The film room was silent except for the hum of the projector and the occasional squeak of sneakers on hardwood from the footage playing on screen. Kyle Wilson sat alone, his eyes locked on the replay of Miami's defensive rotations, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh. The glow of the screen reflected in his dark eyes, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his features. His notebook lay open in front of him, the pages filled with plays, notes, and reminders—most of them circled, underlined, or crossed out in frustration.

At the top of the page, taped carefully into place, was the photo from draft night. Him in his crisp suit, the Celtics hat perched on his head, his smile wide but his eyes betraying the hollowness beneath. His mother should have been there. Nichola Campbell should have been standing beside him, her proud smile brighter than any camera flash. But she wasn't. And no amount of success could change that.

Beneath the photo, in fresh ink, he had written:

*Make her proud. Every. Damn. Possession.*

The door creaked open, pulling him from his thoughts. Marcus Smart stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual intensity softened by something Kyle couldn't quite place—concern, maybe.

"You gonna sleep in here, rook? Or you actually planning on eating something tonight?"

Kyle didn't look up. "I'm good."

Marcus exhaled through his nose and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He walked over to the projector, paused the footage, and turned to face Kyle. The sudden silence felt heavier than before.

"You think she'd want you doing this to yourself?"

Kyle's fingers stilled. "Don't."

Marcus didn't back down. "Nah, I *will*," he said, voice low but firm. "You've been balling out these last few games. But you're playing like you owe the world something. That ain't strength, Kyle. That's fear."

Kyle finally lifted his gaze, his jaw tight. "Fear?"

"Fear of forgetting her. Fear of not being enough." Marcus reached into his pocket and tossed a protein bar onto the table in front of Kyle. "But she already knew you were enough. Now *you* gotta know."

For a long moment, Kyle just stared at the bar, the words settling into him like a weight. Then, slowly, he reached for it, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth.

Marcus nodded, satisfied. "Playoffs are coming. You wanna honor her? Then play free. Not like you're carrying a damn casket on your back."

Kyle didn't respond, but the words stuck.

The Celtics had two games left before the playoffs—Houston and Orlando. On paper, they should have been easy wins. But the NBA didn't work like that. Trap games existed for a reason, and Kyle knew better than to underestimate anyone.

Practice the next morning was grueling. Udoka had them running defensive drills until their lungs burned, emphasizing weakside rotations and closeouts. Kyle moved through the motions, his body on autopilot, his mind elsewhere.

Tatum noticed.

"You good?" he asked during a water break, nudging Kyle with his elbow.

Kyle took a long swig from his bottle before answering. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"About?"

"Playoffs."

Tatum smirked. "You nervous?"

Kyle shook his head. "Nah. Just ready."

Tatum studied him for a second before nodding. "Good. Because Playoff Jimmy ain't gonna let you breathe like this." He clapped Kyle on the back before jogging back onto the court. "Let's go. One more round."

Udoka pulled Kyle aside after practice. "You're starting Game 1," he said bluntly. "Don't make me regret it."

Kyle met his coach's gaze. "I won't."

That night, Ari called. Her locs were piled into a messy bun, her Kyonic hoodie hanging off one shoulder as she leaned into the camera. "You ready to be *that dude* in the playoffs?"

Kyle smirked. "Been ready."

"Prove it," she shot back. "And don't let ESPN gas you up. They'll turn on you faster than Chino's crew did."

The mention of Chino sent a familiar chill through him. But this time, the anger didn't consume him—it sharpened him.

April 2. TD Garden.

The Rockets weren't a playoff team, but they had young, hungry players with nothing to lose. Jalen Green in particular had been on a tear lately, and Kyle was tasked with slowing him down.

The first quarter was rough. Green blew past him for a dunk on the opening possession, the crowd groaning as the ball ripped through the net. Kyle clenched his fists but didn't let it rattle him.

Second quarter, revenge.

Green tried the same crossover, but this time, Kyle read it. He stripped the ball mid-dribble, took off down the court, and *elevated*—one hand cocked back before hammering it over Sengun's late contest. The bench erupted. The crowd roared.

By the fourth, the game was close, but Kyle wasn't letting this one slip. A kick-out from Brown found him in the corner, and he didn't hesitate. The three splashed through.

Final: Celtics 118, Rockets 105.

Kyle's line: 18 points, 6 rebounds, 3 steals.

In the locker room afterward, a reporter asked, "You seem different lately. Calmer. What changed?"

Kyle wiped the sweat from his brow. "I stopped playing for the past. Started playing for the now."

Back in his condo, Kyle opened his notebook again. Beneath the draft photo, he added:

*Playoffs don't make legends. Choices do.*

He shut it, stared at the ceiling, and for the first time in months—*smiled*.

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