Booker's third three-pointer swished, and the scoreboard blared: Suns 78, Visitors 68. The crowd chanted his name, a thunderous rhythm that made Lin Mo's temples throb. He jogged back, left hand gripping the ball so tight his knuckles whitened. Booker's rhythm was a metronome—step back, lift, release—each motion so smooth it felt rehearsed, like he'd memorized the net's sweet spot.
"Watch his hips," LeBron muttered, clapping his back. "He leans before he shoots." Lin Mo nodded, but his mind was elsewhere: the kid's last video, prosthetic slamming into the backboard for the seventeenth time, then—swish—the ball dropping through. "Rhythm's just a habit," the kid had said, grinning. "Break the habit, break the rhythm."
Next possession, Lin Mo didn't wait for the crossover. He stepped into Booker's space early, left hand hovering near the ball, mirroring the kid's defensive stance. Booker hesitated, then tried to drive—too slow. Lin Mo's fingers brushed the ball, tapping it loose. The steal sparked a fast break; when Lin Mo dished to LeBron for the layup, he heard Booker curse under his breath.
Timeout. Lin Mo sipped water, eyes on Booker, who was muttering to his coach. The playbook lay open, his note staring back: Rhythm bends. You don't. His phone buzzed: the kid's prosthetic, now with a scuff mark. 18th try went in. Rhythm's overrated. Lin Mo laughed, wiping sweat from his eyes. When play resumed, Booker tried his step-back again. This time, Lin Mo was there, contesting—clank—the ball bouncing off the rim. The crowd's chant faltered. For the first time, Lin Mo heard his own heartbeat, steady as a drum.