The buzz from the Panathinaikos win lasted exactly one practice. Coach Laso, a master at preventing any hint of complacency, was on them from the first whistle. The next opponent was AS Monaco, a team built with a different philosophy entirely: NBA excess. Led by the explosive scoring of former All-Star Mike James and bolstered by other ex-NBA talent, they were the antithesis of Real Madrid's surgical, system-based approach. They were a highlight reel waiting to happen, a team that believed talent trumped tactics.

The scouting report was a testament to individual brilliance. Mike James: pull-up threes from the logo, impossible finishes at the rim. Jordan Loyd: a bulldog scorer who hunted mismatches. Their game was isolation, a series of one-on-one battles they were confident they could win.

Laso's strategy was simple. "We will not run with them. We will not play their game. We will make them play ours. Every possession, twenty-four seconds. We will make them defend until they are bored, and then we will make them defend some more. And when they have the ball," he said, his eyes scanning the room and landing on Kyle, "we will make them work. Mothers. James is yours. You remember how to guard?"

A few weeks ago, the assignment would have filled Kyle with a cold dread. Guarding one of the most unstoppable scorers in Europe on a knee that couldn't trust its own explosiveness? It was a nightmare.

But something had shifted. The hollowness after the Žalgiris game, the confrontation with Llull, the reclamation of his shot in Athens—it had forged a new resolve. The fear was still there, but it was now a tool, a sharpening stone.

"I remember," Kyle said, his voice low but clear in the quiet film room.

"He will test you early," Laso continued. "He will try to embarrass you. Your job is not to stop him. No one stops Mike James. Your job is to be a ghost. To be in his space. To make him work for every point. To make him tired. If he gets thirty, but it takes him thirty shots, we win. ¿Entendido?"

"Understood."

The pre-game atmosphere at the WiZink Center for a EuroLeague showdown was a unique kind of madness. It wasn't the corporate sheen of an NBA arena; it was a pounding, visceral, tribal heartbeat. The drums, the chants, the sea of white and purple flags—it was a declaration of war before the ball was even tipped.

Kyle went through his warm-up with a focused calm. He started close to the rim: soft finger rolls, hook shots, getting a feel for the ball. Then he stepped out. Catch and shoot from the corner. Swish. Swish. Swish. The net barely moved. Then the wings. Then the top of the key. Each shot was a repetition, a prayer, a reaffirmation of the muscle memory that defined his life. He found his spot, a few feet behind the three-point line, right of center. His spot. He hit five in a row, then ten. The Monaco players, going through their own layup lines, started to notice. The American was heating up.

First Quarter: 10:00 - 5:32

From the opening tip, it was clear what Monaco's game plan was. Mike James brought the ball up, pointed at Kyle, and a teammate cleared out. The crowd roared, sensing the confrontation.

James was a maestro of hesitation, a master of pace. He dribbled between his legs, slow, then fast, his eyes locked on Kyle's hips. Kyle didn't bite. He remembered his prime. He knew the scouting report. James loved to go left into his step-back. Kyle gave him a half-step of cushion, inviting the drive, ready to cut it off.

James took the bait. He exploded left. Two years ago, Kyle would have slid with him, chest-to-chest, and used his strength to absorb the contact. Now, he couldn't risk the lateral burst. He used his mind. He took a calculated drop-step, staying between James and the rim, knowing Tavares was behind him as the eraser. James rose for his patented pull-up jumper. Kyle didn't leave his feet. He stayed grounded, right hand high, contesting the vision. The shot clanged off the back rim. A win.

Laso clapped sharply from the sideline. "¡Bien, Kyle! ¡Forzarlo a tomar malos tiros!"

On offense, Madrid ran their sets with hypnotic precision. The ball moved side to side, probing the Monaco defense. Kyle, initially, was a decoy. He set backscreens, he cut through the lane, he kept the ball moving. Then, with 7:15 on the clock, he came off a pindown screen from Tavares. The defender, Elie Okobo, went under the screen, respecting the drive but daring him to shoot.

