The third quarter started with a gust. Not from the arena's vents—from the Warriors. Curry had his hoodie off now, sleeves rolled up, and he moved like he was skating on fresh ice, gliding past defenders before they could blink. His first shot of the quarter was a step-back three from the corner, the ball spinning so clean it looked polished, like the glass ornaments on Lin Mo's childhood tree. Swish. The Warriors' bench erupted, players slapping hands so hard their festive wristbands—red and green, with "Hoopmas" printed on them—snapped against their forearms.
Wembanyama's palms felt cold. Not from the air—from the way the rim was rejecting him. He'd missed three shots in a row: a layup that clanged off the backboard, a mid-range jumper that skidded off the front rim, and a free throw that wobbled like a leaf in wind. After the third miss, he stared at the hoop, its metal rim glinting under the lights, and thought it looked frosted over, like the windows of Old Man Joe's shop on cold mornings. Joe used to keep a kettle boiling by the sewing machine, steam curling up to defog the glass. "Frost don't mean the glass is broken," he'd say, wiping it with a rag. "Just means you gotta warm it up."
Lin Mo's voice cut through the crowd noise. "Hey! Eyes up!" He was leaning against the scorer's table, one hand pressed to his knee—old habit, when he was focused—waving a candy cane like a baton. "You think that rim's colder than the one in practice? Nah. It's just waiting. Warm it with your hands, kid. Rub 'em. Like you're starting a fire."
Wembanyama glanced down at his palms, slick with sweat, and wiped them hard on his shorts—once, twice, three times, the fabric bunching under his fingers. On the next possession, the Warriors' center set a screen, but Wembanyama didn't bite. He slid around it, feet quick, and cut off Curry's drive. Curry stumbled, forced to pass, and the ball sailed out of bounds.
"Atta fire," Lin Mo muttered.
The Spurs pushed back. Wembanyama grabbed a rebound, this time clamping it to his chest like he was hugging it, and fired a outlet pass to his guard, who sprinted for a layup. Score. The crowd roared, and for a second, Wembanyama thought he heard the rim creak—like it was loosening up. He caught a pass in the post next, backed down his defender, and went up soft, a little hook shot that kissed the glass and dropped through. The net rippled, a low hum, and this time, the rim didn't fight it.
But the Warriors weren't done. Their power forward, a bruiser with a beard flecked with gray (he'd dyed the tips green for the holiday), bullied his way to the hoop for a dunk, hanging on the rim long enough to yell, "Merry smashmas!" The lead stretched back to 12, and when Wembanyama missed another jumper—this one clanging off the side of the rim—he slammed a fist against his thigh.
Lin Mo limped over to the bench, stopping beside Wembanyama when he subbed out. "Joe's first sewing machine? It froze up every winter," he said, voice low. "He'd pour hot water in the base—careful, not too much—and let it sit. Said, 'Metal remembers heat. You just gotta remind it.'" He nodded at the rim, where a Warriors cheerleader was hanging a mini wreath (someone's idea of festive decor). "That rim's metal. You think it remembers your dunks from last week? Hell yeah. It's just waiting for you to stop asking it to warm up. Start making it."
Wembanyama flexed his fingers. When he checked back in, the Warriors' guard tried to drive past him, but Wembanyama planted, legs wide, and swatted the ball into the stands. A kid in a Santa hat caught it, held it over his head like a trophy, and Wembanyama grinned. On the next play, he posted up again, but this time, he didn't rush. He faked left, waited for the defender to lean, then spun right, his elbow brushing the rim as he laid it in.
The net sang. And for a second, Wembanyama could've sworn he felt the rim warm under his arm.