The arena smelled like pine and sweat. Lin Mo ran a hand over the tinsel draped across the scorer's table, its glitter sticking to his palm like leftover confetti from last year's New Year's Eve. "Festive," he muttered, nodding at the giant inflatable snowman by the tunnel—its carrot nose had been bent during warm-ups, probably by a stray basketball.
Wembanyama stood under the hoop, his sneakers squeaking on the floor as he practiced free throws. "Coach says the Warriors put mistletoe above their locker room," he said, glancing up at the rafters. "Says it's for 'team bonding.'"
Lin Mo snorted. "Team bonding my ass. It's a distraction. Curry'll hang off it mid-interview and make you laugh while his shooters pick apart your defense." He tossed a ball to Wembanyama, who caught it one-handed. "Old Man Joe used to hang mistletoe above his sewing machine. Said it 'kept the thread from getting bitter.'"
Wembanyama's brow furrowed. "Bitter thread?"
"Thread that fights the needle," Lin Mo said. He mimed stitching, the comma stitch motion—thumb tucked, index finger looping. "You fight the moment, you break. You let it slide through? That's when it holds."
Outside, a snowstorm had rolled in, fat flakes sticking to the arena windows. The crowd was already chanting, but between their shouts, Lin Mo could hear the faint jingle of a Christmas playlist bleeding from the speakers. Silent Night cut off mid-verse as the PA system crackled: "Introducing your Golden State Warriors!"
Curry jogged out first, grinning, his daughter's drawing of a reindeer taped to his shoe. Lin Mo's knee twinged. Last Christmas, he'd watched this game from a hospital bed, a half-eaten candy cane melting on the tray.
Wembanyama followed his gaze. "You gonna play?"
Lin Mo flexed his knee, slow. "Nah. But I'm gonna watch. Real close."