The film room lights dimmed, and the Celtics' logo blazed to life on the screen—green and gold, sharp as a blade. Coach pointed to Tatum, who was torching a defender with a crossover, his shoulder dipping like a bull about to charge. "This is what you're up against," he said, pausing the tape. "Tatum's averaging 31 in the playoffs. He'll target your ribs, Lin. Every screen, every drive—he's gonna test that fracture like it's a loose thread."
Lin Mo nodded, but his eyes were on the background: Brown, slipping off a screen, his feet barely touching the floor as he sprinted to the corner. "He hesitates," Lin Mo said, pointing. "After the pick, when he goes baseline. About half a second. Like… when you're sewing a curve, and you slow down to keep the stitch straight."
LeBron leaned forward. "You think you can exploit that?"
"Not with speed," Lin Mo said. "With timing. Let him come to me."
Rehab that afternoon was brutal. The trainer strapped resistance bands around his torso, making him twist and pivot, his rib screaming with every movement. "Breathe," she said, but Lin Mo's lungs felt like they were trapped in a vice. When he stumbled, Davis caught him, his hand firm on Lin Mo's shoulder. "Easy. You ain't gotta prove nothing here."
"I gotta prove it to myself," Lin Mo grunted, pushing away. He grabbed a ball, dribbling slowly, focusing on the rhythm of his feet—left, right, left—until the pain blurred into background noise.
That night, he called Joe. Her sewing machine whirred in the background, a steady clack-clack-clack. "You sound tired," she said.
"Just sore," he said, propping his phone on the nightstand. "Celtics are mean. Tatum's… he's like a freight train."
"Freight trains run on tracks, though," Joe said. "You watch the tracks, you know where they're gonna go. Remember that quilt I made with the train pattern? I messed up the first engine—stitches all crooked. So I sewed a hill in front of it, made it look like it was climbing. Turned a mistake into the best part."
Lin Mo smiled, pressing a hand to his ribs. "Yeah. I remember."
The next day, he skipped the weight room and spent two hours watching Tatum's film, not of his dunks or threes, but of his feet—how he planted before a drive, how his left knee dipped half an inch when he was about to crossover. By the time practice ended, Lin Mo's notebook was full of scribbles: 17.2 seconds between picks, leans right before going left, breathes heavy when he's tired.
LeBron found him there, staring at the tatical board, where he'd drawn tiny X's at the spots Tatum loved to attack. "You're turning into a coach," he said, grinning.
"Just learning the threads," Lin Mo said.