All-Star break. The Lakers were 32-18, third in the West, and the plane ride back to LA hummed with easy laughter. Dalton was in the aisle, teaching Maya how to do a between-the-legs dribble, his voice loud and enthusiastic. Davis, in the row behind, was pretending to sleep but snickering every time Maya fumbled the ball.
Lin Mo sat by the window, watching the clouds drift by, his phone in his hand. LeBron had texted a photo: Lila, propped up on her hospital bed, wearing a Lakers hoodie that swallowed her small frame, a sign in her hand that read "DALTON = LESS STUPID (KIND OF)."
"Progress," LeBron had written. "Quilt's looking good."
Lin Mo smiled, typing back: "New patches, same thread. Just… softer, maybe."
He thought of the empty locker at the start of the season, how it had felt like a hole. Now, it felt like a reminder—of the stitches that came before, the ones that held the team together long before Lin Mo had picked up the needle.
Maya wandered over, flopping into the seat next to him. "Dalton says you're gonna teach us that streetball move Ray showed you. The one where you fake the pass, then spin?"
Lin Mo laughed. "Tomorrow. Today, you rest. All-Stars need their sleep."
"Speak for yourself," she said, grinning. "I'm gonna ask Curry for tips. He said he'd meet us at the hotel gym."
Davis leaned over the seat, his voice booming. "You better not let him teach you that stupid behind-the-back pass. You'll break your wrist."
Maya stuck her tongue out. "Says the guy who tried to dunk over a vending machine in Denver."
Lin Mo watched them bicker, warmth spreading in his chest. This was it—leadership, messy and loud and unscripted. Not a single star, but a constellation: Dalton's fire, Maya's quickness, Davis's quiet strength, all stitched together by the thing that outlasted stats and championships.
Team.
The plane touched down in LA, the sun setting over the ocean. As they filed off, Dalton slung an arm over Lin Mo's shoulders, heavy but friendly. "Next stop: playoffs. You ready?"
Lin Mo thought of Ray's blacktop, of LeBron's "Dad Mode" hoodie, of Lila's sign. He thought of his scar, of the thimble in his gym bag, of all the stitches—good and bad—that had brought them here.
"Always," he said.
The next chapter? Just another stitch. And they'd sew it together.