Two minutes. Score: 94-93. Booker drove, shoulder checking Lin Mo—whistle—foul called. The crowd roared; Booker jogged to the line, wiping sweat from his brow. Lin Mo's left hand throbbed; he'd landed hard, palm scraping the floor.
"Nice flop," Booker muttered, grinning. It wasn't hostile—more like respect.
"Nice shoulder," Lin Mo shot back.
Booker sank both free throws: 96-93. The clock ticked: 1:45. Lin Mo's phone buzzed—ding—the kid's text: Clock's just counting. You're deciding. He typed back: Watch this.
He inbounded to LeBron, then cut to the wing. Booker shadowed him, but slower now—ankle bothering him. Lin Mo gestured, LeBron passing back. He dribbled, left hand, then right, waiting—Booker's weight shifted left—and drove, eurostep around the defender. Layup—swish—96-95.
45 seconds. Booker iso'd him, crossing over hard. Lin Mo stumbled, but grabbed the ball—steal—then sprinted upcourt. Booker chased, fouling him from behind. Whistle. Free throws.
Lin Mo breathed, staring at the hoop. The kid's note flickered in his mind: Seventeen misses, one make. That's all it takes. He sank both: 97-96.
10 seconds. Booker's last shot: a contested three. It clanged off the rim. The buzzer blared. Lin Mo collapsed to the floor, laughing, as LeBron pulled him up. Booker clapped his back, genuine now. "You earned that," he said. Lin Mo nodded, looking at his phone. The kid had sent a video: him cheering, prosthetic pumping in the air. Told you.