A crack in the curtains let a sliver of green light seep into the room, sharp as an ice pick, landing on Lin Mo's sneakers. It was the color of the Timberwolves' home court—刺眼 (blinding)—just like last year's playoffs, when their logo flashed on the scoreboard, freezing at "Timberwolves 108, Lakers 105."
Lin Mo sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing the scratch on the shoe's upper. A souvenir from the final game last year: he'd dove for a loose ball, the tip of his shoe scraping the floor, and the mark still hadn't worn away. He'd tried scrubbing it with toothpaste, rubbing it with a cloth, even asked the equipment manager for a new pair—but in the end, he'd kept these.
"Scars are for remembering the pain, not hiding it." Old Man Joe's voice suddenly echoed, as clear as yesterday. Lin Mo smiled, digging a cloth pouch from his bag. Inside was Joe's old thimble, and a scrap of fabric repurposed from an old Lakers jersey, with the character "韧" (tenacity) embroidered in gold thread, crooked but stubborn.
He spread the fabric over his knees, his指尖 brushing the gold stitching. Images from last year flooded in: the final two minutes of the fourth quarter, him racing downcourt with the ball, an open lane ahead, yet some foolish impulse made him try a behind-the-back pass. The ball clanged off the backboard support, out of bounds. The Timberwolves seized the chance, Towns sinking the buzzer-beater, the Target Center erupting while he stood frozen, listening to fans chant "Lakers go home," his heartbeat louder than any drum.
"Can't sleep?" A knock at the door—LeBron, his voice warm with amusement. "Knew you'd be up."
Lin Mo opened the door. LeBron held two mugs of hot cocoa, steam fogging his glasses. "What're you stewing over? Last year's play?"
Lin Mo took a mug, warmth seeping into his fingertips. "Wondering if making that layup instead would've changed things."
"Nah." LeBron leaned against the wall. "You'd still be in this room tonight, figuring out how to win this one. Old Man Joe never taught you 'fussing over old stitches beats sewing new ones'?"
Lin Mo sipped the cocoa, the sweetness coating his throat. He thought of last summer, holing up in the gym, draining two hundred layups a day until his wrists ached. LeBron had stayed, calling him "stubborn" but always handing him a water bottle when he flagged. Davis had come too, awkwardly practicing defense with him, muttering "This year I'll swat Towns' shot."
Even Joe's niece had sent a package: Joe's old sewing diary. One entry read: "Xiao Mo plays too eager, like me rushing a stitch. Hurry breaks thread. Slow, steady—let the fabric settle."
Lin Mo folded the fabric, tucking it back in his bag beside the thimble. He stripped off his jacket, pulling on his practice jersey, the purple-and-gold number pressing against his back like a well-ironed patch.
Tomorrow, that green light would still sting. The scratch on his shoe would throb, quiet but persistent. But this time, he wouldn't rush to erase it.
He'd carry that scratch like Joe's needle—steady, sharp, piercing the Timberwolves' defense.
His phone lit up: a text from Davis. "7 AM defense drills? Old spot."
Lin Mo typed "Yep," then shut it off, lying back. In the dark, he swore he heard Joe's sewing machine hum—slow, steady, stitch by stitch.
Just like he'd play tomorrow.