In the Suns' arena locker room, cologne mixed with the mint of kinesiology tape. Lin Mo wrapped his wrist in bandages; a red spot seeped through, a stubborn flower. The kid texted: "Waving your wristband, warming up with you in the hospital!" On video, he sat in a wheelchair, pumping his good leg to mimic court drills, prosthetic leaning beside him like a silent ally.
In the player tunnel, the new starter clapped his back: "Don't force passes. Stay steady." Lin said nothing, brushing his palm—calloused from the NCAA bench three years ago, when they'd said the same: "Don't overplay." The light at tunnel's end brightened, a melting galaxy.
The arena went dark; the crowd's roar thudded in his eardrums. Lin clenched his left hand, remembering the kid's words. He looked up at the stands—though he knew the boy was miles away, in a hospital, he swore he saw that wristband, shining like a star in the sea of faces.
The referee's whistle cut through the noise. He ran onto the court, the ache in his right hand fading—just like the kid's voice, when he said "This hurt's nothing," that stubborn fire seeping into his veins.