The silence in his penthouse was a stark contrast to the roaring Garden just hours before. The high-floor view of the Boston skyline twinkled, a panorama of success that felt like it belonged to someone else. Kyle stood at the window, the Kyonic prototype in one hand, his phone burning in the other. Ari was on the speakerphone, her voice crisp and professional, cutting through the late-night haze.

"Mark Parker isn't just 'Nike Basketball'," she was saying, the sound of her keyboard clacking softly in the background. "He *is* the heir apparent. For him to text you directly after a game... this isn't a fishing expedition. This is a targeted acquisition. They see you as more than an athlete; they see you as a brand. And they want to own it."

Kyle turned the shoe over in his hands, running a thumb along the sharp red line—the scar, the streak of lightning. "They don't want to own *me*. They want to own this. They want to gut it, put a Swoosh on it, and sell the story."

"Maybe," Ari conceded, her tone never losing its calm, analytical edge. She was the perfect buffer between his emotion and the cold mechanics of business. "Or maybe they see the potential to scale it in ways we can't even imagine. We need to hear the offer. We need to know the number, the terms, the creative control—if any—they're willing to cede. Knowledge isn't surrender, Kyle. It's ammunition."

He knew she was right. But the idea of sitting across a table from the Nike machine made his skin crawl. It felt like inviting a wolf to discuss the future of the henhouse. Derrick's voice, cynical and street-smart, whispered in his ear: *"The first offer is always the sweetest poison. Makes you forget the taste of freedom."*

"Set up the call," Kyle said, his voice tired. "You and David." David was his agent, a good man, but one who saw the world in percentages and escalators. Ari was his safeguard, the one who understood the weight of the name Kyonic.

"Already done. Tomorrow, 10 AM. Get some sleep. You have a back-to-back against a young, hungry Orlando team that would love nothing more than to hang a loss on the champs."

Sleep was a foreign country. He lay in bed, the ceiling a blank screen for his anxieties. The text from Parker, the phantom smell of gunpowder from Kingston, the roar of the crowd, the feel of Giannis's muscle against his—it all swirled together into a toxic cocktail that left his heart racing. He finally drifted off as the sun began to bleed light over the Charles River.

**Game 7: Boston Celtics vs. Orlando Magic**

The energy in the Garden was different. It wasn't the electric buzz of a legacy game; it was the tense hum of a trap game. Orlando was long, athletic, and blissfully unaware of their place in the league's hierarchy. They had nothing to lose.

*First Quarter: The Hangover*

The Celtics looked like a team running on fumes and reputation. The emotional overtime win against Golden State had taken a toll. Passes were lazy. Defensive rotations were a step slow. Paolo Banchero, Orlando's young star, sensed it immediately. He attacked Tatum with a fearless, youthful vigor, hitting tough shot after tough shot.

Kyle checked in, his own legs feeling like lead. The lack of sleep was a physical weight. His first touch, he drove into the lane and had the ball poked away easily by the lengthy Franz Wagner. Turnover. Easy bucket the other way.

Ari, sitting courtside, met his eyes for a brief second. She didn't frown or gesture. She simply touched two fingers to her temple and took a slow, deliberate breath. *Focus.*

*Play 1:* The Magic ran a set play, a clever back-screen for their sharpshooter, Gary Harris. Kyle, caught watching the ball, got nailed by the screen. Harris was wide open. *Swish.* Three points. Brad Stevens shot him a look from the sideline, a mixture of concern and ire.

He was losing the game within the game. The negotiation with Nike was a specter on the court, distracting him, dulling his edge.

*Second Quarter: The Grind*

The Celtics' second unit, again, stabilized things. But Orlando wouldn't go away. They were crashing the boards with a ferocity that shamed the home team. Every possession was a fight.

Kyle found himself matched up with Banchero. The kid was strong, with a mature old-man game. He backed Kyle down in the post, using his strength to create space before spinning for a soft jump hook. Bucket.

On the next possession, Kyle demanded the ball. He caught it on the left block, mirrored Banchero. He gave a hard jab step, felt the younger player lean, then spun baseline, using his quickness to create a sliver of space. He went up, but Banchero recovered, contesting with his long arms. The shot rattled out. The rookie had won that battle.

*Halftime: Celtics 49, Magic 54*

The locker room was tense. Stevens wasn't yelling. His silence was worse. "They want it more," he said, his voice quiet but cutting. "They're playing harder. They're playing smarter. They're treating this like their championship. What are we treating it like? A inconvenience?"

