Second quarter: Doncic iso'd Lin Mo at the wing, dribbling slow enough to make the crowd roar. Between legs, behind back, left to right, right to left—no rhythm, no pattern. Lin Mo stayed low, knees screaming, and then—boom—Doncic exploded past him, left shoulder brushing Lin's chest, and laid it in soft off the glass.
As he jogged back, he leaned in, breath hot on Lin's ear. "You studied the old me. I'm new."
Lin Mo's jaw tightened. He drove the next possession, Eurostepping past Gobert, but Gobert's hand swatted the ball away—clang off the rim, Hardy grabbing it. Fast break, Doncic to Hardy, 3-pointer. The lead hit 15.
Halftime: Mavs 68, Lakers 50. Doncic had 24 points, 6 assists, 1 rebound—1 rebound—like he was saving energy. In the locker room, Lin Mo stared at his shoes. The gold "Lakers" script looked faded, like it was washing away.
Third quarter: Lin Mo dove for a loose ball, elbow scraping the floor raw, and hit a 3—swish—to cut it to 15. But Doncic answered with a 4-point play: driving into Lin Mo's chest, drawing the foul, and draining the free throw while Lin Mo stood there, palms stinging.
"Calm down!" LeBron grabbed his arm, hard enough to leave a mark. "He wants you tight. Loosen up."
Lin Mo nodded, but his chest felt like it was in a vice. With 2 minutes left in Q3, Doncic drove the lane, Gobert screening again. Lin Mo tried to slip around—too slow—and collided with Hardy, who'd cut in from the corner.
Hardy's elbow caught Lin Mo's ribs, right below the sternum.
Air whooshed out of him. He hit the floor, vision blurring, and felt something give—a pop?—like a twig snapping. The ref blew the whistle: no foul, just a collision.
"Stay still," the trainer said, kneeling. He pressed a hand to Lin's side, and pain shot up Lin's throat. "Breathe. Slow."
Lin Mo looked up. Doncic stood at half-court, drinking water, eyes on the floor. No smirk, no triumph. Just… focus.
Then everything went white for a second.