Christmas Day at Staples: tinsel hung from the rafters, a giant tree stood by the tunnel, and every fan in the building wore something festive—Santa hats, reindeer antlers, ugly sweaters covered in basketballs. The energy was electric, but under it hummed a nervous buzz: everyone knew the Celtics were here, and so was the elephant in the room.
Lin Mo had woken up early, texting his sister (who'd flown in from Chicago) to meet him at the arena. "Save me a seat," he'd said. "Front row. I wanna see your face when I dunk."
Now, as the teams warmed up, he spotted her—waving, wearing a Lakers jersey with his number—and grinned. Beside her, a little girl held a sign: "Santa, all I want is Lin to stay."
The first half was a dogfight. Lin Mo was on fire, dropping 18 points, dishing 6 assists, even blocking a layup from the Celtics' star guard. The crowd chanted his name, loud enough to rattle the rafters. But in the third quarter, during a timeout, the jumbotron flickered—and there it was: a graphic, "Breaking: Lin Mo-Celtics Talks Heat Up," with a photo of him and their coach, shaking hands.
The noise died. The mascot, midway through a backflip, froze, then sheepishly landed. On the bench, Davis's jaw tightened; Reaves stared at his shoes. Even Lin Mo's sister looked pale.
Lin Mo's throat went dry. He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the thimble—cool, solid—and exhaled.
Then he smiled, sudden and bright, and pulled out a spool of purple-and-gold thread he'd swiped from his sewing kit that morning. He knelt in front of the little girl with the sign, her eyes wide, and began braiding the thread into a bracelet.
"Joe used to say," he said, looping the thread around her wrist, "that when people talk loudest, you gotta stitch quietest. Keeps the cloth from tearing." He tied it off with a knot, tight but gentle. "See? Purple-and-gold. Can't undo that."
The girl grinned, showing a missing tooth. "Promise?"
"Promise."
When play resumed, Lin Mo was a force. He stole the ball from the Celtics' point guard, sprinted the length of the court, and slammed home a dunk so hard the rim shook. As he ran back, he high-fived his sister, and the crowd roared—louder than before, like they'd been holding their breath.
The final buzzer sounded: Lakers 118, Celtics 109.
James wrapped him in a hug, sweat soaking both their jerseys. "Told you," he muttered in Lin Mo's ear. "This floor? It's got your footprints all over it. Can't scrub those out."
Lin Mo looked up at the jumbotron, where his stats flashed: 28 points, 8 assists, 3 blocks. Below it, the "breaking news" graphic was gone.
In its place, a replay of his dunk—rim shaking, net singing.