Crypto.com Arena smelled like old popcorn and fresh hope. It was noon, five hours till tip-off, and Lin Mo sat alone on the bench, legs stretched out, staring at the court. The floorboards, worn smooth by decades of games, had a pattern—light and dark, like the stripes on Joe's favorite quilt.
He'd snuck in early, again, because the noise of the team was too loud, the weight of "last chance" pressing heavier with every arrival. His mom had texted: "Dad's got the foam finger. I packed your lucky snacks." His sister: "Don't think. Just play." But thinking was good, he realized. Thinking was how you turned panic into purpose.
Lin Mo pulled off his shoe, turning it in his hands. The gold thread he'd sewn over the scratch was still there, a little frayed from practice, but tight. He'd re-stitched it last night, sitting on his hotel bed, needle in hand, Joe's note propped up beside him: "A stitch isn't strong because it's perfect. It's strong because it's meant."
What did he mean, "meant"? Maybe that every mistake, every scar, was leading to this—one last game, one last chance to get it right.
He thought of Davis, icing his ankle in the training room. "I can go 20 minutes," Davis had grunted, but Lin Mo knew he was lying. His limp was worse this morning, a slow drag, like his leg was made of lead. But Davis would fight—he always did, even when he shouldn't. Protect him, Lin Mo thought. Don't make him chase Towns all game. Hedge the screens, force Towns to roll into LeBron. Save Davis' legs for the fourth quarter.
He thought of LeBron, 39, but still moving like a man half his age in practice. "I'll take Edwards in the fourth," LeBron had said, but Lin Mo shook his head. Edwards was too fast, too hungry—LeBron's legs needed to be fresh for the clutch. I'll guard him. All game. Let LeBron conserve energy.
He thought of Russell, sitting in the locker room, headphones on, bouncing his knee. Russell had a habit of shrinking in big games, but Lin Mo had seen him in summer league, draining threes with the clock winding down. "You're cold-blooded," Lin Mo had told him then. Russell had laughed: "Only when someone feeds me right." Feed him. Early and often. Make him believe.
Lin Mo stood, dribbling, and the ball hit the floor with a thud that echoed. He pretended Edwards was in front of him, shoulders squared, grinning. Left foot, heel down—he's going left. Lin Mo shifted, staying low, and swiped the ball—clean, just like he'd practiced.
On the break, he didn't rush. He slowed, scanned, and passed to the corner, where Russell's ghost caught it and shot. Swish.
"Nice pass!" a voice yelled. Lin Mo turned—his dad, standing by the tunnel, foam finger in hand, mom beside him, eyes wide. "We came early to watch you warm up. Didn't mean to sneak up."
Lin Mo laughed, jogging over. His mom pulled him into a hug, her perfume mixing with the arena's popcorn smell. "You look different," she said, pulling back to study his face. "Calmer."
He touched the thimble in his pocket, the metal warm from his body heat. "Joe's thimble fits now."
His dad clapped him on the back, hard. "Joe always said you'd find your rhythm. Just took a few stitches."
Lin Mo nodded, looking back at the court. The light slanted through the windows, painting the floor in gold. It felt like a sign—like the fabric was finally ready to be sewn.
He jogged back, dribbling, and this time, when he shot, he didn't think of the crowd or the series or the pressure. He thought of Joe's hands, steady as stone, guiding the needle.
The ball swished, and for a moment, the arena was quiet—just the hum of the lights, the soft thud of his heartbeat, and the weight of a needle that was finally ready to push through.