In the air-conditioned breeze of the Lakers' training facility, Lin Mo rubbed his right palm. The stinging at the edge of his callus was sharper than usual, like a fine needle pricking. He stared at the dark red patch—formed from countless late-night dribbles on the college bench three years ago, now a warning of injury.
"Lin, time for layup drills." The assistant coach called. Lin Mo nodded, but winced sharply when he raised his hand. From the sidelines, James shot him a concerned glance; he quickly tucked his right hand into his pocket.
Late at night, a video from the one-armed teen popped up on his phone: "Brother Lin, next week's district game—the opponent's point guard is so fast, we can't stop him..." On screen, the teen's prosthetic arm glinted coldly in the moonlight, but his grip on the basketball was tight. Lin Mo sat up, turned on the desk lamp, and started drawing defensive routes on paper—teaching the teen to read the opponent's torso movement, just as he'd done against the NCAA assist leader.
Pain flared as he typed on the screen with his finger. Gritting his teeth, Lin Mo slowed down the teen's moves in the video: "Don't rush the first step. Wait to see which way his torso sinks..." When he hit send, the chat box flickered "Typing..."—the teen was also staying up late, watching Lin Mo's game replays.