Trade deadline eve hung over the Lakers' locker room like a storm cloud, but the mood was anything but gloomy. When Lin Mo walked in, he stopped short: the whiteboard, usually covered in play diagrams and "No Dunking" reminders, now bore a single, bold message scrawled in purple marker: "WHO DARES TAKE LIN MO GETS 100 REBOUNDS. NO EXCUSES."
Beneath it, signatures exploded across the board: LeBron's looping autograph, Davis's blocky scrawl, Reaves's messy initials. Even the rookies—usually too shy to write more than their numbers—had added notes: "Best passer ever!" "Don't go, we'll miss your pre-game pancakes!" One had drawn a stick figure of Lin Mo, dunking over a tiny green-clad Celtics player.
Lin Mo laughed, leaning against the doorframe. "Y'all skip practice to graffiti the board?"
"Nah," Davis said, but his ears turned red. He was standing too close to the board, a marker still in his hand. Behind him, half his signature—"A.D."—blotted over the edge, the ink bleeding into the wall. "Just… reinforcing team rules."
"Team rules, huh?" Lin Mo raised an eyebrow. "Since when do we fine people for trades?"
"Since the trades are stupid," Reaves piped up, tossing a ball to Lin Mo. "You're our glue. Glue don't get traded for… for picks. Picks are just future glue. We need now glue."
Lin Mo caught the ball, spinning it on his finger. He thought of Joe's shop, how the regulars had once staged a "save the shop" protest when a developer tried to buy the building. They'd hung signs in the windows, brought coffee, even helped Joe sew buttons on a rush order. "Family don't let family get evicted," Joe had said later, grinning.
His phone buzzed. Another text from the Celtics' GM: "Last chance. Plane's fueled." Then the Bucks' GM: "Milwaukee's cold, but our rims are warm." Then the Nets: "Brooklyn's got better bagels."
Lin Mo typed a single reply to all: "My glue's already dry."
He set his phone down, grinning at the board. "Y'all realize this is permanent, right? The janitor's gonna kill you."
"Worth it," Davis said, finally stepping back from his smudged signature. "Old Man Joe would say… uh… 'Big knots hold better.'"
Lin Mo laughed. "Close enough. He'd also say 'Stop wasting markers and go shoot free throws.'"
They filed out, but Lin Mo lingered, staring at the board. In the corner, someone had added a tiny sewing machine, drawn in gold marker, with a thread looping around his name.
He pulled out his phone, snapped a photo, and set it as his lock screen.