shadow means the sun's at your back.
During warm-ups, Wembanyama deliberately stopped beside him to tie his laces. "Your shoes tell stories?" His English, laced with a French accent, sounded like a hockey puck skimming ice. "Hope they learn to say 'I'm convinced' tonight."
Lin Mo patted the ball, his fingertips brushing its rough surface—it was the 1987 All-Star game ball Old Man Joe had given him, the one he'd brought for warm-ups. "My shoes only talk to those worth listening to."
The ball hit the floor with a dull thud, like a comma punctuating the conversation.