The AVE high-speed train from Barcelona to Madrid sliced through the arid Spanish plains, a silver bullet of efficiency. Kyle watched the landscape blur past, a monochrome tapestry of olive groves and sun-baked earth. The frantic, month-long world tour was over. The polite courtship of Milano, the gaudy spectacle of Shanghai, the honest grind of Berlin, the hyper-efficient buzz of Chiba—they were all data points, memories filed away. This felt different. This wasn't an audition. This was a pilgrimage.

Real Madrid Baloncesto wasn't just a team; it was a global institution, a franchise where the weight of history was woven into the very fabric of their iconic all-white kits. The pressure to win was not a concept; it was the oxygen they breathed. For a player whose career had been defined by proving himself, it was the ultimate proving ground.

He was met at Madrid's Atocha station not by a junior intern, but by Javier himself, the man from the phone. He was a compact, intense man in his fifties with a firm handshake and eyes that missed nothing. "Señor Wilson. Welcome to the capital. We go directly to the Palacio. The team is finishing practice. Coach Laso wants to see you."

No hotel check-in. No pleasantries. We go directly. The message was clear: this was not a holiday.

The WiZink Center, known to everyone as the Palacio de los Deportes, was a looming, modern arena, but inside, it hummed with a palpable, historical energy. The smell was different from NBA arenas—a mix of hardwood, intense sweat, and a faint, lingering scent of espresso. The practice court was alive with the sound of squeaking sneakers, shouted Spanish instructions, and the relentless, percussive bounce of basketballs.

Coach Pablo Laso, a Basque legend with a fierce intelligence in his eyes, didn't break from his drill to greet Kyle. He simply gave a curt nod from the sideline, his arms crossed, his gaze analytically dissecting Kyle's every move as he walked in. Kyle wasn't a visiting celebrity here; he was a potential tool to be assessed for its utility and durability.

He was shown to the visitors' locker room to change. The Real Madrid jersey they gave him was pristine white, with no name on the back. Just the number 9. It felt heavier than any Celtics jersey he'd ever worn.

When he emerged onto the court, the practice didn't stop. The players—a mix of seasoned Spanish veterans, wily EuroLeague stars, and explosive American imports—glanced at him, their expressions unreadable. There was no welcome, no hostility. Just assessment. They were judging the merchandise.

Laso finally blew his whistle. "¡Basta! Circulo." The team gathered around him at center court. "This is Kyle. He is here to work. We do not have time for tours. We start with defense."

The "workout" that followed was unlike any other Kyle had experienced. It was a brutal, two-hour defensive clinic designed to break him.

They started with the "shell drill," but Laso's version was a form of controlled violence. The offensive players were allowed to push, hold, and use their bodies aggressively. Kyle, assigned to guard a rugged Serbian forward named Luka Mitrovic, was immediately tested. Mitrovic set a screen that felt like running into a brick wall. On the next possession, he received the ball in the post and immediately threw a brutal elbow into Kyle's chest to create space.

"¡Juega!" Laso yelled from the sideline. "Play! This is not the NBA! No fouls here!"

Kyle's lungs burned. His back, which had held up through the other trials, began to send sharp, warning jabs of pain. This was a different level of physicality. This was a street fight disguised as a drill.

But something ignited in Kyle. The old fire, the one that had been banked by injury and disappointment, began to flare. He didn't retaliate. He adapted. He used his newfound defensive IQ, anticipating Mitrovic's moves, getting his hands active, making every catch difficult. He fought through screens with a technique that prioritized positioning over brute force. He was giving up strength, but he was winning with brains and heart.

Laso watched, his expression unchanged.

Next was full-court, five-on-five. The pace was frenetic, the ball movement crisp and unselfish. The European game, with its shorter shot clock and tighter spacing, was a blur of decisions. Kyle's conditioning was tested immediately. He was gasping for air, his legs feeling like lead.

