At tip-off, Wembanyama's fingertips outstretched a full palm above Lin Mo's. The second the ball was tapped toward the Nuggets' half, Lin Mo knew the air tonight was thicker than usual.
On the first possession, Wembanyama was already on him. Not a typical close guard, but hovering half a step back, his long arms spread like a net, narrowing even the angle for Lin Mo to breathe. Lin Mo tried a crossover; that sudden, sweeping arm knocked the ball loose—out of bounds. The ref's whistle pierced the Lakers bench's cheers like a needle.
"His wingspan's more annoying than the arena chandeliers," Booker muttered during the timeout, passing him a water bottle beaded with sweat.
Lin Mo didn't take it. He stared at that shifting shadow on the court. Wembanyama was high-fiving teammates, his shoes scuffling the floor—the same sound Lin Mo remembered when he first tried on Old Man Joe's mended sneakers: a mix of show-off and jitters.
Seven minutes left in the second quarter, Lin Mo finally found an opening. Booker's screen delayed Wembanyama just long enough; Lin Mo drove, his layup rhythm as natural as breathing. But just as his fingertips were about to touch the ball, a shadow crashed down—Wembanyama had chased from behind, body coiled like a bow, palm slamming solidly into the ball.
Thud. It smacked the backboard, bouncing back beyond the three-point line.
The Nuggets' arena erupted. Wembanyama landed, deliberately stepping on Lin Mo's shadow, bending to pick up the ball. "Your story's stuck, huh?"
Lin Mo touched his knee; the old injury burned. But he smiled, recalling Old Man Joe's words while sewing: If the thread breaks, re-stitch it. Afraid of pricks, why mend shoes at all?
On the next play, he slowed down, waiting for Wembanyama to close in. The second the kid leaned forward, Lin Mo smashed the ball into the floor—not a dribble, but a hard tap. It bounced higher than usual, grazing Wembanyama's fingertips, sailing to the rookie埋伏 in the corner.
Nothing but net. The rookie jumped, pumping a fist; the patch on his heel glinted under the lights—the one Lin Mo had sewn last night with Old Man Joe's thread.
Lin Mo tilted his chin at Wembanyama. "The story's long. Be patient."