Five minutes left, and the arena felt like a pressure cooker. Booker's free throw made it 92-87, and the ref's whistle shrilled, sharp as a warning. Lin Mo squatted to tie his shoe, a frayed lace looping around his finger—like all the doubts he couldn't shake. What if I mess up? What if I'm not ready?
His phone vibrated. The kid's hospital room: IV pole in the corner, TV showing the game, his prosthetic propped on the bed. Hoop doesn't care if you're scared, the text read. It just waits. Lin Mo stared at the screen, then up at the hoop—glowing under the lights, unblinking, unyielding.
Coach slammed the playbook down. "Last five minutes. Lin, you're running point." The diagram had a red circle: Booker's right ankle, taped thicker than usual. Old injury, Lin Mo's note said. He favors his left when he slides.
Booker guarded him tight, hips low, hands up. Lin Mo dribbled left, then right, feinting—watching Booker's ankle twitch. There. He drove left, past Booker's staggered step, then—stop—pulled up for the jumper. The ball arced, and for a second, everything froze: the crowd's gasp, Booker's reach, the kid's voice in his head. It's just a hoop.
Swish.
92-89. Booker stared at him, eyes narrow. "Where'd that come from?" Lin Mo shrugged, jogging back. "The hoop told me," he said. It wasn't a lie.