Scrimmage day, and Lin Mo got burned. Again.
He'd been cleared for light contact, but when a rookie guard drove past him, his shoulder clipped Lin Mo's ribs, and Lin Mo crumpled, gasping. The ball went in, and the bench went quiet.
"Maybe doc was right," someone muttered.
Lin Mo pushed himself up, his face hot. He grabbed the ball, dribbling hard, but his hands were shaking—from anger, or pain, he couldn't tell. When he tried to shoot, it clanged off the rim, loud as a gong.
He stormed to the locker room, yanking off his jersey. Where was the thimble? He'd had it this morning—he knew he had. He tore through his bag, upending socks and tape, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Looking for this?"
LeBron stood in the doorway, holding the thimble between his fingers, its metal surface glinting. "Dropped it on the court. You've been squeezing it so hard, the edges are bent."
Lin Mo reached for it, but LeBron pulled back. "You think this thing's magic? It ain't. Joe didn't make that quilt with a thimble—she made it with patience. You're trying to carry the team on that rib, and it's gonna get us both killed."
"I'm not—"
"You are," LeBron said, soft but firm. "I've been there. 2014, Finals. Sprained my ankle, tried to play through it. Cost us the series. Tough ain't about you—it's about the guy next to you. Let us carry the load till you're ready."
Lin Mo stared at the floor. When he spoke, his voice was small. "What if I never get 'ready'? What if I'm just… broken?"
LeBron tossed him the thimble. "Then we fix you. Together. That's what teams do."
The next day, Lin Mo asked coach to switch his role: off-ball, cutting, setting screens. No hero plays, just glue. When he hit a corner three that afternoon, Davis roared, slapping his back so hard Lin Mo grunted—but it was a good grunt, a we're in this grunt.
After practice, he held the thimble up to the light, tracing its dents with his thumb. It looked a lot like him—beat up, but still holding.