Los Angeles woke to rain—cold, gray, the kind that seeps into your bones. Lin Mo's sister texted: "Stay inside! I'll bring soup!" But he grabbed his umbrella and headed to the arena anyway. Some mornings, the court called louder than comfort.
He expected the gym to be empty, but the lights blazed. LeBron was there, shooting threes, his sneakers squeaking over the wet floor. Davis was doing lunges, grunting under the weight of a resistance band. Even Reaves, who swore by sleeping till noon, was dribbling, his tongue stuck out in concentration.
"Told you they'd show," LeBron said, nodding at Lin Mo. "Said you'd be here early."
Lin Mo shook his head, dropping his umbrella by the door. "Y'all are obsessed."
"Damn right," Davis said, lowering the band. "We're obsessed with keeping our point guard."
Practice blurred into a rhythm—passes sharper than usual, screens harder, laughter louder. By mid-morning, the rain thinned, and sunlight stabbed through the windows, painting the court in stripes of gold. That's when the celebration erupted.
LeBron appeared from the locker room, holding a T-shirt: "LIN MO'S PASSES > OLD MAN JOE'S STITCHES" (Joe's face, photoshopped onto a Lakers jersey, grinned from the front). Reaves followed, balancing a cake that looked like a basketball—purple frosting, gold sprinkles, a plastic sewing machine stuck on top. "Bakery said 'no more custom cakes for Lakers players,'" he panted. "Had to beg."
The rookies cheered, waving "Stay Lin" signs they'd made from construction paper. Even the ball boys joined in, holding up a bedsheet painted with the team's slogan: "One Thread, One Team."
Lin Mo stared, throat tight. "Y'all didn't have to—"
"Shut up and take the cake," LeBron said, shoving a slice into his hand. "Before Davis eats it all."
Davis, who'd already stolen two bites, grinned. "It's good! Tastes like… loyalty."
They ate cake, smearing frosting on each other's cheeks. LeBron told stories about "the old days," when he'd fought to keep teammates in Miami. Davis admitted he'd cried watching Lin Mo's Christmas Day speech ("Don't tell anyone"). Reaves showed off the紫金-threaded bracelet Lin Mo had made him—"Sleep with it under my pillow. Good luck charm."
By afternoon, the rain cleared. A rainbow arched over the arena, one end dipping into the practice court, the other vanishing behind the downtown skyline. Lin Mo pulled out his phone, snapping a photo.
His phone buzzed: a text from the Celtics' GM. "Fine. You win. But if you ever change your mind… green looks good on you."
Lin Mo texted back the rainbow photo, no caption.
LeBron leaned over, reading the message. "He'll get over it. Probably."
"Probably," Lin Mo agreed. He bit into his cake, the frosting sweet on his tongue. "But I won't. Get over this."Los Angeles woke to rain—cold, gray, the kind that seeps into your bones. Lin Mo's sister texted: "Stay inside! I'll bring soup!" But he grabbed his umbrella and headed to the arena anyway. Some mornings, the court called louder than comfort.
He expected the gym to be empty, but the lights blazed. LeBron was there, shooting threes, his sneakers squeaking over the wet floor. Davis was doing lunges, grunting under the weight of a resistance band. Even Reaves, who swore by sleeping till noon, was dribbling, his tongue stuck out in concentration.
"Told you they'd show," LeBron said, nodding at Lin Mo. "Said you'd be here early."
Lin Mo shook his head, dropping his umbrella by the door. "Y'all are obsessed."
"Damn right," Davis said, lowering the band. "We're obsessed with keeping our point guard."
Practice blurred into a rhythm—passes sharper than usual, screens harder, laughter louder. By mid-morning, the rain thinned, and sunlight stabbed through the windows, painting the court in stripes of gold. That's when the celebration erupted.
LeBron appeared from the locker room, holding a T-shirt: "LIN MO'S PASSES > OLD MAN JOE'S STITCHES" (Joe's face, photoshopped onto a Lakers jersey, grinned from the front). Reaves followed, balancing a cake that looked like a basketball—purple frosting, gold sprinkles, a plastic sewing machine stuck on top. "Bakery said 'no more custom cakes for Lakers players,'" he panted. "Had to beg."
The rookies cheered, waving "Stay Lin" signs they'd made from construction paper. Even the ball boys joined in, holding up a bedsheet painted with the team's slogan: "One Thread, One Team."
Lin Mo stared, throat tight. "Y'all didn't have to—"
"Shut up and take the cake," LeBron said, shoving a slice into his hand. "Before Davis eats it all."
Davis, who'd already stolen two bites, grinned. "It's good! Tastes like… loyalty."
They ate cake, smearing frosting on each other's cheeks. LeBron told stories about "the old days," when he'd fought to keep teammates in Miami. Davis admitted he'd cried watching Lin Mo's Christmas Day speech ("Don't tell anyone"). Reaves showed off the紫金-threaded bracelet Lin Mo had made him—"Sleep with it under my pillow. Good luck charm."
By afternoon, the rain cleared. A rainbow arched over the arena, one end dipping into the practice court, the other vanishing behind the downtown skyline. Lin Mo pulled out his phone, snapping a photo.
His phone buzzed: a text from the Celtics' GM. "Fine. You win. But if you ever change your mind… green looks good on you."
Lin Mo texted back the rainbow photo, no caption.
LeBron leaned over, reading the message. "He'll get over it. Probably."
"Probably," Lin Mo agreed. He bit into his cake, the frosting sweet on his tongue. "But I won't. Get over this."