Game 4 felt like walking through mud.
The air in Crypto.com Arena was heavy with resignation. Even the diehards looked deflated, their "Defend the Lake" signs hanging limp. Lin Mo's mom tried to smile, but her eyes were red. "Just play your best, honey. That's all we ask."
He wanted to. But from the first tip, everything felt wrong.
His first shot: a wide-open three, clanged off the rim. Second: a layup, too soft, bouncing off the front of the hoop. Edwards, guarding him, snickered. "Lost your touch, rook?"
Lin Mo didn't answer. He couldn't. The scratch on his shoe, now a ragged mess, seemed to pull him down, like an anchor. He turned the ball over, then again, his passes sailing over teammates' heads, his feet slow to move on defense.
LeBron tried to carry them, scoring 20 in the first half, but even he looked worn—his legs heavy, his jumpshots lacking lift. Davis, his ankle swollen, could barely run, grimacing with every step.
The Timberwolves feasted. Towns dominated the paint, Edwards scored at will, and their bench poured in points, turning the game into a rout. By halftime, it was 68-45.
In the locker room, Coach didn't yell. He just stared at the floor, then said, "Fifth quarter starts now. Play for pride."
Lin Mo wanted to. But when he checked back in, he felt like a ghost—going through the motions, but not really there. He missed a free throw, airballed a three, and when Edwards blew past him for a dunk, slapping the backboard, Lin Mo didn't even flinch.
LeBron fouled out with five minutes left, his sixth foul a frustrated reach on Towns. As he walked to the bench, he locked eyes with Lin Mo, his gaze sharp. "You quit on me?"
Lin Mo's throat tightened. He shook his head, but his next pass still went astray.
Final horn: Timberwolves 119, Lakers 96. Series 3-1.
The locker room was silent. No one yelled, no one cried. Just the sound of zippers, of shoes dropping, of defeat settling like dust.
Davis clapped Lin Mo's shoulder, his hand heavy. "We'll get 'em next time."
Lin Mo nodded, but he didn't believe it. He pulled off his jersey, the "韧" patch Joe had sewn now frayed at the edges, and stared at it.
LeBron appeared beside him, holding a towel. "You know what Joe used to say about quilts? The best ones have the most patches. You don't throw 'em out 'cause one square's ugly." He nodded at the thimble in Lin Mo's hand—he'd been clutching it without realizing. "That thing's dented for a reason. Means it's been used."
Lin Mo squeezed the thimble, its metal cold against his palm. Outside, a janitor mopped the floor, the sound of the bucket clanging echoing in the empty arena.