The air in the arena had turned solid, thick enough to chew. 10 seconds left. Game 7. Finals. The scoreboard blared 105-105, a neon heartbeat that pulsed in time with the crowd's roar.
Lin Mo's ribs throbbed like a second pulse, a constant reminder of every screen, every charge, every bruise earned over seven brutal games. His jersey clung to him, soaked through with sweat and a faint, rusty stain where his ribs had seeped blood through the bandage. But his hands were steady.
Tatum had the ball.
He'd spent the last 47 minutes trying to break Lin Mo—with crossovers that whirled like tornadoes, with shoulders that drove into his ribs like sledgehammers, with trash talk that stung sharper than any elbow. "You're done," he'd muttered during a timeout, wiping blood from a cut above his eye. "This ain't your story."
Lin Mo had just smiled. He'd touched the thimble in his pocket, its metal warm from his palm, and thought of Joe's quilt. Stories, he knew, weren't written by the loudest voices. They were stitched by the ones who kept going, even when the needle pricked their fingers.
Now, Tatum dribbled, slow and deliberate, as the clock ticked down—9… 8… 7… The crowd chanted his name, a thunderous "TATE-UM! TATE-UM!" that shook the floorboards. Lin Mo stayed low, knees bent, hands up, his vision narrowing to the space between Tatum's shoulder blades. He'd studied this moment for weeks: the way Tatum's left foot tapped twice before he pulled up, the flicker of his wrist that signaled a three-pointer.
6 seconds. Tatum crossed over, left to right, the ball a blur between his legs. Lin Mo shifted, but didn't bite—kept his weight centered, like Joe taught him to hold the fabric, firm but flexible.
5 seconds. Right to left, crossover again, faster this time. Tatum's shoulder dipped, a feint, but Lin Mo read it—fake, his brain screamed. He'd seen this move in film, a hundred times.
4 seconds. Tatum stopped, planting his feet, and Lin Mo knew—this is it.
3 seconds. He rose, his body coiling like a spring, his arm cocking back. The arena held its breath.
Lin Mo jumped.
He couldn't get high—ribs screaming, legs wobbly from 47 minutes of war—but he jumped. Not with force, but with timing, like he was reaching for a thread that hung just out of reach. His right hand stretched, fingertips grazing Tatum's wrist, a brush so light it barely registered—but it was enough.
The ball left Tatum's hand, but its arc was wrong. Too high, too far left, like a bird that had been startled mid-flight.
2 seconds. It hung in the air, suspended, as if the world was holding its breath.
Lin Mo hit the floor, his ribs erupting in pain, but he didn't look away. He watched the ball rise, then fall, a lazy, lopsided trajectory.
1 second.
Clang.
It bounced off the rim, high into the air, and for a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Davis, who'd been lurking under the basket like a sentinel, leaped—so high his elbow brushed the net—and snatched the rebound.
The buzzer screamed.
For a second, there was silence. Then, a roar that could have split the roof.
Lin Mo lay on the floor, laughing and gasping, tears streaming down his face. His side felt like it was on fire, but he didn't care. He'd never felt lighter.
Davis dropped to his knees beside him, grinning so wide his cheeks must have hurt. "You crazy son of a bitch," he said, pulling Lin Mo up into a hug that made him grunt—but it was a good grunt, a we did it grunt.
LeBron was next, wrapping them both in a bear hug, his voice thick with tears. "Told you," he said, clapping Lin Mo's back (softly, careful of the ribs). "Told you you had it in you."
The team piled on, a mountain of sweat and celebration—Russell, Gabe, the bench players, even the water boy—all yelling, slapping backs, screaming into the chaos. Lin Mo pulled the thimble from his pocket, holding it up, and somehow, through the mob, they saw it.
They quieted, for just a second, staring at the tiny, dented piece of metal like it was a trophy.
"Joe," Lin Mo said, his voice ragged, and they nodded. They didn't know her, not really, but they knew—whatever it was, she was part of this.
Tatum walked past, his jersey unzipped, hair matted to his forehead. He paused, looking at the thimble, then at Lin Mo. No smirk, no anger. Just a nod, sharp and quick, before he kept walking.
Respect. Raw, unspoken, heavier than any championship ring.
Lin Mo smiled.
Later, in the locker room, champagne sprayed like rain, but Lin Mo kept the thimble in his hand, turning it over and over. Reporters crowded around, shoving microphones in his face. "How does it feel?" "What was going through your head?" "Is this the greatest moment of your career?"
He thought of Joe, sitting at her sewing machine, stitching the last seam of that quilt, her hands shaking but never faltering. He thought of the first time he'd tried to sew a button, pricking his finger so many times the fabric turned pink. He thought of LeBron, saying "tough's not about not hurting." He thought of Dončić, texting "don't die out there."
He held up the thimble, letting the cameras catch it.
"It's not about moments," he said, his voice clear enough to cut through the noise. "It's about stitches. The ones that hurt. The ones that hold. All of 'em."
Outside, fireworks exploded over the arena, painting the sky in red and gold. Lin Mo leaned against the wall, watching, as LeBron draped an arm over his shoulders.
"Ready for next year?" LeBron asked, grinning.
Lin Mo looked at the thimble, then at his teammates, their faces lit up with joy.
"Always," he said.
Because the quilt was never finished. There was always another patch, another thread, another stitch.
And that, he realized, was the point.
The end wasn't the end.
It was just the next start