The practice facility smelled like varnish, sweat, and leather. TD Garden might have been the cathedral where the world watched, but this place — the Auerbach Center in Brighton — was the lab. The place where experiments turned into habits, and habits turned into banners.

The Celtics logo gleamed at half-court, polished so clean that Kyle saw his reflection staring back at him as he laced his sneakers. Black-and-green Kyries, fresh out the box. He tugged the laces tighter, double-knotted them, then looked around.

Jayson Tatum was already warming up, headphones in, working through mid-range fadeaways like it was a religion. Jaylen Brown had his shirt off, banding resistance cords, sweat glistening on his shoulders. Marcus Smart strutted in last, duffle slung over his back, voice loud before he even sat down.

"Kyle, you ready to get that ass cooked today?" Smart grinned, tossing his shoes to the ground.

Kyle smirked, pulling his hood back. "You old now, Marcus. I might have to give you buckets."

"Buckets?" Marcus laughed. "Boy, you played one damn season. One! Don't let that ring fool you."

A couple teammates cracked up. The banter was familiar, grounding. But under the laughter, Kyle felt the weight. This wasn't last year. He wasn't the unknown rookie anymore, flying under the radar until the Finals spotlight hit him. He was on scouting reports now. Coaches circled his name. Opponents had film.

He was no longer a surprise. He was a target.

Morning Shootaround

Brad Stevens clapped his hands, his voice calm but firm.

"Alright fellas, let's lock in. Media Day's behind us. Preseason starts now. Conditioning, drills, then we'll scrimmage. Season's a marathon. No shortcuts."

Kyle lined up for shooting drills. Five spots, five balls, rapid fire. His first few went in clean — rhythm, swish, swish. But then he bricked one, then another. The sound of iron clanged loud in his ears.

Tatum glanced over between shots. "You rushing. Slow down, let the ball breathe."

Kyle exhaled, nodded, reset. This time, three in a row. Then four. Then five.

"Better," Tatum muttered.

It was small, but Kyle caught it — approval. A nod from Tatum wasn't handed out easy.

But even as he hit his stride, he felt the itch in his chest, the one that came every time he thought too long. Derrick's voice, Nichola's smile. Jamaica. The past that didn't let him breathe.

Conditioning Hell

An hour later, they were running suicides. Brad's whistle cut like a blade.

"Baseline to baseline! Go!"

Kyle sprinted, his lungs burning. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His legs screamed, but he refused to slow.

Marcus Smart shouted mid-run, "Don't let the rookie beat you, Tatum!"

Tatum shot back, "Rookie ain't passing me!"

Kyle gritted his teeth and pushed harder. His sneakers squeaked as he touched the line, turned, exploded back. For a second, he pulled even with Tatum, then ahead. By the final whistle, Kyle was the first across the line.

He bent over, gasping, hands on his knees. Marcus smacked the back of his head.

"Okay then, Kingston! I see you!"

The nickname had stuck — Kingston. A reminder of where he came from, though none of them really knew what it meant.

Kyle managed a tired grin, but inside, the fire raged. He wasn't running from Marcus or Tatum. He was running from ghosts.

First Scrimmage

Teams were picked: Green vs. White. Kyle was with Tatum, Smart, and the bench squad. Across from him: Jaylen, Porziņģis, and a few vets.

"Check ball," Marcus barked, tossing it to Jaylen.

The scrimmage was intense from the first dribble. No crowd, no cameras, just pride. Every screen was solid. Every cut was sharp. Every possession mattered like it was June again.

Kyle guarded Jaylen first. Jaylen tried to body him, backing him down, but Kyle dug in. He'd spent the offseason bulking — weights, sand runs, endless pushups. His frame was thicker now. When Jaylen spun baseline, Kyle anticipated, meeting him at the rim.

Smack. Ball ricocheted out of bounds. Clean block.

The gym erupted. "OHHHHH!" Teammates shouted, banging the floor.

Jaylen grinned, pointing at Kyle. "Okay. That's how you feeling?"

Kyle smirked back. "Always."

Next play, Tatum fed him on the wing. Kyle jab-stepped, drove left, rose up. Porziņģis slid over — 7'3, arms like tree branches. For a split-second, Kyle saw Derrick's face in the paint, like a ghost daring him to flinch.

He didn't. He cocked the ball back and hammered it home. Poster. The gym went nuts again.

Marcus ran over, grabbing Kyle by the jersey. "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! LET'S GO!"

Kyle jogged back, stone-faced. Inside, adrenaline surged. He wanted to scream, to let it out. But he bottled it. Always bottled it.

Locker Room Lessons

After the scrimmage, guys stripped tape off ankles, chugged Gatorades, ice bags taped to knees.

Jaylen walked over to Kyle, towel draped around his neck.

"Don't think I'm letting you get away with that block. I'm cooking you next time."

Kyle chuckled. "We'll see."

Jaylen's tone shifted, quieter. "You good though? You been… different since last year."

Kyle froze. He hated when people saw through the armor.

"I'm fine," he muttered, tying his hoodie tight.

Jaylen studied him for a beat, then nodded slowly. "Alright. Just don't carry it alone. League'll eat you alive if you try."

Kyle didn't answer. Just grabbed his bag and left.

Night Reflections

That night, he sat in his apartment, body aching from practice. The city outside roared with life — cars honking, sirens wailing, laughter echoing from bars.

On the coffee table, the ring box still sat unopened. He reached for it, paused, then pulled his hand back. Instead, he grabbed his phone.

Photos again. Jamaica. Derrick. Nichola. The weight pressed heavy.

He opened Instagram. Mentions piled in: "Future star." "Next Paul George." "Celtics dynasty incoming."

He tossed the phone aside. None of them knew. None of them understood.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

"Preseason," he whispered. "This ain't the real fight yet."

Because the real fight wasn't with Jaylen or Porziņģis or any defender in the league. The real fight was with the ghosts that never left the court.

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