The term sheet arrived via encrypted email an hour after the call ended. The numbers were even more staggering in black and white. David, his agent, had printed it out, the pages crisp and heavy with promise. He slid them across Kyle's kitchen island like a dealer presenting a winning hand.

"Look at that zero," David said, a reverent tone in his voice. He tapped a figure that represented guaranteed money, a sum so vast it could erase generations of struggle. "That's security. That's legacy. That's 'your-grandkids'-kids-are-set' money."

Kyle stared at the digits. They didn't feel real. They felt like a video game score. Ari picked up the pages, her sharp eyes scanning the dense legal language, not the dollar signs. She was looking for the traps, the tiny clauses that gave away the game.

" 'Final creative and design approval rests solely with Nike, Inc,' " she read aloud, her voice flat. " 'The Kyonic brand identity will be subject to integration and alignment with the overarching Nike Basketball narrative.' " She looked up, setting the pages down gently. "They're not buying a brand, Kyle. They're buying a name to put on their shoes. You'd be a mascot."

The conflict was a physical pressure in Kyle's chest. David saw a number. Ari saw a surrender. He saw his father's face—not the proud ghost he sometimes imagined, but the real Derrick: a man who chased big scores that always crumbled to dust, who believed any money was good money, and who died because of it. This was the antithesis of that. This was the safest, most legitimate score imaginable. And yet, it felt like the same devil, just in a better suit.

"It's Nike," David argued, spreading his hands. "It's not some fly-by-night operation. It's the pinnacle. You'll have access to resources we can't even dream of. The exposure alone…"

"The exposure for *them*," Ari countered, not looking away from Kyle. "They get to say they own the next big thing. They get his story. They get to commercialize his grief. 'Wear these shoes, the ones Nike designed, and be like Kyle, who overcame tragedy.' It's clean. It's safe. It's not *his*."

Kyle walked away from the island, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city below was alive, unknowing. He imagined Derrick in this room. The old Derrick would have told him to take the money and run. The Derrick who died protecting him… what would he say? The answer was a void. He'd never known that man.

"I need to think," Kyle said, his voice rough. "The road trip."

**Game 8: Boston Celtics @ New York Knicks**

Madison Square Garden. The Mecca. For a basketball player, it was a cathedral and a coliseum combined. The air was thick with history and the specific, aggressive disdain of New York fans. The Knicks were improved, tough, and physical—a mirror of their coach's identity.

The weight of the negotiation was a backpack full of stones Kyle couldn't take off. During warm-ups, his shots were flat. His movements felt sluggish. The dazzling number from the term sheet kept superimposing itself over the court.

*First Quarter: The Onslaught*

The Knicks came out with brutal, bullying intensity. They attacked the offensive glass, their big men throwing bodies into Porziņģis and Horford. Julius Randle, a powerhouse, backed down Jaylen Brown, knocking him off balance for a easy bucket. The crowd roared, smelling blood.

Kyle checked in. His first possession, he received a pass and was immediately double-teamed by Quickley and Grimes. The pressure was ferocious, hands swiping. He turned his back to protect the ball, and Randle, helping over, slapped it free from behind. Turnover. The Knicks ran out for an easy fast break.

"Wake up, rookie!" Randle barked at him as they jogged back. The Garden crowd jeered.

He was drowning. The Nike deal felt like it was happening to someone else, in another life, while he was stuck here, failing in the most famous arena in the world.

*Play 1:* The Celtics ran a set play for him, a flare screen to get him an open three on the wing. He caught it. The shot felt good off his hand, but it was long, clanging off the back rim with a sound that echoed in the hush of the shot. The Knicks grabbed the rebound.

A timeout was called. Brad Stevens didn't look at him. "Rob, you're in for Kyle. Let's get a stop."