It was the most disrespectful read of all. Kyle caught the pass from Campazzo, his feet already set. There was no hesitation. The catch, the dip, the rise—it was one fluid, beautiful motion. Okobo scrambled to close out, but it was too late. The ball was already in the air, a perfect parabola.

Swish.

The net snapped. 5-2 Madrid.

Monaco came right back. James, annoyed, tried to post Kyle up. Kyle fought him, digging his knees into the back of James's legs, making him uncomfortable. James spun baseline, but Kyle, anticipating the spin, had already cheated that way. He forced James into a fading, off-balance jumper that missed badly.

Madrid secured the rebound and pushed. Kyle didn't sprint to the corner. He drifted to his spot. Right of center, top of the key. Campazzo hit him in rhythm. Another catch-and-shoot. Another perfect release.

Swish. 8-2.

The WiZink Center erupted. Kyle backpedaled, his expression unchanged, but he allowed himself to tap his chest twice, a silent acknowledgment to Llull. I remember.

First Quarter: 5:32 - End of Quarter

Mike James was a professional scorer, and he adjusted. He started using screens, forcing Kyle to fight over them. This is where Kyle's lost athleticism hurt. He got caught on a screen from Donatas Motiejūnas, and James buried a three. The next time down, James rejected the screen, leaving Kyle off-balance, and hit a tough floater in the lane.

But Kyle was winning the mental battle. He wasn't getting steals or blocks, but he was making James work. Every dribble was contested. Every inch of space was earned. The cumulative effect was the goal.

With two minutes left, Kyle checked out for a rest. The stat sheet: 6 points (2-2 FG, 2-2 3PT), 1 assist. More importantly, Mike James was 2-7 from the field. The plan was working.

Second Quarter: 8:00 - 4:15

Kyle re-entered the game with the second unit. His role changed. He was now the primary ball-handler and scorer. Monaco assigned Alpha Diallo, a long, athletic defender, to him.

The first play was a high pick-and-roll with backup center Vincent Poirier. Diallo went under the screen. Bad choice. Kyle pulled up without a dribble.

Swish. 11 points.

The next time, Diallo fought over the screen. Kyle used the space, drove left, and when the help defender rotated, he fired a bullet pass to the corner for a Guerschon Yabusele three.

Swish. Assist.

He was conducting the orchestra. The threat of his shot was warping the defense, opening up everything else. With 5:02 left, he isolated Diallo on the left wing. He gave a series of hesitation crossovers, not with blinding speed, but with expert change of pace. He created a sliver of space, rose up, and hit a silky smooth pull-up jumper over Diallo's outstretched hand.

Swish. 13 points.

He was feeling it. The rim looked like an ocean. On defense, he drew a charge on a driving Jordan Loyd, absorbing the contact and hitting the floor with a grunt. It was a winning play, a hustle play. The crowd chanted his name.

At halftime, he walked to the locker room with 15 points, 3 assists, and the satisfaction of holding Mike James to 4-12 shooting. Madrid led 48-42.

Third Quarter: The Onslaught

Laso's halftime message was simple: "The snake is wounded. Now we cut off its head. They will try to run. We will make them walk. Kyle, keep being a ghost on James. On offense, we run 'Blanco' for you. They are switching everything. We want you on their big man."

The plan was diabolical. They wanted Kyle isolated against Motiejūnas, a skilled big but too slow for Kyle on the perimeter.

The first possession of the second half. "Blanco! Blanco!" Campazzo shouted. The play unfolded. A series of screens forced the switch. Suddenly, Kyle had Motiejūnas on him at the top of the key. The WiZink crowd rose to its feet, smelling blood.

Kyle sized him up. He took two hard dribbles between his legs, right to left. Motiejūnas, afraid of the blow-by, gave ground. It was all Kyle needed. He stepped back, creating a meter of space, and launched.

The shot was pure. Swish. 18 points.

Monaco called a timeout. It didn't matter. The next time down, same play, same switch. This time, Motiejūnas jumped out at him. Kyle gave a pump fake, sent the big man flying past him, took one dribble in, and hit a gentle, almost casual, fifteen-foot jumper.

20 points.

