The locker room reeked of liniment and nervous sweat. It was 6 p.m., an hour till tip-off, and the Lakers sat in a loose circle—Davis icing his ankle, Russell retying his shoes, LeBron scrolling through his phone, though Lin Mo knew he wasn't seeing it.
Lin Mo sat on his stool, staring at his jersey: the number 24, the "韧" patch Joe had sewn, now reinforced with gold thread, same as his shoe. He'd stitched it last night, by the hotel lamp, needle in hand, thinking of Joe's quilt—how each square had a story: a scrap from Lin Mo's first basketball jersey, a piece of Joe's old work shirt, a strip from his mom's favorite dress. "A quilt's not just fabric," Joe had said. "It's family. All stitched together."
This team was his quilt now: LeBron, the steady frame; Davis, the bold square; Russell, the quiet corner; and him, the thread holding it all.
LeBron looked up, catching his eye. "You good, Xiao Mo?"
"Better than good," Lin Mo said, and meant it.
He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the scouting report. "Edwards' left foot: heel down = left, toes = right. I'll stay low, strip on the crossover. Towns' screens: I'll hedge early, force him into LeBron's help. Davis, you hang back—save your legs for rebounds. Russell, you're in the corner—I will feed you, so be ready to shoot. No rush. Let the play breathe."
Russell nodded, grinning. "About time you stopped hoarding the ball, rook."
Davis laughed, wincing as he shifted his ankle. "Hedge hard, and I'll clean up the misses. Deal?"
"Deal," Lin Mo said, looking at LeBron.
LeBron closed his phone, leaning forward. "And when they trap you? Don't panic. I'll be in the paint, waiting. Trust the read."
Lin Mo thought of Game 4, when he'd panicked in a trap and thrown the ball into the stands. LeBron had grabbed him then, growling, "You think I'm here to watch you choke?" But now, his voice was soft. "You've got this. We've got this."
The locker room door swung open, and Coach walked in, clipboard in hand. "Last chance," he said, no yelling, no speeches. "Play like you know how. For each other."
He left, and the room fell quiet. Then Davis spoke, slow, like he was choosing his words: "My gramps used to say, 'You don't remember the easy wins. You remember the ones you had to bleed for.'" He nodded at Lin Mo. "This one's gonna bleed. But we'll stitch it shut."
Lin Mo pulled the thimble from his pocket, sliding it onto his finger. The dents pressed into his skin—Joe's dents, from years of pushing needles through thick fabric. "Joe used to say the same thing. 'Bleeding makes the thread stick.'"
LeBron stood, clapping his hands once. "Film time. Let's watch how we're gonna bury 'em."
They crowded around the tablet, LeBron fast-forwarding to a clip of the Timberwolves' defense: Towns hedging a screen, Edwards sagging off Russell to trap. "See that?" LeBron said, pausing. "Russell's wide open. Xiao Mo, hit him here, and it's three points. Easy."
Russell leaned in, eyes sharp. "I'll make it. Just get it to me."
Lin Mo nodded, thinking of the scratch on his shoe. This was the last stitch—the one that would hold the quilt together, or let it fall apart. He wouldn't let it fall.
The PA system crackled: "Players, report to the tunnel in 10 minutes."
Lin Mo stood, pulling on his jersey. The "韧" patch felt warm against his chest.
Outside, the crowd roared, a sound like thunder. Edwards' voice boomed from the visiting locker room, loud enough to hear: "We're sending 'em home tonight!"
LeBron smiled, clapping Lin Mo on the back. "Let's make him eat those words."
Lin Mo touched the thimble, steady now, and followed his team to the tunnel. The shadow of the final stitch stretched ahead, long and dark, but he wasn't afraid.
He was ready to push through.
The locker room reeked of liniment and nervous sweat. It was 6 p.m., an hour till tip-off, and the Lakers sat in a loose circle—Davis icing his ankle, Russell retying his shoes, LeBron scrolling through his phone, though Lin Mo knew he wasn't seeing it.
Lin Mo sat on his stool, staring at his jersey: the number 24, the "韧" patch Joe had sewn, now reinforced with gold thread, same as his shoe. He'd stitched it last night, by the hotel lamp, needle in hand, thinking of Joe's quilt—how each square had a story: a scrap from Lin Mo's first basketball jersey, a piece of Joe's old work shirt, a strip from his mom's favorite dress. "A quilt's not just fabric," Joe had said. "It's family. All stitched together."
This team was his quilt now: LeBron, the steady frame; Davis, the bold square; Russell, the quiet corner; and him, the thread holding it all.
LeBron looked up, catching his eye. "You good, Xiao Mo?"
"Better than good," Lin Mo said, and meant it.
He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the scouting report. "Edwards' left foot: heel down = left, toes = right. I'll stay low, strip on the crossover. Towns' screens: I'll hedge early, force him into LeBron's help. Davis, you hang back—save your legs for rebounds. Russell, you're in the corner—I will feed you, so be ready to shoot. No rush. Let the play breathe."
Russell nodded, grinning. "About time you stopped hoarding the ball, rook."
Davis laughed, wincing as he shifted his ankle. "Hedge hard, and I'll clean up the misses. Deal?"
"Deal," Lin Mo said, looking at LeBron.
LeBron closed his phone, leaning forward. "And when they trap you? Don't panic. I'll be in the paint, waiting. Trust the read."
Lin Mo thought of Game 4, when he'd panicked in a trap and thrown the ball into the stands. LeBron had grabbed him then, growling, "You think I'm here to watch you choke?" But now, his voice was soft. "You've got this. We've got this."
The locker room door swung open, and Coach walked in, clipboard in hand. "Last chance," he said, no yelling, no speeches. "Play like you know how. For each other."
He left, and the room fell quiet. Then Davis spoke, slow, like he was choosing his words: "My gramps used to say, 'You don't remember the easy wins. You remember the ones you had to bleed for.'" He nodded at Lin Mo. "This one's gonna bleed. But we'll stitch it shut."
Lin Mo pulled the thimble from his pocket, sliding it onto his finger. The dents pressed into his skin—Joe's dents, from years of pushing needles through thick fabric. "Joe used to say the same thing. 'Bleeding makes the thread stick.'"
LeBron stood, clapping his hands once. "Film time. Let's watch how we're gonna bury 'em."
They crowded around the tablet, LeBron fast-forwarding to a clip of the Timberwolves' defense: Towns hedging a screen, Edwards sagging off Russell to trap. "See that?" LeBron said, pausing. "Russell's wide open. Xiao Mo, hit him here, and it's three points. Easy."
Russell leaned in, eyes sharp. "I'll make it. Just get it to me."
Lin Mo nodded, thinking of the scratch on his shoe. This was the last stitch—the one that would hold the quilt together, or let it fall apart. He wouldn't let it fall.
The PA system crackled: "Players, report to the tunnel in 10 minutes."
Lin Mo stood, pulling on his jersey. The "韧" patch felt warm against his chest.
Outside, the crowd roared, a sound like thunder. Edwards' voice boomed from the visiting locker room, loud enough to hear: "We're sending 'em home tonight!"
LeBron smiled, clapping Lin Mo on the back. "Let's make him eat those words."
Lin Mo touched the thimble, steady now, and followed his team to the tunnel. The shadow of the final stitch stretched ahead, long and dark, but he wasn't afraid.
He was ready to push through.