Kyle sat with a towel over his head. The text from Parker felt like a brand on his brain. He pulled out his phone. There was a new email from David, the agent. *'Nike Call – Agenda & Talking Points.'* He didn't open it. He opened his photos instead. He found the old, grainy picture of his mother, Nichola, smiling in their tiny kitchen. Her eyes were full of a hope that was never realized. She'd worked two jobs for his sneakers, for his league fees. She'd believed in a legitimate dream.

He put the phone away. The noise in his head quieted.

*Third Quarter: The Response*

The Celtics came out with a new anger. Tatum started hitting impossible shots. Smart dove for a loose ball, scraping his elbow on the hardwood, and screamed at his teammates to get on their feet.

Kyle's moment came midway through the quarter. Banchero tried to post him up again, confident from the first half. This time, Kyle anticipated the spin. He held his ground, didn't bite on the fake, and when Banchero went up for the jump hook, Kyle leaped with him, meeting him at the apex, and swatted the ball into the stands.

The block was pure emotion. He landed and let out a roar, pounding his chest, the frustration of the night, the anxiety about Nike, the grief for his mother—all of it channeled into that one primal scream.

*Play 2:* On the ensuing possession, he didn't settle for a jumper. He cut hard off a screen, caught a pass from Holiday, and attacked the rim with a vengeance, going right at the shot-blocker Mo Wagner. He absorbed the contact, finished with his left hand, and crashed to the floor. The and-one call sent the Garden into a frenzy. As he got to his feet, he locked eyes with Banchero. The rookie looked away first.

*Fourth Quarter: Closing*

The Celtics slowly, methodically, strangled the life out of Orlando. It was ugly. It was grinding. It was winning.

With a minute left and Boston up eight, the game was finally out of reach. Kyle came out to a standing ovation. He'd finished with 16 points, 9 rebounds, and 3 blocks. Not pretty, but necessary.

**The Call**

An hour later, showered and dressed, Kyle sat at his kitchen island. Ari was next to him, a notebook open. His agent, David, was on the laptop screen, his face serious.

"Remember," Ari said, placing a hand on Kyle's arm. "Let David lead. You listen. You only speak when you have to. Your leverage is your talent and your story. Don't give it away cheaply."

The video call connected. Mark Parker was there, looking polished and relaxed in a Nike sweatshirt. Two other executives flanked him.

"Kyle, David, Ariana," Parker began, all smooth California charm. "Congratulations on the win. Tough, gritty game. That's what separates good teams from great ones."

The pleasantries lasted exactly sixty seconds. Then they got down to business.

The number they floated was astronomical. Generational wealth. It was more money than Kyle could truly conceptualize. David barely blinked. Ari took notes.

Then came the terms. "The vision," one of the other executives said, "is to fully integrate the Kyonic line into the Nike basketball ecosystem. The branding, the marketing, the design… it would all fall under the Nike Innovation umbrella, of course."

Kyle felt his stomach tighten. "The Kyonic name?" he asked, interrupting David.

Parker smiled. "It's a strong name. Authentic. We see it as a sub-brand. Like Jordan. But within the Nike family."

Ari spoke up, her voice cool and precise. "And what would Kyle's role be in the 'family'? Is he the Creative Director? Does he have final approval on design? On marketing campaigns that use his story?"

There was a pause. "He'd have a very significant advisory role," the executive said carefully. "We have teams, the best in the world, who handle the intricacies of design and marketing."

Kyle looked at Ari. Her expression was neutral, but he saw the slight tightening around her eyes. *Advisory role.* Corporate speak for a figurehead. They didn't want Kyonic. They wanted to kill it and wear its skin.

The call ended with promises to send over formal term sheets. When the screen went black, the room was silent.

David whistled. "That number… Kyle, that is life-changing."

"It is," Ari said, closing her notebook. "But they're not buying a partner. They're buying a product. They want to own your story, not help you tell it."

Kyle walked back to the window. The city lights below seemed colder now. The offer was everything he was supposed to want. But it felt like a beautifully gilded cage. He thought of his mother working double shifts. He thought of Derrick's failed, crooked hustles. He thought of the shoe in his hand, the one thing that was truly, wholly his.

He had a choice: take the money and the security, and watch Kyonic become a footnote in a Nike catalog. Or bet on himself, with all the terrifying risk that entailed.

The next game was already waiting.

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