The Lakers' practice facility hummed with the sharp, familiar rhythm of preparation—sneakers squeaking like unoiled hinges, basketballs thudding against the floor in a steady tattoo, LeBron's laugh booming as he trash-talked Reaves into missing a layup. But beneath it all, a quieter noise buzzed: the rustle of whispers, sharp as scissors snipping thread.
Lin Mo bent to tie his laces, the紫金色 (purple-and-gold) fabric of his sneakers soft against his palms. He'd worn these shoes since the start of the season; the left toe was scuffed from a hundred drives into the paint, the heel frayed where he'd planted for three-pointers. They fit like a second skin. Which is why the words drifting from the player tunnel hit him like a misaimed screen:
"Celtics are offering two firsts and their backup center. GM says Lin's the missing piece."
"Boss was in the war room till midnight. They're calling it a 'once-in-a-lifetime deal.'"
Lin Mo's fingers tightened on the laces, knotting them so hard his knuckles whitened. He'd heard rumors before—every veteran did—but this felt different. The voices weren't speculative; they were certain, like someone had already measured him for a green jersey.
"Lin." A hand landed on his shoulder, warm and solid. LeBron stood behind him, his own sneakers—worn, loved, scuffed at the toes—planted firm. "You gonna let 'em rattle you? Or you gonna drain that three you've been working on?"
Lin Mo forced a laugh, standing. "Who's rattled? Just making sure these don't come untied. Last thing I need is to trip over my own feet." He dribbled the ball once, twice, the bounce steadying him. "Besides, you know I don't trust new shoes. These ones? They know where the rim is."
But the rest of practice felt off. His first three-pointer clanged off the rim, harder than usual; his crosscourt pass sailed wide, nearly hitting the water cooler. Reaves caught it, grinning, but his eyes said I get it. Even the ball boy, usually quick with towels, lingered a beat too long, as if waiting for him to storm off.
By afternoon, the air in the gym felt thick as molasses. The AC had indeed conked out, and sweat dripped down Lin Mo's back as he ran drills. His phone buzzed in his pocket—again. He'd been ignoring it, but curiosity pricked. He fished it out, squinting at the screen: a notification from ESPN, headline blaring, "Sources: Lakers 'Serious' About Celtics' Lin Mo Offer." Below it, a text from the Celtics' GM: "Coffee? I'll fly to L.A. Tonight."
Lin Mo locked the screen, shoving the phone back. Across the court, James caught his eye, gave a small nod—Stay steady—and drained a three. The swish echoed, clear as a bell.
Lin Mo exhaled. He dribbled hard, the ball smacking the floor, and drove toward the hoop, planting his left foot (scuffed, familiar) and rising for a layup. This time, it dropped clean.
The rim, at least, still knew him.