The TD Garden pulsed with playoff energy, the kind that made the floor vibrate beneath Kyle's sneakers. Two days had passed since their win against Houston, and now the Celtics stood on the brink of the postseason, their final regular-season game against Orlando looming like a formality. But in the NBA, nothing was ever truly a formality.

Kyle adjusted the compression sleeve on his left arm, the black fabric stark against his skin. His pregame routine had become ritual—stretches, dribble drills, a moment alone with the photo in his notebook. But tonight, something felt different. The air was heavier, the stakes sharper. Playoffs weren't just games; they were legacies.

A hand clapped his shoulder. Jayson Tatum stood beside him, his expression unreadable. "You ready?"

Kyle nodded. "Born ready."

Tatum smirked. "Good. Because Orlando's coming for blood. They got nothing to lose."

Kyle knew that better than anyone. He'd spent his whole life with nothing to lose—until basketball gave him something to fight for. Now, with the playoffs on the horizon, every possession mattered. Every second counted.

The whistle blew. Tip-off.

---

The game unfolded like a storm—slow at first, then all at once. Orlando's young core played with reckless abandon, their defense swarming, their offense unpredictable. Kyle found himself matched up against Franz Wagner, the lanky forward with a deceptively smooth game.

First quarter: Wagner backed him down, hit a fadeaway over his outstretched hand. Kyle clenched his jaw.

Second quarter: redemption. Kyle picked Wagner's pocket at midcourt, took off in transition, and finished through contact, the and-one free throw rattling in. The crowd erupted.

By the fourth, the Celtics had pulled away, but Kyle's focus never wavered. He chased loose balls, fought through screens, and—when the clock finally hit zero—finished with a stat line that didn't tell the whole story: 16 points, 7 rebounds, 4 steals.

In the locker room afterward, the mood was light but edged with anticipation. Playoff matchups would be decided by night's end, and everyone knew what was coming.

Udoka gathered the team. "Rest up. Tomorrow, we prep for Atlanta."

A murmur rippled through the room. Trae Young. The Hawks. A first-round showdown.

Kyle felt it then—the shift. The regular season was over. Now, it was win or go home.

He pulled out his phone. One unread message from Ari:

*You ready for the real season?*

He typed back: *Born for it.*

Then he opened his notebook, flipped to the draft-night photo, and beneath his last note, wrote:

*Legends aren't born in the playoffs. They're revealed.*

The playoffs were here. And Kyle Wilson was ready.

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