January in Phoenix was hot, even for basketball. The Lakers were in town to play the Suns, and the arena smelled like sunscreen and frustration—they'd lost two in a row, and Dalton had been snappy in practice, his shoulder still sore from a hard foul in Denver.
The game was chippy from the start. The Suns' forward, Marcus Hale, a trash-talker with a penchant for cheap shots, had been hacking Davis all night. In the third quarter, he clotheslined Dalton on a fast break, sending him sprawling. The ref called a foul, but Hale leaned over Dalton, smirking.
"Nice fall, rookie. Your sister teach you that? Probably cheers louder for your injuries than your shots."
Dalton froze. His face went red, and he started to get up—fists clenched, jaw tight. Lin Mo was there before he could stand, pulling him back by the jersey.
"Not worth it," Lin Mo muttered, but Dalton wrenched away.
"He talked about Lila," he said, voice shaking.
Hale laughed. "What? She can't take a joke? Probably too busy—"
Lin Mo stepped between them, his voice low but steady. "Shut up."
Hale raised an eyebrow. "Or what? You gonna cry to the ref, stitch boy?"
Lin Mo didn't flinch. "Or I'll make sure you spend the rest of the game on your ass. You wanna go, we go. But you leave his sister out of it."
The ref jogged over, blowing his whistle. "Break it up!"
Hale sneered, but he stepped back. "Whatever, loser."
Lin Mo turned to Dalton, who was still breathing hard. "Sit. Next play, we run your corner three. You wanna get back at him? Make him watch you drain it."
Dalton nodded, wiping his nose.
The next possession, Lin Mo ran a double screen—Davis and Maya walling off Hale and his teammate. Dalton, free in the corner, caught the pass and didn't hesitate. Swish.
He stared at Hale, who flipped him off, but Dalton just grinned and clapped Lin Mo's hand.
After the game, in the visiting locker room, Dalton sat on a bench, staring at his phone. Lila had texted: "He's just mad you're better. Don't let him get to you."
Lin Mo tossed him a towel. "She's right. Trash talk's just noise. You wanna hurt him? Win."
Dalton looked up, his voice quiet. "Why'd you do that? Stick up for me. Could've gotten ejected."
Lin Mo shrugged. "LeBron once got fined 20 grand for shoving a guy who called me 'chink' in the playoffs. I asked him why later, and he said, 'Because you don't let family fight alone.'" He nodded at Dalton's phone. "She's family. You're family. That's the rule."
Dalton nodded, then held out a fist. "Thanks, man."
Lin Mo bumped it. "Anytime."