Staples Center's lights blazed like a furnace, and Lin Mo's jersey stuck to his back before tip-off. He patted the thimble in his pocket—Joe's, brass with a tiny scratch on the rim, from when she'd dropped it on the kitchen tile. The crowd chanted "FINALS!" so loud the concession stands rattled, but when Doncic jogged out, the noise seemed to shrink.
No high-fiving fans, no winking at the cameras. Just a slow walk to half-court, eyes scanning the Lakers' bench like he was reading a menu.
First play: Doncic at the top, Gobert setting a screen wide as a truck. Lin Mo ducked under, shoulder grazing Gobert's hip, and planted—feet shoulder-width, hands up, just like he'd practiced. But Doncic didn't drive. He held the ball, fingers drumming the leather, and let Lin Mo's momentum carry him half a step past. Then he lifted, elbow high, and the ball sailed—arc perfect, like it had a GPS to the net.
Swish.
Lin Mo's throat clicked. He'd watched that shot 47 times in film. Doncic always drove after a screen. Always.
Q1 turned into a dissection. Doncic's passes: no flicker of his left eyebrow, the tell Lin Mo had memorized. His fakes: right foot heel-first, then sudden toe-first, making Lin Mo lurch the wrong way. When Lin Mo hedged, he hit Hardy in the corner—splash—before Lin could rotate. When Lin dropped back, he stepped into a fadeaway, legs splayed like a compass, and the ball kissed the glass on its way in.
"12 and 4, zero turnovers," Russell muttered, as the quarter horn blared. Mavs 34, Lakers 22. "He's not even trying."
Lin Mo wiped his forehead. His playbook felt like it was written in a dead language. Doncic wasn't just adjusting—he was rewriting the rules.