The third quarter stretched like a raw nerve. The scoreboard flickered—68-67, Mavs—and the air in the arena felt thick enough to chew. Lin Mo's jersey clung to his back, soaked through, and every breath came in a wheeze, his ribs screaming like a stuck hinge. He'd taken three hard screens in five minutes, each one sending a jolt of pain up his spine, but when he'd started to sag, LeBron had clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Tough's not about not hurting. It's about hurting and moving anyway."
Doncic was moving like a man on a mission. He'd abandoned the slow, deliberate iso plays of the first half; now he attacked in bursts, slicing through the lane before the defense could rotate, then pausing just long enough to find the open man. With 7 minutes left in the quarter, he drove past Lin Mo, drew Davis' help, and fired a no-look pass to Gobert, who slammed it home—boom—the backboard rattling. The crowd roared, and Doncic turned, grinning sharp as a blade, and locked eyes with Lin Mo.
"Tired yet?" he mouthed.
Lin Mo didn't answer. He just jogged back, jaw set. His left hand drifted to his ribs, pressing gently through the jersey—checking, always checking, like he was afraid the bone might snap loose and clatter onto the court.
But then something shifted.
On the next possession, Lin Mo didn't chase Doncic through the screen. He hung back, feet planted, and read the play before it unfolded. Doncic, expecting Lin to hedge, tried to thread a pass to Hardy in the corner—too slow. Lin Mo lunged, fingers grazing the ball, and knocked it loose. Russell scooped it up, sprinted the length of the floor, and laid it in—swish. The lead shrank to 70-69.
"Nice read!" LeBron yelled, slapping Lin Mo's back (softly, careful of the ribs).
Lin Mo nodded, chest heaving. It wasn't speed. It was patience. Like Joe stitching that quilt: slow, steady, watching for the right thread.
The quarter turned into a slugfest. Hardy hit a 3 from the logo, LeBron answered with a driving layup, drawing a foul and sinking the free throw—and-one. Gobert blocked Davis' hook shot, but Davis grabbed the rebound, spun, and dunked over Gobert's outstretched arm—crash—the rim groaning. Doncic hit a step-back 3, Lin Mo countered with a mid-range jumper, his legs too wobbly for a 3, but the ball kissed the glass and dropped in.
With 2 minutes left, Doncic iso'd Lin Mo again. He dribbled between his legs, left to right, right to left, the crowd chanting "LUKA! LUKA!" so loud the floor vibrated. Lin Mo stayed low, hands up, ribs throbbing, and when Doncic drove—left shoulder down, trying to bowl him over—Lin Mo didn't move.
He took the charge.
The impact sent him sprawling, breath whooshing out, pain exploding in his side like a firecracker. He lay there, eyes squeezed shut, and for a second, all he could hear was his own heartbeat—thump-thump-thump—faster than the arena's bass.
Doncic leaned over him, shadow blocking the lights. "Admit it," he said, voice low enough only for Lin Mo to hear. "You can't win. Not like this."
Lin Mo pushed himself up, using his right arm to hoist his body, his left still clamped to his ribs. He met Doncic's gaze, sweat dripping into his eyes, and smiled—a small, tight thing, more grit than joy.
"I don't have to win," he said, voice ragged. "We do."
The ref blew the whistle: offensive foul. Doncic's jaw tightened. He stalked back to his bench, and as Lin Mo limped toward the Lakers' huddle, LeBron winked. "Told you. Tough's not about not hurting."