Home court smelled like popcorn and hope. Crypto.com Arena's purple lights bathed the floor, and Lin Mo's parents sat courtside, his mom waving a "Lakers Nation" towel, his dad gripping a foam finger like it was a lifeline.
"Nervous?" His mom mouthed, when he jogged past during warm-ups.
Lin Mo smiled, thumbs up, but his stomach twisted. He'd replayed Game 2's final layup a hundred times last night, the ball bouncing off the glass like a rejection.
LeBron noticed, handing him a water bottle. "Your mom's gonna hyperventilate if you keep scowling. Loosen up."
Game 3 started well. The crowd roared so loud it shook the rafters, and the Lakers fed off it—Davis dominated the paint, LeBron hit three straight threes, and Lin Mo found his rhythm, dishing out 8 assists in the first half. They led by 12 at halftime, and his dad pumped his fist, yelling, "That's my boy!"
Then the third quarter happened.
It started with a bad call: Lin Mo got whistled for a foul on Edwards, even though replays showed Edwards had flopped. "Bullshit!" Lin Mo yelled, earning a technical. Edwards sank both free throws, then hit a three on the next possession.
The momentum shifted. Towns, quiet all night, woke up—he hit a hook shot over Davis, then another, his mouthguard hanging out, grinning. Edwards kept trash-talking, inches from Lin Mo's face: "You thought one win made you a killer? Please."
Lin Mo's passes got sloppy. His shots short. He tried to take over, iso-ing Edwards, but his crossover was slow, predictable—Edwards stole it, slamming home a dunk that had the Timberwolves bench jumping.
"Time!" Coach called, but the damage was done. The lead shrank to 3.
Lin Mo sat on the bench, chest heaving. LeBron sat beside him, no anger, just fatigue. "You're letting him get to you. Joe ever let a loose thread make him quit sewing?"
Lin Mo thought of Joe's workbench, cluttered with half-finished projects—quilts with wonky squares, jackets with lopsided seams. "He'd say, 'Mistakes are just reminders to pay attention.'"
"Then pay attention." LeBron nodded at the court. "Davis is getting doubled. Find the open man."
Fourth quarter: Lin Mo tried, but his hands felt heavy. He missed an open three, then another. Davis, nursing a sprained ankle from a hard screen, couldn't keep up with Towns, who scored 10 straight points. With two minutes left, the Timberwolves led by 8.
Lin Mo drove to the basket, desperate, but Towns swatted his shot into the stands. The crowd fell silent.
Final score: Timberwolves 115, Lakers 107.
In the locker room, Lin Mo stared at his shoes. The scratch, scuffed deeper from the night's play, looked like a gash now. His dad appeared at the door, holding a small box. "Your mom found this in Joe's old stuff. He wanted you to have it."
Inside was Joe's thimble—brass, dented, with a tiny "J" engraved on the side. Under it, a note: "A thimble don't make the stitch, but it helps you push through the tough parts."
Lin Mo closed his fist around the thimble, its edges digging into his palm. Outside, the crowd filed out, quiet, and somewhere, a fan yelled, "Better luck next year."