Doncic didn't waste time. He took the inbound, sprinted upcourt, and called a timeout—10 seconds on the clock, 45 left in the game. The Mavs huddled, Coach Kidd gesturing wildly, while Lin Mo bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His ribs felt like they were being crushed in a vice, but he grinned anyway.
When play resumed, Doncic had the ball at the top, Gobert setting a screen. Lin Mo fought through it, slower than he wanted, but he stayed tight—shoulder to shoulder with Doncic, not letting him create space. Doncic dribbled left, then right, crossover after crossover, the crowd chanting "LUKA!" like a prayer.
10 seconds.
Doncic drove, right shoulder down, trying to bowl Lin Mo over. Lin Mo didn't budge. He planted his feet, braced for impact, and as Doncic tried to flick the ball to Hardy—there.
Lin Mo's hand shot out, fingers brushing the ball, just enough to knock it loose.
It popped into the air, spinning end over end, and Lin Mo dove.
He landed hard on his side, the impact sending a wave of pain through his ribs—white-hot, blinding—but he clutched the ball to his chest, rolling onto his back. The crowd roared, but he couldn't hear it. All he could hear was his own gasping, the blood rushing in his ears.
Doncic dived for it too, but Lin Mo rolled to his feet, ignoring the screaming in his side, and fired a pass to Russell, who was already sprinting upcourt. Russell drew the foul, went to the line, and sank both free throws—swish, swish.
113-112. 18 seconds left.
Lin Mo stumbled back, leaning against the scorer's table, and Davis clapped him on the back—gentle, so gentle—and said, "You're crazy. You know that?"
Lin Mo laughed, a harsh, breathless sound, and winced. "Yeah. Maybe."