Game 2 began with a text from Joe's niece: "Uncle Joe used to say, 'A good seam knows when to give.' Don't fight the fabric."
Lin Mo stared at it during warm-ups, then tucked his phone away. The Target Center's green lights felt brighter, angrier, like they were trying to burn through his retinas. Edwards sauntered past, grinning. "Lucky shot last night, rook. Tonight we're sewing your mouth shut."
Lin Mo didn't reply, but his jaw tightened.
He started hot—too hot. First possession: a three from the corner. Second: a behind-the-back pass to LeBron for the dunk. The bench erupted, but LeBron caught his eye during the timeout. "Slow down. You're stitching too tight."
Lin Mo brushed it off. He was feeling it, the court humming under his feet, the ball an extension of his hand. By the end of the first quarter, he had 15 points, and the Lakers led by 8.
Then the Timberwolves adjusted.
They started trapping him off screens, forcing the ball out of his hands. When he tried to force a pass to Davis, it got picked off by McDaniels, who sprinted the length of the court for a layup. "Nice pass!" Edwards yelled, clapping.
Lin Mo's throat went dry. He tried to answer with a three, but it clanged off the rim. Another pass, rushed, sailed out of bounds.
"Calm down!" LeBron barked from the paint. "We got time!"
But Lin Mo couldn't calm down. The scratch on his shoe seemed to pulse, a reminder that one good game didn't erase the years of rushing—rushing to prove himself, rushing to make up for mistakes, rushing like Joe had when he'd botched that quilt for the church bazaar, stitching so fast the thread snapped.
Halftime. Locker room quiet except for Coach's voice, diagramming plays. Lin Mo pulled out Joe's diary, flipping to a dog-eared page: "Xiao Mo's problem? He plays like he's afraid the clock'll stop. But the clock's just a metronome. Keep time, don't chase it."
LeBron sat beside him, peeling an orange. "You ever watch me when I'm off? I don't force it. I let the game come to me. Joe taught you that—you just forgot."
Third quarter: Lin Mo tried to slow down. He passed when trapped, moved without the ball, set screens for Davis. It worked—for a while. The Lakers pulled back to within 3. But with two minutes left, he saw an opening: Edwards sagged off, leaving the lane wide. He drove, but Towns rotated, and Lin Mo, in a split second, tried to thread a pass between two defenders.
It hit Towns' knee, bouncing out of bounds.
Timberwolves ball. They scored, then again, and by the fourth quarter, the lead was 10.
Lin Mo fought—he hit a pair of threes, stole the ball from Edwards, fed LeBron for a dunk—but it felt like sewing with a frayed thread. Too many gaps.
With five seconds left, Davis blocked Towns' shot, and the ball landed in Lin Mo's hands. He sprinted upcourt, Edwards chasing. He went for the layup—too hard, too eager—and it bounced off the backboard, clanging harmlessly away.
Buzzer. Timberwolves 101, Lakers 98.
In the tunnel, Davis clapped him on the back. "My bad. Should've rotated faster."
Lin Mo shook his head. "I should've made it."
LeBron walked beside them, his voice low. "Frayed threads happen. You don't throw out the whole quilt. You fix the stitch."
Lin Mo thought of Joe's sewing kit, back in his hotel room—the tiny scissors, the spool of gold thread. Maybe it was time to use them.