Opening night at Crypto.com Arena smelled like fresh popcorn and nervous energy. The crowd roared as the Lakers ran out—purple and gold jerseys, a championship banner hanging overhead, but when the PA announcer said "LeBron James" during the tribute video, the cheers swelled so loud, the rafters shook. Lin Mo stood at center court, listening, and for a second, he felt small. Like he was wearing a jersey that belonged to someone else.
"Breathe," Davis muttered, bumping his elbow. "They're not booing you. They're just… missing him. Same as we are."
The game started rough. The Warriors, led by Curry's sharp shooting, jumped out to a 15-4 lead. Lin Mo tried to channel LeBron—calling plays with authority, slapping Dalton's back when he missed a layup—but his voice sounded forced, like he was reading from a script. Dalton, overcompensating, started jacking threes again, his jaw tight. Maya, usually quick on her feet, hesitated on a fast break, her eyes darting to the crowd.
By the end of the first quarter, it was 32-18. Lin Mo sat on the bench, sweat dripping down his neck, and stared at the战术板. Coach was drawing up a new play, but Lin Mo's mind wandered to Ray, the old streetballer from Venice Beach, who'd once said, "Leaders don't just tell people what to do. They see what they need."
What did they need? Maya's hands were shaking—she needed a simple pass, something to steady her. Dalton's shoulders were hunched—he needed to feel useful, not like a problem. Davis, quiet as a storm, kept glancing at the clock—he needed to be trusted to carry the offense, even if he wasn't scoring.
"Coach," Lin Mo said, interrupting. "Let's run the play for Maya. The backdoor cut. Warriors are keying on me—she'll be open."
Coach hesitated, then nodded.
Second quarter: Maya sprinted toward the hoop, her sneakers squealing, and Lin Mo hit her with a crisp chest pass. She laid it in, no hesitation, and the bench erupted. Her face lit up, and when she ran back on defense, she winked at Lin Mo.
Dalton, watching, loosened up. On the next possession, he didn't force a shot—he drove, drew two defenders, and kicked it to Davis, who slammed it home. The crowd roared, and Dalton grinned, slapping Davis's hand.
By halftime, the Lakers had cut the lead to 58-55. In the locker room, Lin Mo didn't give a big speech. He just passed around a water bottle, like they were kids on a playground. "Maya, your left hand's faster than you think. Use it." "Dalton, your crossover's tight—next time, sell the fake longer." "Davis, they're doubling you—let's set a screen, get you free."
No booming voice, no grand gestures. Just talking. Like they were a team, not a collection of names.
Third quarter: Curry hit a three to make it 78-70, but Lin Mo didn't panic. He ran a pick-and-roll with Davis, drew the defense, and hit Dalton in the corner—his spot. The three swished, and Dalton let out a whoop, pointing at Lin Mo. "That's muscle memory!" he yelled.
The crowd, which had been chanting "LeBron" all night, started chanting "Lakers!" instead.
Fourth quarter, 1:20 left: tied 102-102. Lin Mo dribbled at the top of the key, Warriors defenders closing in. He saw Maya's foot tap—her signal, learned from Venice Beach, that she was open. He faked left, then fired a pass through two defenders. Maya caught it, hesitated for half a second, then sank the jumper.
104-102.
Warriors called timeout. Curry clapped Lin Mo on the arm as they walked to their benches. "He'd be proud," he said, nodding at the championship banner.
Lin Mo grinned. "He is. Probably watching from his couch, yelling at the refs."
The final buzzer sounded, and the arena exploded. Maya jumped into Lin Mo's arms, laughing, and Dalton tackled them both, Davis joining the pile. Lin Mo lay there, squished under his teammates, and thought of LeBron's locker—empty, but not forgotten. Leadership wasn't about replacing him. It was about carrying the thing he'd built, together.