The Lakers' owner's office smelled like leather and citrus, the air conditioning cranked high enough to make Lin Mo shiver. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the practice facility, where Davis and Reaves were shooting free throws, arguing over who owed who a soda.
"Nice view, huh?" The owner gestured to the window, then slid a manila folder across his desk. "Celtics' final offer. Two first-round picks, their starting center, and $50 million guaranteed. The board's losing their minds. They say it's 'insane' to pass."
Lin Mo didn't touch the folder. Instead, he pulled a small square of fabric from his pocket—frayed, soft, purple-and-gold. It was a scrap from his rookie jersey, the one he'd worn in his first NBA game, when he'd scored 12 points in the fourth quarter and the crowd had chanted his name for the first time.
"This," he said, laying it on the desk, "is why I'm here."
The owner raised an eyebrow. "A piece of cloth?"
"Joe sewed a patch on it for me, after I tore it diving for a loose ball." Lin Mo traced the stitched edges, rough against his finger. "Said, 'Scars tell better stories than new fabric.' This jersey's got a lot of scars. I got a lot of scars. But they match. This team? We match."
He thought of the night he'd signed with the Lakers, nervous as hell, Joe sitting beside him, sipping coffee. "You don't just play for a team," Joe had said. "You stitch yourself into it. Thread by thread."
Lin Mo looked up, meeting the owner's eyes. "That folder? It's a new thread. Shiny, but it don't match the fabric. You yank out the old one, the whole thing falls apart."
The owner stared at the scrap of jersey, then at the folder, then back at Lin Mo. He sighed, pushing the folder away. "You know, when I hired you, I thought you were just a good player. Turns out… you're a good tailor, too."
Lin Mo smiled. "Learned from the best."
"Then stay." The owner leaned forward. "Stitch away. I'll tell the board to stuff their offer."
Lin Mo stood, tucking the jersey scrap back into his pocket. "Thanks, boss."
"Thank you," the owner said. "For remembering that some things are worth more than picks."
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of purple and gold. Lin Mo walked back to the practice facility, where Davis and Reaves were still arguing, and grabbed a ball. He shot, and it swished.
The net sang. As always.