Dončić's social media lit up three days later: a photo of his sneakers, scuffed and caked with mud, on a runway. Caption: Summer starts now.
Lin Mo laughed, typing a comment before he could think better of it: Save some court time for me. We ain't done.
The reply came in seconds: Worried you'll be too busy icing that rib.
It was a jab, but there was no venom—more like a challenge, a promise. Lin Mo screenshot it, setting it as his lock screen.
That afternoon, the Lakers held a charity event at a community center, and Lin Mo found himself sitting next to a kid in a Mavericks jersey, his lip trembling. "My dad says Luka quit," the kid mumbled.
Lin Mo knelt down, keeping his voice soft. "Quitters don't text you at 2 a.m. talking about next year. He's just… reloading." He pulled the thimble from his pocket, pressing it into the kid's palm. "Ever watch someone sew? The best part ain't the finished quilt. It's the next one."
The kid's eyes widened. "Can I keep this?"
"Nah," Lin Mo said, grinning. "But I'll let you hold it till the Finals. Then you gotta root for the underdog. Deal?"
Later, Davis found him signing autographs, his rib bandage peeking out from under his shirt. "You're weird, you know that?" he said, but he was smiling.
"Joe says weird's just another word for 'not done yet,'" Lin Mo replied.