The first quarter whistle blew, and Morant was already in motion. He exploded past Lin Mo, legs coiling like springs, and slammed the ball home—so hard the backboard shuddered. Lin Mo's wristband dug into his skin, "17" burning through sweat. He jogged back, eyes on Morant's retreating form, and remembered the boy's voice: "Fast guys forget to check their shadows."
On the next possession, Lin Mo dribbled left, slow enough to let Morant close. Just as the defender's shoulder touched his, Lin Mo flicked the ball left-handed toward the top corner of the backboard—a spot the boy called "the wheelchair blind spot," where his prosthetic couldn't reach unless he leaned. The ball caromed off the glass, straight to James, who finished with a dunk. Morant spun, eyebrows raised. "Nice bounce," he said. Lin Mo nodded, but he was thinking of the boy's video: him leaning hard in his chair, prosthetic stretching, finally tapping the ball free.
The second time Morant drove, Lin Mo stayed low, eyes locked on his left knee. When it locked—there—he swiped left, fingertips grazing the ball. It skittered loose, and Lin Mo dove for it, shoulder hitting the floor. As he scrambled up, he saw the crowd: kids from the academy, holding signs that read "17 Tries = 1 Net." One of them waved a drawing: a stick figure with a prosthetic arm, handing a basketball to another in a jersey.
Timeout. Lin Mo pressed a towel to his cheek, where a scrape stung. The战术板 (tactical board) had a new note, scrawled in red: "He jumps high, but lands slow." It was the boy's handwriting—he'd texted it during the play. Lin Mo traced the words, then looked up. Morant was flexing his hands, staring at him. The air felt charged, like before a storm. But storms, Lin Mo knew, always had a pattern.