Lin Mo found Dalton at the team gym at 6 a.m., shooting alone. His sister's photo was propped on the scorer's table.
"Her name's Lila?" Lin Mo said, tossing him a water.
Dalton froze. "How'd you—"
"Draft bio. She's got cystic fibrosis, right? You told reporters you're playing for her."
Dalton nodded, staring at the ball. "She watches every game. Hates when I force shots. Says I look 'stupid.'"
Lin Mo grinned. "She's smart. You know what else she'd hate? Losing 'cause we don't play like a team." He drew up a play on a napkin: a pick-and-roll with Davis, designed to get Dalton an open three in the corner—his spot. "Run this tomorrow. I'll get you the ball. Prove Lila wrong about the 'stupid' part."