Doncic had the ball. 18 seconds. The season, the Finals, everything hung in the balance.
He dribbled at half-court, eyes scanning the defense—Davis low, Russell glued to Hardy, Lin Mo hovering, hands up, ribs throbbing. 10 seconds. He started to move, crossing over, left to right, then right to left, trying to shake Lin Mo.
Lin Mo stayed with him, step for step, his legs wobbling but his focus sharp. 5 seconds. Doncic stopped, planted, and rose for a 3-pointer—the same shot he'd made a hundred times, the shot that would send them to the Finals.
The crowd stood, screaming, their voices merging into a single, deafening roar.
Lin Mo jumped.
He couldn't jump high—maybe a foot, maybe less—but he jumped. His right hand stretched, fingertips grazing Doncic's wrist, just enough to tweak the shot.
The ball left Doncic's hand, arcing higher than it should have, drifting left.
It clanged off the rim.
Davis, who'd been lurking under the basket, leaped—so high, like he was floating—and grabbed the rebound as the buzzer screamed.
Lakers 113, Mavs 112.
Lin Mo collapsed to the floor, laughing and gasping, tears mixing with sweat on his cheeks. His ribs throbbed so badly he thought he might pass out, but he didn't care. LeBron, who'd sprinted back from the locker room, lifted him up, hugging him so tight Lin Mo grunted—but it was a good grunt, a we did it grunt.
"You did it," LeBron said, voice thick. "You actually did it."
The team piled on, a heap of sweat and joy and relief—Davis, Russell, Gabe, all of them, slapping his back, yelling his name. Lin Mo pulled the thimble from his pocket, its metal warm now from his sweat, dented and scratched but unbroken. He held it up, and they gathered around, heads bowed, like they were staring at a treasure.
Doncic walked past, his jersey unzipped, hair matted to his forehead. He paused, looking at the thimble, then at Lin Mo. No smirk, no anger—just a nod, sharp and quick, before he kept walking.
Respect. Raw, unspoken, and heavier than any trophy.
Lin Mo smiled.
The last stitch had hurt. It had burned, and ached, and made him want to quit a hundred times. But it had held.
He looked up at the scoreboard, the final score glowing bright, and thought of Joe's quilt—how every thread, even the frayed ones, mattered.
The Finals waited.
And so did the next thread.