Boston Garden smelled like popcorn and rage. Fans screamed "overrated" as Lin Mo jogged out for warm-ups, their signs sharp with mockery: RIB BOY, GO HOME. Tatum passed him in the tunnel, his shoulder colliding with Lin Mo's—hard, deliberate.
"Enjoy the show," he said, smirking. "You won't last a quarter."
Lin Mo's jaw tightened, but he kept walking. He touched the thimble in his pocket, its metal cool against his palm.
The first quarter was a disaster. Tatum targeted him on every play, driving into his ribs with the force of a wrecking ball. By the 6-minute mark, Boston was up 12, and Lin Mo's vision was swimming. He stumbled to the bench, clutching his side, as the crowd chanted "TATE-UM! TATE-UM!"
Then the jumbotron cut to a live feed: Joe, sitting in her living room, holding up the quilt. The camera zoomed in on the patched tear, the one with three layers of thread. "Hey, kid," she said, her voice trembling but steady. "You remember how I taught you to sew? You don't fight the fabric—you let it guide your hand. Slow. Steady."
The ref blew his whistle. Lin Mo stood, ignoring the pain. When he ran back on court, something shifted. He didn't chase Tatum—he waited. Let the screen come, then slipped around it, timing his step to Tatum's, cutting off the lane before Tatum even made his move.
"Nice D!" LeBron yelled, as Tatum stumbled, forced to pass.
Lin Mo didn't celebrate. He just ran back, breath ragged, but smiling.
By halftime, the lead was down to 3. In the locker room, Davis dumped a water bottle over his head. "Welcome back," he said.