The Celtics' head coach arrived at Staples two hours before tip-off, his green blazer clashing with the紫金色 seats. He lingered by the tunnel, watching Lin Mo warm up—dribbling between his legs, hitting fadeaways, laughing as James stole the ball and dunked. When Lin Mo jogged over, towel around his neck, the coach held out a礼盒, wrapped in green paper.
"Early Christmas present," he said, grinning. "Don't worry—no strings. Yet."
Lin Mo raised an eyebrow but took it. The box was light, square. He peeled back the paper: inside, a custom战术板 (playbook), green and white, with "Lin Mo: Boston's Missing Stitch" embossed on the cover. Tucked inside was a note: "We've got the fabric. You've got the needle."
"Cute," Lin Mo said, closing the box. "But I'm not in the market for new tools."
The coach laughed. "C'mon. You know we're a contender. Curry's getting older, the West is a bloodbath—L.A. can't keep this up forever. Boston? We're built to win now. You fit here. Like that thimble of yours fits your finger."
He nodded at Lin Mo's pocket, where the thimble pressed against his thigh. "Heard about Joe. Respect. A good tailor knows when to switch workshops. This place"—he gestured at Staples—"is nice, but it's not championship nice. Not this year."
Lin Mo thought of the night before, when he'd stayed late in the gym, shooting until the lights dimmed. James had stayed with him, draining threes, talking about "legacy" and "fighting for what's yours." He thought of Davis's tight smile when Lin Mo had said he wasn't leaving. Of the kid in the front row who'd held up a sign: "My dad says you're magic. Please stay."
"Joe once turned down a rich guy who wanted him to move his shop to Beverly Hills," Lin Mo said. "Said, 'This street knows my name. The other one won't.'" He set the box on a nearby chair. "Boston's a nice city. But it don't know my name. Not like this one."
The coach's smile faded. "Think about it. Deadline's Friday."
After he left, Lin Mo grabbed a ball and jogged to the three-point line. James appeared beside him, arms crossed. "What'd he want?"
"Told me Boston's tailor shop's bigger." Lin Mo shot, the ball arcing cleanly through the net. "Said I should upgrade."
James snorted. "Upgrades don't mean shit if they don't fit. Remember your first pair of Jordans? You wore 'em once and bled through your socks. Some things gotta be broken in." He clapped Lin Mo's back. "This place? We're broken in. Together."
Lin Mo nodded. That night, he posted a photo on Instagram: the playbook, sitting on a bench at Staples, with his purple-and-gold sneaker propped on top of it. The caption? "Tools belong where they work best."
By morning, it had a million likes.