West Los Angeles. Link's new apartment.
The TV was blasting the live broadcast of the TNT All-Star Weekend.
Andrew was pacing back and forth across the spacious living room like a cat on a hot tin roof, clutching a bucket of popcorn for dear life.
"Calm down, Andrew," Amy said from the couch, her eyes glued to the screen. "You're making me dizzy."
"How am I supposed to be calm?!" Andrew's voice trembled. "God, Ray Allen is literally a machine! Did you see that?"
He pointed a shaking finger at the TV. "Amy, Link needs at least 23 points just to make the finals! Do you have any idea how insane that is?"
"He'll make it," Amy cut him off, her voice calm but rock-solid. "I believe in him."
Andrew paused, stunned for a second, then nodded aggressively. "Right! He will! He has to!"
---
On the TV, the camera cut to the TNT commentary booth.
Charles Barkley was grinning ear-to-ear, already in a heated shouting match with Kenny Smith.
"I'm telling you one more time, Kenny!" Barkley was practically spitting on the camera lens. "The kid is just here for the vibes! He's a tourist! If he makes the finals, I will literally eat this desk!"
Kenny Smith adjusted his glasses, looking unbothered.
"Charles, here you go again. Look... even though I have my doubts about Link... I'm willing to make a little wager with you. You game?"
Barkley rolled his eyes hard. "Listen, man. Shooting in front of twenty thousand people? He's gonna choke! He's gonna have shaky hands! I bet he doesn't even break 20 in the prelims!"
"Oh? And what are we betting?" Kenny raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
Barkley slammed his hand on the desk. "Let's do this... If he actually makes the finals, I'll host next week's show wearing a Hawaiian hula skirt!"
"Deal. But if he doesn't," Kenny smirked, "then it's your turn to kiss a donkey's ass again!"
"You're on! Done deal!" Kenny shrugged.
"..."
"Charles Barkley, that son of a..." Andrew waved his fist at the TV screen. "How dare he look down on Link like that!"
Amy just shook her head and smiled, completely uninterested in the childish bets men made.
---
The broadcast cut back to the court. The racks were set.
"The pressure is all on this young man now. He needs a score of at least 23 to secure a spot in the final round."
"That is a tall order for a rookie in his first Three-Point Contest!"
"Let's see if he can handle the heat."
The commentary faded into the background noise of the arena. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of Link.
He was standing in the left corner, eyes closed, taking a deep breath.
"He looks a little nervous," Andrew muttered.
Amy didn't reply; she just white-knuckled her cup.
Inside the Toyota Center, the countdown blared.
"Five! Four! Three! Two! One—GO!"
Link snapped his eyes open.
[Sharpshooter Lv2] Activated!
In that instant, Andrew and Amy held their breath in front of the TV.
Rack 1: Right Corner.
Link caught, dipped, jumped, and released. The motion was fluid, as natural as breathing, honed by thousands of reps.
Swish!
Swish!
Swish!
The first three were nothing but net!
The fourth ball rattled the rim but dropped in.
Next up, the Money Ball. Link's rhythm didn't falter for a second. The basketball traced a perfect arc.
Swish!
First rack: Clean sweep! 6 points!
"Booyah!" Andrew jumped up, sending popcorn flying everywhere without noticing.
Rack 2: Right Wing (45 degrees).
Link slid into position. Catch, shoot.
The first two balls drilled the bottom of the net. But on the third release, Link's wrist felt a little stiff.
Clank!
The ball slammed off the back iron and bounced high. The rhythm was broken. The next two shots bricked.
Second rack: Only 2 points.
Andrew grabbed his head. "Dammit!"
Link didn't hesitate. He sprinted to the third rack.
Top of the Key.
Statistically, this was his worst spot all season. Back at the apartment, Andrew's palms were sweating.
Sure enough.
The first two regulation balls clanked off the rim.
"No!" Andrew wailed.
But Link adjusted fast. For the last three shots, he added a split-second pause after the catch before rising up. The ball rotated beautifully in the air, the arc slightly higher than before.
