The locker room reeked of champagne and sweat, a heady mix that clung to the walls like a second skin. Lin Mo sat on a bench, his jersey peeled halfway up his torso, as the team doctor pressed a cold stethoscope to his ribs. The man's brow furrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was clinical, sharp enough to cut through the lingering buzz of celebration. "Hairline fracture," he said, tapping a spot just below Lin Mo's left pectoral. "You'll need at least two weeks of rest, maybe more. Push it, and it could displace. Then we're talking surgery."
Lin Mo's fingers tightened around the thimble in his pocket. The metal was warm from his palm, its edges worn smooth by months of friction. Across the room, LeBron was laughing, clapping Davis on the back, but when he caught sight of Lin Mo's face, his smile faded. He crossed the room in three long strides, tossing a damp towel over Lin Mo's shoulders. "Doc's right, kid. Finals ain't about being a hero. It's about being smart."
Lin Mo stared at the floor, at the scuff marks where sneakers had scraped the tile. "You ever see Joe's quilt?" he asked, voice rough. LeBron shook his head. "There's a patch near the corner—floral print, faded. It got a tear, right down the middle, when she dropped the iron on it. She didn't replace it. Just sewed over it, three layers deep, with thread so tight you can barely see the split. Said 'broken things hold better when you fix 'em slow.'"
LeBron sighed, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes—recognition, maybe, of a kindred stubbornness. "Fine. But you're riding the bench till that rib heals enough to take a hit. No exceptions."
The next morning, Lin Mo's phone buzzed during rehab. It was a clip from Dončić's post-game interview, the Mavericks star leaning into the mic, his jaw still tight with the ghost of defeat. "Lin Mo's tough," he said, and the room went quiet—no smirk, no barb. "Tougher than I thought. But Finals? He can't hide behind that rib forever. I hope he plays. I want the real thing."
Lin Mo set his phone down, grinning through the ache in his side. He typed a reply, fingers hovering over the screen for a beat before hitting send: "Save the speeches. I'll be there."