They wheeled Lin Mo off on a stretcher, and the crowd's "LIN MO!" chants sounded like they were underwater. In the training room, the doctor held up an X-ray—faint as a spiderweb, a line snaking through his fifth rib.
"Contusion, probably cracked. You're done."
Lin Mo tried to sit up, and pain lanced through him, sharp as a needle. "No—"
"One hit, and it's a break. Season over." The doctor's voice was soft, but firm. "You can't."
Through the door, the arena roared. Doncic had hit another 3.
When Lin Mo limped back to the bench, the scoreboard read 98-73. The Lakers looked lost—Davis missing layups, Russell forcing passes, LeBron yelling so hard his face flushed. Doncic wasn't even scoring much anymore. He just stood at the top, pointing, directing traffic, like he was conducting an orchestra.
Final horn: Mavs 132, Lakers 105. Series 3-2.
In the locker room, Lin Mo's thimble lay on the floor, where he'd dropped it when he fell. He bent to pick it up, ribs screaming, and noticed a new dent—right where it had hit the hardwood.
LeBron clapped his back, gentle as a butterfly. "Rest. Friday's a new day."
Lin Mo nodded, but his breath came in gasps. What if Friday didn't care about rest?