The fourth quarter started with a 87-87 tie, and the arena felt like a pressure cooker. Lin Mo's ribs ached so badly he could barely bend to tie his shoes, so Gabe knelt and did it for him, muttering, "You owe me a beer. A good one."
Doncic kept attacking, but the Lakers' defense had coalesced. Davis swatted two of his layups; LeBron intercepted a cross-court pass; even Russell, who'd been shaky all night, stripped Hardy of the ball and sprinted for a breakaway, slamming it home to put the Lakers up 98-95. The crowd fell silent, save for a pocket of Lakers fans in the corner, chanting "DEFENSE!"
With 4 minutes left, Doncic hit a 3-pointer—swish—tying it at 102. Then he stole the ball from Russell, raced upcourt, and dunked, hanging on the rim for a beat, letting the moment linger. Mavs 104-102.
Lin Mo's vision blurred. He was running on fumes now, his legs heavy as lead, his lungs burning like he'd swallowed a match. He subbed out for 45 seconds, leaning against the bench, head between his knees, and the trainer pressed a towel full of ice to his ribs. It stung, but it was a good kind of sting—proof he was still here.
When he checked back in, the score was 108-106, Mavs. LeBron fouled out 30 seconds later, slamming his fist on the bench so hard the Gatorade bottles rattled. "Finish it," he said to Lin Mo, before trudging to the locker room.
Lin Mo nodded.
Doncic scored again—fadeaway jumper, over Davis—to make it 110-106. Then Davis hit a hook shot, and Hardy drilled a 3: 112-109, Mavs, 1 minute left.
The arena was silent. You could hear the squeak of shoes on the floor, the refs' whistles, the faint hum of the scoreboard.
Lin Mo inbounded to Russell, who dribbled upcourt, killing time, the clock ticking down—50 seconds, 40, 30. Doncic shadowed Lin Mo, hands up, hips low, like he was guarding a bomb.
Russell passed back to Lin Mo.
25 feet from the rim. Doncic in his face, breath hot on his cheek. Lin Mo's legs trembled. He thought of Joe, stitching that last seam, her hands shaking, but her fingers never slipping. He thought of the thimble in his pocket, cold against his thigh.
He didn't hesitate.
Shot fake—Doncic bit, lunging forward—then a step back, legs screaming, ribs on fire. He released the ball, and for a second, time stopped.
It sailed, arc perfect, and dropped through the net—swish.
112-111. 45 seconds left.
The Lakers' bench erupted. Lin Mo stood there, chest heaving, and Doncic stared at him, something like shock flickering across his face.
"New trick," Lin Mo mouthed.