But his mind was racing, processing. He saw the patterns, the Spain Pick-and-Roll actions, the flare screens, the backdoor cuts. He wasn't the most athletic player on the court anymore, but he began to anticipate. He jumped a passing lane, deflecting the ball and starting a fast break. On the next possession, he directed a teammate on a defensive switch, barking out the command in English, his voice cutting through the Spanish chatter.

The players began to glance at him with a new respect. He wasn't just a name. He was a player.

The final test came at the end of practice. Laso set up a scenario: down two points, fifteen seconds left. The second unit was to inbound the ball against the first team's defense.

Kyle was on the second unit. He brought the ball up, against the full-court pressure of Sergio Llull, a Madrid legend known for his clutch gene. Llull was all over him, hands swiping, body bumping.

Kyle didn't panic. He used a crafty behind-the-back dribble to create a sliver of space, crossing half-court with ten seconds left. The play was designed for him to use a screen and take the final shot. But as he came off the screen, he saw Mitrovic and the towering center, Walter Tavares, both hedging hard at him, determined not to let the American hero take the shot.

The old Kyle, the pre-injury Kyle, might have tried to split them, to force up a miraculous, contested shot. The ego would have demanded it.

This Kyle saw something else. He saw his young Spanish teammate, a shooter named Hugo, drifting to the corner, ignored by the defense that was so focused on him.

In a split second, Kyle made the decision. He jump-stopped, drew both defenders to him, and fired a laser-beam pass across the court to Hugo.

Hugo caught it in rhythm. Swish. Game winner.

The second unit erupted. Hugo ran over to Kyle, slapping his hand.

The gym fell silent. All eyes turned to Coach Laso.

Laso didn't smile. He just gave a slow, single nod. "Bueno," he said, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. "You see the game. You see your teammate. That is how we win here. Not with one hero. With five players."

The workout was over. The players headed to the showers, a few offering Kyle nods of approval.

Javier approached him. "The coach would like to speak with you in his office."

Laso's office was spartan, filled with whiteboards crammed with intricate plays and game tape paused on a screen. He offered Kyle a water and got straight to the point.

"Your body is... a question mark," Laso said, his bluntness refreshing after the sales pitches. "You will not play thirty minutes for me. You will not be the first option. The ACB and the EuroLeague will punish you. They will test your back, your knee, every game."

Kyle nodded, not denying it.

"But," Laso continued, leaning forward, "your mind is a weapon. You see things two seconds before anyone else. You made the right play today, not the proud play. That is more valuable to me than a forty-inch vertical."

He slid a single piece of paper across the desk. It was a contract offer. The financial number was less than China's, less than Milano's. It was competitive, but it wasn't life-changing.

"The money is what it is," Laso said. "What I am offering you is a challenge. I am offering you the chance to prove that a player's value is not just in his athleticism. I am offering you the pressure of this white jersey. I am offering you the chance to become a legend in the most demanding basketball environment on earth. But you will earn every second of playing time. There are no gifts here."

He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. "You do not need to answer now. Go back to your hotel. Think about what you want. Do you want to be comfortable, or do you want to be tested?"

Kyle returned to his hotel room, his body aching in ways he'd forgotten were possible. He stood on the balcony, looking out at the illuminated expanse of the Royal Palace and the bustling Plaza de Oriente. The city was majestic, ancient, and uncompromising.

He thought about the other offers. The comfortable, beautiful life in Milan. The obscene wealth and adulation in Shanghai. The honest, physical challenge in Berlin. The fun, fascinating adventure in Japan.

Then he thought about Coach Laso's words. The pressure of the white jersey.

He didn't want comfort. He'd had comfort in Boston, and it had been taken from him. He didn't want just money. He didn't want an adventure.

He wanted to prove, to himself and to the world watching, that he was still a winner. That his heart could still beat under the most intense pressure imaginable. He wanted to be tested in the fire, and Real Madrid was the hottest forge outside of the NBA.

He picked up his phone and called David.

"I'm not going to negotiate," Kyle said, his voice calm, certain. "Tell them yes. Tell them I want the pressure."

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