The benching was a public humiliation. He sat at the end of the bench, a towel over his head, the roar of the Garden a mocking laugh in his ears. He could feel the cameras on him. He could see the headlines: *Sophomore Slump? Wilson Cools Off After Hot Start.*

*Second Quarter: The Fight Back*

He stayed on the bench for most of the quarter, stewing. He watched Marcus Smart dive for a loose ball, getting a floor burn that ripped his knee pad. He saw Jayson Tatum get hammered on a drive, get up, and sink both free throws with ice in his veins. This was work. This was the grind. This had nothing to do with million-dollar offers.

With three minutes left in the half, Stevens pointed at him. "Wilson. Let's go. Energy. Nothing else."

He checked back in. The moment his sneakers touched the hardwood, something shifted. The noise in his head faded. There was only the game.

*Play 2:* Jalen Brunson tried to isolate him on the switch, a savvy point guard looking to exploit a distracted defender. Brunson drove left, right, using a series of hesitations and crossovers. Kyle stayed with him, his feet a blur, his focus absolute. He forced Brunson into a tough, fading jumper at the shot clock buzzer. *Clang.* Defensive stop.

*Play 3:* On offense, he didn't wait for the ball. He cut backdoor, using a screen from Horford. Derrick White saw him and threw a lob pass. Kyle soared, catching it with one hand and throwing it down over Mitchell Robinson's help defense. The dunk was vicious, a release of all his pent-up frustration. The notoriously tough MSG crowd let out a collective gasp.

He landed and let out a scream, not of joy, but of pure defiance. He wasn't screaming at the Knicks. He was screaming at the term sheet, at the pressure, at the ghost of his father.

*Halftime: Knicks 52, Celtics 50*

The locker room was quiet, intense. They were in a fight. Stevens drew up plays, emphasizing physicality. Kyle sat, drinking water, his body thrumming. He'd found the eye of the storm.

*Third Quarter: The Takeover*

The Celtics tightened the screws. Their defense became a vice. Kyle was everywhere, his length disrupting passing lanes, his energy infectious.

*Play 4:* With the shot clock winding down, Tatum drove and kicked to Kyle in the corner. This time, there was no hesitation. No thought of Nike or Kyonic or Derrick. There was only the rim. He rose and fired. *Swish.* The net snapped. The Celtics took their first lead since the opening minutes.

*Play 5:* On defense, he read a pass from Brunson to Randle. He jumped the lane, intercepting the ball and taking it the other way for a uncontested dunk. He was playing free. He was playing angry.

*Fourth Quarter: Closing It Out*

The game stayed tight. With under a minute left, the Celtics were up two. The Knicks had the ball, a chance to tie or take the lead.

Brunson ran the pick-and-roll. Kyle switched onto Randle in the post. Randle caught it, backed him down with his considerable strength. The Garden was on its feet. This was the matchup they wanted.

Rumble turned, shouldering Kyle back, and went up for his signature bully-ball jumper. But Kyle, giving up forty pounds, didn't give an inch. He stayed grounded, then leaped at the perfect moment, his hand directly in Randle's line of sight.

Randle's shot hit the side of the backboard. Horford grabbed the rebound. Game over.

**Aftermath**

Final: Celtics 98, Knicks 94. Kyle finished with 19 points, 7 rebounds, 4 steals, and the game-saving defensive play. The narrative had flipped.

In the quiet of the visiting locker room, surrounded by the weary satisfaction of a road win, Kyle looked at his phone. There was a text from Ari.

*'That's who you are. That's your leverage.'*

Attached was a video clip of his defensive stand against Randle. It was all heart. No logo could ever create that.

He looked over at David, who was smiling, already thinking about the leverage the win provided. Kyle made a decision.

"Tell them no," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

David's smile vanished. "Kyle, be reasonable. We can negotiate! We can get creative control, I'm sure we can—"

"No," Kyle repeated. "The answer is no."

It was the biggest gamble of his life. He was betting on himself. On Kyonic. On the kid his mother believed in. For the first time since the phone call, the weight was gone. He felt light. He felt free. And he was terrified.

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