The TD Garden wasn't packed like a playoff night, but there was still a hum in the air — the kind of buzz that came when Boston fans knew they were getting their first glimpse of something new. The defending champions were back, banner freshly raised, and the young phenom everyone whispered about — Kyle Wilson — was about to touch hardwood for his sophomore campaign.

It wasn't the Finals. It wasn't the regular season. But preseason mattered in Boston. Every possession, every bucket, every slip-up got chewed on by media and fans like it was blood in the water.

And tonight, the Celtics were hosting the Toronto Raptors.

The Warm-Up

Kyle sat lacing his sneakers in the locker room, the fresh white and green Jordans shining under the fluorescent light. His headphones still clamped around his neck, bass rumbling from a playlist he curated — a mix of dancehall, old-school hip-hop, and gospel tracks his mother used to play on Sunday mornings.

He didn't look up much. Instead, he stared at his hands, flexing his fingers. Preseason or not, this was a stage, and he felt the ghosts gathering around him again. Derrick's voice, Nichola's laughter — sometimes it gave him fire, other times it made him feel like he was playing with weights chained to his chest.

Marcus Smart smacked him on the back of the head.

"Wake up, rookie two. Ain't nobody care about your sad boy playlist right now."

Kyle cracked the faintest smirk. "Man, I'm locked in. That's all."

"Good. 'Cause preseason or not, these dudes gon' test you. You got film now. They know you ain't just some mystery kid. They comin' at you."

Tatum, tying his shoes across the room, chimed in. "They gon' foul you, they gon' trash talk you, they gon' make you prove last year wasn't no fluke."

Kyle nodded slowly. "Then let 'em."

Jaylen leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Nah. Don't 'let' them. Take their soul. First game, set the tone."

The words stuck. Take their soul.

Pregame

The Garden lights dimmed, the Celtics intro video roaring across the jumbotron. Fire shot up behind the announcer's booth, and the crowd rose as the PA boomed names in that booming, drawn-out voice:

"From Duke University… number 0… JAYSON TATUM!"

"From California… number 7… JAYLEN BROWN!"

"And from Kingston, Jamaica… number 11… KYYYYYYLE WILSON!"

The crowd erupted, and Kyle jogged out, chest thudding with the vibrations of the floor. For a moment, he felt lighter — no ghosts, no grief. Just the game.

But as he slapped hands with Tatum and Brown, he caught a glimpse of the Raptors warming up. Scottie Barnes, grinning wide, already yapping. "Wilson! You ain't ready for me, boy!"

Kyle smirked back, but his jaw tightened. He loved and hated this part. The respect, the target. They were coming for him.

First Quarter: Testing the Waters

The ball went up, Al Horford tapped it back, and Boston's season — sort of — began.

Kyle's first touch came two possessions in. Tatum swung the ball his way on the wing. The crowd leaned forward. Kyle jab-stepped, hesitated, then rose for a clean midrange jumper. Net. Pure.

"Wiiiilsonnnnn!" the announcer roared.

The Garden shook, even though it was just a preseason jumper. But it mattered. It said: he's still here.

The Raptors came right back at him. Barnes drove at him hard, lowering his shoulder. Kyle slid with him, chest-to-chest, and swatted the layup attempt against the glass. The whistle blew. Foul.

"Come on ref!" Marcus barked from the sideline. "That's clean!"

Kyle didn't complain. Didn't even glance at the ref. He just jogged back, eyes forward. Inside, though, he burned. Last year, they didn't know his game. Now they were hunting him.

Barnes smirked at him at the line. "Sophomore slump coming, boy."

Kyle just stared. Cold. Didn't answer.

By the end of the first quarter, he had 6 points, 2 boards, a block (and two fouls). His rhythm was there, but the Raptors weren't giving him an inch. Every drive met with contact, every jumper contested.

Second Quarter: Ghosts in the Game

On the bench, towel over his head, Kyle leaned back and closed his eyes. He heard the crowd, but underneath, he heard another voice — Derrick's.

"Yo, you gon' let that man punk you? Where the Wilson pride at, huh?"

He opened his eyes quick. His chest heaved. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

Brad Stevens crouched beside him. "Stay composed. Don't chase it. Game'll come to you."

Kyle nodded, though his mind was still somewhere between the Garden and a gravesite in Kingston.

When he checked back in, he didn't hesitate. First touch — pump fake, one dribble, hammer dunk down the lane. The rim shook, and the crowd exploded.

This time, Kyle didn't smirk. Didn't celebrate. He just jogged back, eyes burning, lips pressed tight.

Next possession — he picked off a lazy pass, sprinted the floor, and rose for another dunk. This time, he pounded his chest after, yelling into the crowd. "LET'S GO!"

The ghosts faded. For a moment, there was only the game.

Halftime score: Celtics 56, Raptors 52. Kyle had 12 points, 4 rebounds, 2 steals. Not bad. Not perfect. But enough to remind everyone why Boston believed.

Third Quarter: Pressure Cooker

The Raptors came out swinging in the third. Quick threes, fast breaks, forcing turnovers. Toronto took the lead midway through, the Garden murmuring with unease.

Kyle caught a pass in the corner, drove baseline, rose — and got hammered midair. He crashed to the floor, hard, landing on his hip.

The whistle blew. Foul. The crowd booed.

Kyle lay there for a second, staring up at the rafters. The banners seemed to hang heavier than ever, pressing down on him. The eighteenth banner especially. You don't deserve us yet, it seemed to whisper.

He pushed himself up slow. Jogged to the line. His first free throw bricked hard, clanging off the back iron.

The crowd groaned.

He bounced the ball, took a breath, shot again. Swish.

1-for-2. His hip throbbed. His chest burned. But he stayed in.

Tatum carried the offense, Jaylen bulldozed through defenders, and Kyle chipped in where he could — defense, rebounds, hustling. Still, he could feel it slipping. Preseason or not, Boston didn't like losing in their building.

Fourth Quarter: Closing Time

The score was tied at 94 with three minutes left. Brad Stevens looked down the bench, then pointed.

"Kyle, in."

This was it. His first preseason moment.

He checked in, sweat dripping, heart hammering. The ball swung his way again, top of the key. Shot clock at five.

He jabbed, stepped back, pulled a deep three.

Bang.

The crowd erupted, the Garden alive again.

Next possession, Barnes tried to bully him again, backing him down. Kyle held firm, swiped the ball clean, sprinted the floor, and lobbed it to Tatum for a dunk.

Timeout Raptors. Garden in chaos.

Kyle jogged back, chest heaving, teammates mobbing him. Jaylen slapped the back of his head. "THAT'S IT, young blood! That's how you answer!"

Boston closed it out, 104–97. Preseason win, nothing more. But in the locker room, the energy was different.

Postgame

Reporters swarmed again, but Kyle kept his answers tight.

"Just getting rhythm."

"Team win."

"Still work to do."

When they left, Marcus grinned at him. "See? Ain't no slump. You belong."

Kyle sat back at his locker, staring at his jersey hanging, sweat-stained and heavy. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to feel only the game.

But when the room emptied, he sat alone, scrolling his phone. Photos of his mother popped up again. Derrick. Jamaica.

His voice came out in a whisper.

"You see that? You see me?"

Silence answered. Only the faint hum of the Garden above.

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