All three went in!
Third rack: 3 out of 5. Another 4 points.
Total: 12 points. Time remaining: 25 seconds.
"He needs 11 points from the last two racks," Kenny Smith calculated quickly from the booth. "23 is the magic number."
"He took too long on the first three racks. I'm calling it now—he's toast," Barkley declared.
Rack 4: Left Wing (45 degrees).
Link glanced at the shot clock and his heart sank. He sped up his release.
First shot: Wide left.
Clank!
Second shot: Still left.
Clank!
Third shot: Same result.
Clank!
Three bricks in a row!
"Oh no..." Andrew collapsed onto the sofa, burying his head in his hands. Amy was biting her lip so hard it looked like it might bleed.
A collective sigh of disappointment swept through the Toyota Center.
The camera cut to Barkley, who was already flashing a victory sign.
Luckily, Link nailed the last regulation ball and the Money Ball.
Total Score: 15 points.
To make the finals, he needed to hit at least 4 shots on the final rack—the Money Ball rack.
Final Rack: Left Corner.
This was Likn's sweet spot. His highest percentage zone all season.
As Link ran to the corner, the crowd noise swelled to a deafening roar. Fans jumped to their feet, waving signs with Link's face on them.
Andrew sat in the living room, hands clasped in prayer, muttering, "God, the Basketball Gods, Buddha, whoever is listening, please..."
Amy stood up, twisting the hem of her shirt around her fingers.
Link looked up at the clock. The red numbers were unforgiving: 12.4 seconds.
The [Sharpshooter] effect was still active.
Link forced his heart rate down. His vision tunneled. The only thing in the world was the rack of red, white, and blue Money Balls in front of him.
Grab. Shoot.
Andrew, Amy, and twenty thousand people in the arena stopped breathing.
Swish!
Nothing but net!
17 points!
"Good start!" Andrew growled, leaning forward until the popcorn bucket crunched in his grip.
Link didn't watch the ball go in. He was a machine now, repeating the mechanic. He had entered the Zone. The world around him faded away.
Second ball. Up.
Good!
19 points!
The Toyota Center erupted, urging him on!
The third shot was a little flat. It headed straight for the front of the rim.
Thud!
A dull sound. The ball hit the inside of the front rim and bounced straight up!
Every heart in the building suspended in mid-air along with that ball.
Miraculously, gravity did its job—the ball dropped straight down through the net!
Count it!
21 points!
"YES! YES!" Andrew screamed, pumping his fists, flushed with the euphoria of escaping disaster. Amy let out a long, shaky breath.
In the TNT booth, Charles Barkley's smug grin was starting to crack. "Luck! That was pure luck! How does that even go in?"
Kenny Smith stayed cool. "Charles, luck favors the prepared!"
Link, fueled by the three straight makes, felt a surge of confidence.
Fourth ball... Swish!
The final ball, released with slightly less power, rimmed out.
Final Score: 23 points.
Link had tied with Steve Nash and Ray Allen to punch his ticket to the finals.
Link stood there, hands on his hips, gasping for air. His eyes showed nothing but relief. He had gone 4-for-5 on the all-Money-Ball rack, clutching out 8 points to save himself at the buzzer.
"AAAAHHH!!" Andrew let out a primal roar in the apartment. "God! He did it!"
He was bouncing around the room like a maniac. "He's in! The Finals! He made the Finals! Tell big-mouth Barkley to get sized for that skirt! Link, you are the man!"
Amy sank back onto the sofa, gently patting her chest to calm her heart.
The Toyota Center was shaking from the noise. Kobe Bryant and Yao Ming walked onto the court to high-five Link and congratulate him.
Back at the TNT booth, Charles Barkley had his head in his hands, looking like he'd just swallowed a lemon.
"Are you kidding me?! This kid... he actually... my Hawaiian skirt..."
Kenny Smith laughed, clapping his old friend on the shoulder as he turned to the camera.
"Folks, make sure you tune in to TNT next week. We've got a very special wardrobe malfunction coming up! Charles... a bet is a bet!"