The buzzer's echo hung in the air, thick as the sweat on Lin Mo's jersey. He stood there, chest heaving, as LeBron wrapped an arm around him, roaring. The crowd's cheers blurred into a hum, but he heard one voice clear: the kid's, via video, screaming, "I SAW THAT!"
Booker walked over, extending a hand. "Good game," he said, no trace of the earlier edge. "You play like you've got something to prove."
Lin Mo shook it. "I've got people to prove it to."
In the locker room, he peeled off his jersey, wincing at the blisters on his left hand. The wristband—Lefty can thread the needle—was soaked, but the words still burned bright. His phone buzzed nonstop: kids from the camp, sending photos of their homemade signs; the kid, now grinning from his hospital bed, prosthetic holding up a "WE DID IT" sign.
"Nice win," Old Chen said, mopping the floor. "Told you the bench sees clearer."
Lin Mo laughed, scrolling through messages. The kid's latest: Prosthetic's tired. But I'll practice lefty tomorrow. Lin Mo typed: Me too.
He packed his bag, glancing at the playbook—new notes scribbled in red: Wins fade. The people don't. The water cooler gurgled, like it was already counting down to the next game. But for now, Lin Mo just sat, letting the warmth in his chest spread—from his palm, where calluses stung like badges, to his heart, where the kid's voice felt like home.
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky pink. Lin Mo slung his bag over his shoulder, ready. Whatever came next, he'd be ready—with a left hand that knew how to fight, and a kid who'd taught him why.