The buzzer screamed. Lin Mo knelt, chest heaving, and stared at his shoe. The thread was gone—snapped, finally, floating on the floor like a tiny white snake. "Nice," said the assistant coach, who'd been running the Grizzlies' plays. He held out a hand. "You cracked our code."
Lin Mo shook it, and noticed the coach was holding a crumpled drawing: a stick figure, left arm extended, shooting a floater. "From the kids," he said. At the bottom, scrawled in crayon: "17 x Grizzlies = Win."
In the locker room, he peeled off his tape. The grid on his palm had faded, but a red mark lingered, shaped like the Band-Aid on the boy's prosthetic. His phone rang—video call, the boy grinning, holding up a new wristband. "Look," he said, turning it. Embroidered inside: "Grizzlies: 17."
Behind him, the TV showed Coach Chen being interviewed. "Tactics aren't X's and O's," he was saying. "They're… remembering. The kid with the prosthetic? He taught Lin that. Pain's fuel. So's heart."
Lin Mo glanced at the tactical board. The back was blank, save for a smudge of red ink. He grabbed a pen, left hand hovering. What to write? A play? A note?
A text arrived: the boy had sent a photo of his prosthetic, the joint marked with a tiny "续" (Continue) in marker. "Not done," it said.
Lin Mo smiled. He wrote one word: Together.
The gym lights flickered on, casting his shadow over the board. It stretched, long and thin, and for a second, it looked like two shadows—his, and the boy's—drawing side by side.
Outside, Memphis' skyline glowed. Tomorrow, the Grizzlies. But for now, they had time. Time to keep writing.