"The palm tendinitis could require surgery if you drag this out," the team doctor repeated, tapping a blurry X-ray on the screen. The light in the rehab room cast cold shadows over the weights and resistance bands, and Lin Mo's gaze lingered on a frayed wristband peeking out of his gym bag—it had the "Chasing Light" camp logo, a gift from the one-armed teen. He thought of the kid's last video: scraped elbow, dirt smudged on his cheek, but grinning as he said, "This scratch? It's just the court saying 'nice job.'"
Lin Mo shook his head. "Conservative treatment first."
Over the next two weeks, he traded court time for ice baths and grip-strengthening drills. His right hand trembled when he squeezed the therapy ball, but he'd stare at his tactical notebook—covered in the Lakers' tangled pick-and-roll diagrams—and hear his own voice echo: "Don't overthink it, kids. If the guy's feet are crossed, pass left. If he leans, go right." Why had the pros made it so complicated?
One afternoon, he grabbed a marker and drew a thick straight line through the clutter in his notebook. Pass like you mean it. Move like you feel it. Like the camp kids did, when they ran plays not from a board, but from yelling, "I got your back!"
When he tested the new rhythm in practice—left hand slicing through the air to signal a cut, eyes locking with a teammate instead of checking the clock—the bench erupted. The coach frowned, then leaned forward, pen pausing over his own playbook. "That… felt like breathing," he muttered. Lin Mo grinned, flexing his sore right hand. Breathing, he thought, was the simplest thing of all.