Rumors spread like wildfire through Staples Center, eating into every corner. By morning, Lin Mo's social media was a war zone: Lakers fans posted photos of his best plays with captions like "Don't Go," while Celtics fans bombarded his DMs with green heart emojis and links to "Best Boston Pizza Spots." Even the stadium's gift shop had started stocking "Keep Lin" T-shirts—sales were through the roof.
At practice, the suited man was back, now with a clipboard full of notes. He tracked how many times Lin Mo passed left vs. right, how long he held the ball before shooting, even the angle of his elbow on free throws. When Lin Mo caught him staring, the man smiled, raised his clipboard, and mouthed, "Just doing my job."
"Creepy," Reaves muttered, jogging past. "You gonna tell him to beat it?"
Lin Mo shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his jersey—紫金色, soft from so many washes. "Let him watch. He'll figure out I don't fit his playbook."
But doubt niggled. That night, he lay awake in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. He thought of Joe's shop, how the old man would hum while he sewed, his foot tapping the pedal in time with the radio. "Worried the thread'll break?" Joe would say, without looking up. "Then stitch tighter."
Lin Mo had kept a box of Joe's things: a tattered thimble, a pair of bent scissors, a photo of them both, Joe grinning as Lin held up his first (lopsided) stitched bear. He pulled out the thimble now, rolling it between his fingers. It was warm, like it still held Joe's heat.
The next day, reporters ambushed him after practice, shoving mics in his face. "Is the Celtics' offer too good to refuse?" "Do you feel undervalued in L.A.?" "When will you make a decision?"
Lin Mo held up the thimble, letting the cameras catch the glint of it. "This belonged to a tailor. He taught me that some needles only work on the fabric they know. You try to push 'em into something new, and they bend. Or break." He paused, meeting the nearest reporter's eye. "I'm no needle. But I know my fabric."
The crowd murmured. Someone shouted, "We love you, Lin!" He smiled, tucking the thimble back into his pocket.
That evening, the locker room was quiet. Most guys had left, but Davis lingered, sitting on a bench, staring at his phone. When Lin Mo walked in, he looked up, quickly locking the screen.
"Still here?" Lin Mo said, tossing him a water bottle.
Davis caught it, twisting off the cap. "Just… thinking." He nodded at the display case of championship rings, the glass glowing under the lights. "Remember when we won that title in 2020? You hit that game-winner in Game 5? I thought, This guy's family."
Lin Mo leaned against his locker, which still had a photo of him and the team, post-parade, covered in confetti. "Family don't get traded."
"Tell that to the GM." Davis's voice was rough. "I've seen it happen. One day you're high-fiving, the next you're packing your locker." He looked up, eyes earnest. "Don't make me pack yours, man."
Lin Mo pulled the thimble out again, pressing it into Davis's hand. The big man's fingers dwarfed it, but he closed his fist around it gently.
"Old Man Joe used this when he sewed my mom's wedding dress," Lin Mo said. "Said it was lucky. He never let anyone else touch it. Some things… you don't lend out. And you sure as hell don't trade 'em."
Davis nodded, sliding the thimble into his own pocket. "Good." He stood, clapping Lin Mo's back. " 'Cause I don't know how to sew. If you leave, I can't fix this team."