When the final buzzer sounded, Lin Mo lay on the floor, watching the ceiling lights spin into a galaxy. The Lakers won by three, but every bone ached—his knee, especially, felt stuffed with scalding gravel.
Wembanyama walked over, dropping a water bottle on his chest. "Next time, I won't let you."
"Anytime," Lin Mo twisted the cap; water streamed down his chin into his jersey.
"Your shoes..." Wembanyama squatted, staring at the tattered sneakers. "They really tell stories?"
"Yeah." Lin Mo sat up, pointing to the comma stitch. "An old man said this is a pause, not an end." He tapped the mended sole. "A kid says it's his lucky charm." Finally, the heel—speckled with Chicago red dirt, mixed with L.A. rain. "And an opponent just added a new chapter."
Wembanyama fell silent, then pulled off his own shoes. Brand-new signature models, but an unassuming bandage stuck to the ankle. "First time I shattered a rim, I sprained it. Doctor said I might never play. This is the bandage from then. I've kept it."
Lin Mo suddenly remembered Old Man Joe's words: A real rival's someone who helps thicken your story.
He pulled out his phone, showing Wembanyama the rehab kid's photo—the boy stood by his hospital window, holding a drawing: two figures, tall and short, both shooting. "He says you two are his light."
Wembanyama's Adam's apple bobbed. He said nothing, just inched his shoes closer to Lin Mo's. Two pairs: one fresh as dawn, one worn as dusk, sitting on the sweat-soaked floor like two stories in conversation.