Three seconds. Score tied. Lin Mo stood at half-court, left hand gripping the ball, a coin from the boy pressed against his palm—"Heavy things keep you grounded," the text had said. The coin was old, edges worn, 17 stamped on one side.
Morant was in front of him, legs bent, eyes locked. "This is where you fold," he said, but there was respect in it, now. Lin Mo thought of the boy's hospital room, the light glowing like a beacon. Nothing ends till the final whistle, he'd said, practicing lefty floaters into a laundry basket.
Lin Mo dribbled once, left hand. Morant leaned in. Then—stop. He planted, left foot forward, like the boy's prosthetic locking into place. Morant froze, confused. Lin Mo pivoted, right shoulder brushing past, and drove to the rim. Morant recovered, leaping—arm outstretched, blocking the sun.
Lin Mo went up, body twisting, and at the peak, switched the ball to his left hand. Wrist flicked, just like the boy's when he nailed that 17th floater. The ball rose, slow, then faster, arcing over Morant's fingertips—
Swish.
The horn blared. The court erupted. Morant landed, staring at the net. "How?" he said, quiet. Lin Mo held up his left hand, the magnet glinting. "Someone taught me to aim for the light," he said.
Later, in the locker room, his phone buzzed. The boy had sent a photo: seven water bottles, arranged in a circle, all pointing to a single spot on the floor. "That's where you stood," the text read. "Told you 17's lucky."
Lin Mo smiled, tracing the screen with his left hand. The coin was still in his pocket, warm from his palm. Some things, he thought, weren't about speed. They were about knowing where to stand—and who was standing with you.