Mike James tried to answer, driving hard on Kyle. But Kyle, knowing he had help behind him, stood his ground. He moved his feet, stayed vertical, and forced James into a heavily contested, off-balance layup that missed. Kyle secured the rebound himself.

He brought the ball up, the crowd noise a deafening wave. He saw the matchup he wanted again: Motiejūnas. He didn't call a play. He just pointed. Clear out.

The arena went berserk. This was the NBA Kyle. The killer.

He isolated at the top. Dribble, dribble, between the legs. He drove right, then crossed over left so hard Motiejūnas's knees nearly buckled. He created a full two steps of separation and rose up for another three.

Swish. 23 points. The Monaco coach was screaming, apoplectic.

Kyle was in a trance. Every shot felt like it was destined to go in. He hit a fallaway jumper over Diallo. He sank two free throws after drawing a foul on a drive. With 2:00 left in the third, he came off a down screen, caught, turned, and fired in one motion. Nothing but net. 28 points.

The third quarter ended with Madrid up 78-65. Kyle had scored 13 points in the quarter. He was one bucket away from 30.

Fourth Quarter: The Maestro

He started the fourth on the bench, a towel over his shoulders, breathing heavily. His knee ached with a deep, familiar throb. He had poured everything into those three quarters. The stats glowed on the jumbotron: 28 points (10-13 FG, 5-6 3PT, 3-3 FT), 4 assists, 3 rebounds.

Mike James, refusing to quit, led a frantic 8-0 run to start the quarter against Madrid's second unit. The lead was cut to five. Laso looked down the bench. "Llull. Go."

The roar that greeted his return was thunderous. He wasn't just a player; he was the protagonist of tonight's drama.

The game tightened. It was no longer a blowout; it was a fight. With 4:15 left, Madrid up by four, Kyle found himself with the ball and Mike James guarding him tightly. The isolation was set.

This was the moment. The scorer vs. the scorer.

Kyle dribbled at the top, the clock winding down. He used a hesitation move, then drove hard right. James, expecting the pull-up, was a half-step slow. Kyle got a shoulder past him, into the lane. The help defense came—it was Motiejūnas, looking for revenge. Kyle went up, not for a shot, but into the big man's chest, drawing the contact. In mid-air, with incredible body control, he contorted himself and flipped the ball towards the rim.

The whistle blew. Foul on Motiejūnas.

The ball, impossibly, kissed high off the glass and dropped through the net.

The WiZink Center exploded. Kyle landed on his feet, pounding his chest once, a roar finally escaping his lips. He went to the line and sank the free throw.

30 points. And a three-point play that pushed the lead to seven.

It broke Monaco's spirit. From there, Madrid closed it out with cold professionalism. Llull hit a dagger three. Tavares controlled the glass. Kyle, his job done, facilitated, hitting Deck for one more open three to seal it.

Final Score: Real Madrid 98 - AS Monaco 87

In the locker room, the music was blaring. The stats were official: Kyle Mothers: 33 points (11-14 FG, 5-7 3PT, 6-6 FT), 6 assists, 4 rebounds, 1 steal, +21 plus/minus. Mike James: 28 points (11-26 FG), 4 assists, 5 turnovers.

It was a masterpiece. Not just the scoring, but the efficiency. The defense. The timing.

Reporters swarmed him afterward.

"Kyle, 33 points on only 14 shots. How does it feel to have a night like that after everything?"

Kyle, still sweating, a ice pack wrapped around his knee, smiled. "It feels good to make shots. But it feels better to win. Mike James is a hell of a player. My job was just to make it tough on him."

"Your jump shot looked flawless. Is it back to where it was in Boston?"

"It's different," Kyle said, his tone thoughtful. "It's quieter. Before, it was loud. It was based on… anger. On proving something. Now, it's just there. It's a tool. It's part of the game, not the whole game."

He left the arena that night, the buzz of the crowd still ringing in his ears. The game ball from the Žalgiris game was on his counter. The stat sheet from this game was in his bag. One was proof he could learn. The other was proof he could still be him.

He wasn't the athlete he once was. He would never be that again. But as he drove through the Madrid night, he realized he was becoming something else, something more complete.

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