Boston Garden smelled like popcorn and malice. Fans chanted "BROKEN RIBS!" as Lin Mo jogged onto the court, Tatum smirking from the Celtics' bench. "Warmed up your wheelchair?" he yelled, loud enough for the cameras to catch.
Lin Mo didn't answer. Just touched the thimble in his pocket, then clapped Davis on the back. "Let's stitch 'em up."
First quarter: Lakers trailed 28-22. Lin Mo sat, watching Tatum torch the defense, his knee bouncing. When coach called his number, he took a deep breath, ribs flinching, and jogged in.
His first touch: a cut to the rim, Davis screening Tatum into the third row. LeBron hit him with a lob, and Lin Mo laid it in, his body screaming but his hands steady.
30-24.
Tatum's jaw tightened. On the next play, he drove hard, shoulder-first into Lin Mo's ribs. Lin Mo went down, gasping, but the ref blew his whistle: offensive foul.
"Bullshit!" Tatum screamed, but Lin Mo was already up, grinning.
Second quarter: 52-48, Celtics. Lin Mo caught the ball in the corner, Tatum's hand in his face. The crowd roared, but he heard Joe's voice: Slow. Steady. He faked left, Tatum lunged, then stepped back—legs wobbly, ribs on fire—and released.
The ball sailed, a lazy arc, and dropped through the net. Swish.
52-51.
Boston's fans went quiet. Then, impossibly, a cheer—small, but sharp.
Fourth quarter: 115-113, Celtics, 2:17 left. Lin Mo cut hard, Davis setting a screen that sent Tatum sprawling. LeBron hit him with a bounce pass, and Lin Mo spun, avoiding Brown's block, and laid it in.
115-115.
Tatum cursed, but Lin Mo was already back on D, his feet sliding into position. When Brown drove, Lin Mo didn't flinch—took the charge, hit the floor hard, but held on. The ref blew his whistle: offensive foul.
Lakers ball.
LeBron dribbled out the clock, then hit Davis with a cross-court pass. Davis slammed it home as the buzzer screamed.
118-115.
Lin Mo collapsed, laughing so hard he cried, as Davis lifted him up. His jersey was soaked—sweat, and a little blood, seeping through the bandage. LeBron clapped him on the back, gentle, and whispered, "Told you. Tough's not about not hurting."
In the locker room, Lin Mo pulled out the thimble, its surface dented but unbroken. He set it on his stall, next to his championship cap.
"One down," he muttered.