74: Chapter 74 The Disco Retro Craze

Shawn chewed on his pizza and nodded, saying, "I'm touring next year too. I'll run through Canada first, then head to the US. If you're short on an opening act in Europe—"

He pointed to his own nose, "I'm cheap."

Charlie swallowed his pineapple and raised his hand, saying, "I'm even cheaper."

Chen Mo leaned against the wall, the gym's air conditioning seeping in from behind him, his sweat slowly cooling.

"London stop! Both of you, come along."

Shawn raised his pizza like a wine glass to clink it, tomato sauce smearing on the edge of the box.

Charlie also raised his half-eaten slice, and the three of them clinked their pizza slices together, greasy fingerprints marking the box.

The wind from the AC vent suddenly gusted for a moment, flipping over a napkin on the floor.

Shawn reached out to hold it down and grabbed another slice.

Chen Mo pulled out his phone and opened his gallery. Paul had recorded that last shot on his phone—

From when Shawn started defending him, to the sudden stop, to the behind-the-back dribble, to the pull-up shot.

The footage was a bit shaky, but the arc of the ball was captured clearly.

He opened Instagram and posted a story visible only to close friends, with a one-word caption: "Practiced."

In less than half a minute, Shawn's phone buzzed. He opened it, laughed, reposted it, and added a few words: "Too scared to play him next time, @Chen Mo"

Hundreds of comments flooded in instantly.

Shawn's fans were going crazy in the comments:

"Why not make it public?"

"We want the full video!"

"Shawn, did you get wrecked?"

Chen Mo's fans followed Shawn's repost and started a chain in the comments: "Chen Mo, you can play basketball???"

Charlie replied to one: "Not only can he play, he also crossed me up. You'll see a meme of me sitting on the court very soon."

Shawn replied to Charlie: "I've already saved it."

It was pitch black outside the gym.

Chen Mo got into his CLA and cranked the AC to the max. His phone buzzed; it was a message from Shawn in the group chat, just a screenshot—

The frame where Charlie tried to get up, palms on the ground, feet slipping, and sitting back down again.

Charlie replied with a long string of exclamation marks.

That night, the recording studio.

When Chen Mo pushed the door open, his T-shirt wasn't completely dry yet.

The soreness from the workout spread from his hamstrings to his shoulder blades, his blood still flowing a little faster than usual.

He didn't turn on the mixing console or touch the computer; he stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.

The night sky of Los Angeles was tinted a pale orange by the city lights, the window glass reflecting his own shadow—

His T-shirt collar was crooked, and his hair was matted into strands by sweat.

He suddenly wanted to sing something, the melody that had flashed through his mind while shooting hoops on the court a few hours ago.

He picked up his phone and opened the camera. No accompaniment, no metronome.

His fingers tapped a rhythm on the window frame, from slow to fast, from fast to a stop, and then he began to sing.

"Can't Stop the Feeling!"

His voice was looser than the studio version, carrying the slightly raspy edge from post-exercise fatigue.

When singing the chorus, he swallowed half the tail end of the word "dance," like the sound of sneakers squeaking against the court floor during a sudden stop—

As the last note faded, he pressed stop.

The duration was one minute and fifty seconds.

He listened to it once. The face reflected in the window glass still held a lingering smile from the basketball game.

He named the file "Acapella_0904" and sent it to Jessica with a note: "Post it on YouTube."

The next morning, the video was pushed to the homepage on YouTube, with a title Chen Mo had chosen himself—

"Just danced. No piano."

The caption was just one line: "Recorded after playing basketball."

Over 50,000 comments flooded the section within four hours.

The top comment read: "No piano, no strings, no drums, just his fingers tapping a rhythm on the window frame. He turned the window frame into an instrument."

The second top comment: "When he sang 'dance,' he swallowed half the tail end; that's the sound of sneakers squeaking on the court floor."

The third top comment: "This song wasn't written; it was sung by his body itself, right after playing basketball, when the sweat hadn't dried and the heart rate hadn't slowed down yet."

The retro disco fever started burning from this acapella video.

Someone stripped the audio to make a radio version, which was spontaneously played by dozens of radio stations across the US.

DJs began mixing the original "Can't Stop the Feeling!" with 1970s disco classics.

A six-second clip of Chen Mo tapping the window frame was repeatedly reposted on Vine, with the caption: "No instruments needed; his own body is the instrument."

Shawn replied below: "The rhythm of him tapping the window frame is the same as the rhythm of his dribbling."

Charlie replied: "You study this?"

Shawn replied: "I noticed it when I was defending him."

Chen Mo didn't reply. He sat on the bay window, playing the acapella video one more time.

Outside the window, the Los Angeles sun was rising from behind the Santa Monica Mountains.

His phone buzzed; it was a message from Shawn in the group chat.

"Next time we play, don't bring your phone."

Chen Mo replied with one word: "I will."

Charlie replied: "Then I'm bringing knee pads."

September 8th, Los Angeles, a rare day willing to pause and rest.

Chen Mo's physical trainer was named Patrick, over forty, bald, with a neck thicker than his head, who had previously served as a strength and conditioning coach for the Lakers for several years.

Patrick had made arrangements in advance. When Chen Mo's car drove into the parking lot of the Lakers practice facility in El Segundo, the security guard at the gate took one look at the license plate and let him through.

"Don't wander around, don't take photos, don't ask for autographs." Patrick walked in front, his voice very low.

"Got it."

The practice facility was larger than Chen Mo had imagined. Three standard courts were laid out side by side, the floors polished to a reflective shine, the sound of basketballs hitting the ground bouncing back from every direction, blending into a dense drumbeat.

A few young players were running plays on the far court, with Byron standing on the sidelines, clutching a tactical board and occasionally shouting.

Chen Mo followed Patrick to the sideline of the innermost court and stood still.

There were a few people on the court practicing shooting, one of whom was wearing a purple practice jersey, black shorts, and a black elbow sleeve on his left arm.

His shooting motion was different from everyone else on the court, primarily in the rhythm.

Catch, jump, release, land—the entire motion seemed to be controlled by some invisible metronome, the interval between every shot being nearly identical.

The ball hit the back rim, bounced out, he caught it, and shot another—the rhythm remained unchanged.

Kobe Bryant, the legendary star.

Chen Mo stood on the sidelines, not saying a word.

Patrick stood next to him with his arms crossed, also not saying a word.

The ball on the court bounced off the rim again. Kobe retrieved the ball but didn't continue shooting.

He put his hands on his hips, lowered his head, and panted for a few breaths, then slowly straightened up, walked toward the sideline, and stopped in front of Chen Mo.

Kobe looked a bit thinner in person than on TV, but his shoulder width remained, sweat dripping from his temples along the curve of his cheekbones.

He looked at Chen Mo for a moment.

"You're the one who sings."

It wasn't a question.