The Target Center's green lights hit the court like spilled paint, thick and unyielding. Lin Mo paused at half-court during warm-ups, staring at the floor—same wood grain as last year, same scuff marks near the free-throw line. He flexed his toes, and the scratch on his sneaker caught the light, a pale white line against the black upper.
"Quit staring at the floor like it owes you money." LeBron's voice rumbled behind him, followed by the thud of a basketball hitting Lin Mo's palms. "Shoot. Let's see if that wrist's still got the touch."
Lin Mo spun, launching a three. It swished. LeBron grinned, but his eyes stayed sharp. "Good. Now don't let it go cold when the whistle blows."
The first quarter proved easier said than done. The Timberwolves came out snarling—Towns set a screen that hit Lin Mo square in the chest, sending him stumbling; Edwards stole a lazy pass from him, streaking for a dunk that shook the rim. The crowd roared, "Lakers suck!" and Lin Mo's throat went dry. He caught a glimpse of his shoe mid-dribble, that scratch winking up at him, and suddenly he was back in last year's locker room, staring at the replay of that botched pass.
"Hey!" Davis' elbow nudged his ribs. "Towns is cheating screens. Let me take him."
Lin Mo blinked. Davis had shifted into position, shoulders squared, jaw set. "You good?"
"Fine." Lin Mo nodded, but when he drove the lane next time, his hands trembled. He tried to force a pass to LeBron, and it sailed over his head.
Timeout. Coach drew up a play on the whiteboard, but Lin Mo's eyes drifted to his phone in the locker room—he'd snapped a photo of Joe's diary entry: "Rushing a stitch makes it weak. Let the thread find its rhythm."
LeBron noticed, clapping him on the back. "You're thinking too hard. Remember summer? Two hundred layups a day—you didn't think then. You just did."
Lin Mo closed his eyes. He remembered: the gym at 6 a.m., sweat pooling on the floor, LeBron leaning against the wall, counting each make. "Eighty-nine… ninety… that one looked like a wounded duck, Xiao Mo." But when he hit two hundred, LeBron had grabbed a ball, saying, "One more. For Joe."
He opened his eyes. The second quarter started, and Lin Mo let his body take over. When Edwards tried to cross him over, Lin Mo didn't lunge—he stayed low, feet planted, and stripped the ball. On the break, he didn't even glance at the crowd. Just a layup, soft off the glass.
Davis roared, slamming a fist into the air. "There he is!"
The rest of the game felt like unspooling a tight thread—slow, deliberate. Lin Mo found his rhythm: a bounce pass to Davis in the post, a step-back three over Edwards, a steal that led to LeBron's dunk. By the fourth quarter, the score was knotted at 109.
Twenty seconds left. The ball found Lin Mo's hands. Same spot as last year: left wing, Towns closing in, the crowd screaming. This time, he didn't hesitate. He drove left, used Towns' momentum against him, and elevated. Towns' hand grazed his wrist, but the layup dropped. Whistle. Free throw.
He breathed in, let it out, and sank it.
Lakers 112, Timberwolves 109.
In the locker room, Lin Mo sat on the bench, peeling off his socks. LeBron tossed him a bottle of ice water. "First win's the hardest stitch. Now we gotta make sure it holds."
Lin Mo smiled, glancing at his shoe. The scratch was still there, but under the fluorescent lights, it looked less like a flaw and more like a marker—here's where it started.