The training room reeked of rubbing alcohol and desperation. Lin Mo lay on the table, his jersey hiked up, as the team doctor pressed a sonogram wand to his ribs. The screen flickered—a jagged white line, the fracture wider than it had been three days ago.
"Last chance, Lin," the doctor said, peeling off his gloves. "One more hit like last night, and you're looking at a collapsed lung. I can't clear you for Game 2."
Lin Mo propped himself up, his shoulder knocking over a bottle of painkillers. Pills scattered across the floor, little white ghosts. "You think Jordan sat out the Finals with a flu?" he said, voice raw.
"Jordan didn't have a cracked rib," the doctor shot back.
The door creaked. LeBron stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. When he spoke, it wasn't to Lin Mo. "Doc, what's the safest way for him to play? Limited minutes? No contact?"
The doctor sighed. "No contact's impossible. But if he stays off-ball, cuts instead of driving, maybe… twenty minutes. Tops."
Lin Mo grinned. "Twenty's enough."
Practice that afternoon was a storm. Coach had drawn up new plays on the战术板, red marker bleeding through the paper: Double screen, weak side curl. "You're bait, Lin," he said, tapping the board. "Drag Tatum away from the paint. Let AD and Bron handle the scoring."
Davis didn't get the memo. He set screens so hard, Lin Mo went flying twice, landing on his shoulder. "What the hell?" Lin Mo gasped, rolling over.
Davis held out a hand, his face stone-serious. "You think Boston's gonna go easy? They'll hit you harder than this. Better learn to fall right."
He hauled Lin Mo up, then drove into his ribs with an elbow—not hard, but deliberate. "Breathe," Davis said. "Pain's just your body paying attention."
Lin Mo coughed, but nodded. When Davis did it again, he stayed on his feet, even as his vision blurred.
That night, Lin Mo called Joe. Her sewing machine whirred in the background, a rhythm that steadied him. "Scared?" she asked, like she could read his mind.
"Terrified," he admitted, staring at his bandaged side. "What if I mess up? What if I let them down?"
Joe's machine went quiet. "You remember the first time you tried to sew a button? Stabbed yourself three times, cried like a baby. But you kept going. Buttons still holding, right?"
Lin Mo smiled. The button on his favorite jacket—stitched crooked, but tight.
"Finals are just a button, kid," Joe said. "Ugly's fine, as long as it holds."
He fell asleep with the thimble in his hand, its metal cool against his palm. When he woke, there was a text from Dončić: Don't die out there. I need someone to beat next year.