The morning air in Boston carried the first real bite of spring, crisp enough to sting Kyle's lungs as he jogged up the steps of the Auerbach Center. The city was waking up, but he'd been awake for hours—his body thrumming with a restless energy that even a five-mile run couldn't shake. Playoffs started in forty-eight hours. Atlanta was coming. And the ghosts of Montego Bay? They never really left.

He pushed through the glass doors, nodding at the security guard who barely glanced up from his coffee. The facility was quiet this early, just the hum of the industrial fridge in the training room and the occasional squeak of sneakers from some staffer setting up for the day. Kyle made his way to the locker room, his usual spot in the corner near the showers. His locker was meticulously organized—home and away jerseys hung with military precision, Kyonic sneakers lined up like soldiers at attention. Taped inside the door, the same draft-night photo from his notebook stared back at him.

A shadow fell across the bench. Jaylen Brown dropped down beside him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You know most people sleep before the playoffs, right?"

Kyle shrugged, unwrapping the tape from his fingers. "Couldn't."

The unspoken weight between them was heavier than any barbell in the weight room. Nichola's absence. The pressure of the postseason. The way the entire city seemed to hold its breath whenever the Celtics stepped on the court this time of year.

Jaylen studied him for a long moment before nodding toward the court. "Come on. Let's get some shots up."

---

**10:37 AM - Practice Facility**

The ball felt different in Kyle's hands today. Not worse. Not better. Just different. Like every dribble carried more consequence. He caught a pass from Derrick White at the top of the key, squared his shoulders, and let it fly.

Swish.

"Again," Udoka called from the sideline, clipboard in hand.

They ran the drill five more times. Pin-down screens. Backdoor cuts. The kind of actions that would make or break them against Atlanta's scrambling defense. Kyle's shirt clung to his back with sweat, the air thick with the smell of hardwood and leather.

Marcus Smart jogged over during a water break, his voice low. "You seen the tape on Young yet?"

Kyle shook his head, gulping from his bottle.

"Guy's a magician with the ball. But he hates physicality." Marcus grinned, that predatory gleam in his eye. "Guess who's getting that assignment?"

The implication hung in the air between them. Kyle would be the first line of defense against one of the most explosive guards in the league. The thought sent a current through him—not fear, but anticipation. This was why he'd clawed his way out of Montego Bay. For moments like this.

---

**2:15 PM - Film Room**

The screen froze on a clip of Trae Young splitting a double team against Miami. Kyle leaned forward, studying the subtle shift in Young's hips that signaled his next move.

"See that?" Assistant coach Will Hardy pointed at the screen. "He's looking left the whole time, but the pass goes right. Classic misdirection."

Udoka grunted from the back of the room. "Wilson. You're our best on-ball defender. You shadow him possession by possession. No help. Make him work for every inch."

Kyle nodded, committing the footage to memory. He'd guarded scorers before—Edwards, Morant, even Curry for stretches. But playoff Young was different. The stakes magnified everything.

As the film session broke up, Jayson caught his arm. "Don't overthink it. At the end of the day, it's just basketball."

Easy for him to say. Tatum had been here before. Kyle was about to play his first playoff minutes in front of twenty thousand screaming fans and millions more watching at home. The weight of that settled on his shoulders like a lead apron.

---

**6:48 PM - Back at the Condo**

The shower did little to ease the tension coiled in Kyle's muscles. He stood under the spray until the water ran cold, replaying Atlanta's sets in his head. When he stepped out, his phone buzzed with a notification—a Bleacher Report alert:

*Celtics-Hawks Preview: Can Boston's Rookie Handle Playoff Pressure?*

He tossed the phone onto the bed without reading the article. They'd all doubted him before—the scouts who said he was too raw, the analysts who claimed he'd crack under the bright lights. Let them keep doubting.

A knock at the door startled him. He threw on a hoodie and padded barefoot to the entryway. Ari stood there, two takeout bags in hand and an unreadable expression on her face.

"You look like shit," she said by way of greeting.

Kyle snorted, stepping aside to let her in. "Good to see you too."

She dumped the food on the counter—jerk chicken from the Caribbean spot they both loved—and turned to face him. "You nervous?"

"No." The lie came too quickly.

Ari raised an eyebrow but didn't call him on it. Instead, she pulled out her laptop. "Kyonic's playoff collection drops tomorrow. We're projecting six figures in sales just from the Boston market." She flipped the screen around to show him the designs—black and green with subtle Jamaican flag accents. "This one's my favorite."

The hoodie featured a single phrase stitched across the back in gold thread: *From the Yard to the Garden.*

Kyle ran his fingers over the image. His mother would have loved it. The thought hit him like a gut punch.

Ari's voice softened. "She'd be proud, you know."

He didn't trust himself to speak. Just nodded and reached for the food.

---

**Game Day - 4:12 PM - TD Garden**

The arena buzzed with a different energy hours before tip-off. Playoff basketball transformed everything—the intensity of the staff prepping the court, the extra cameras lining the tunnels, even the smell of the popcorn in the concourse seemed sharper.

Kyle went through his usual routine: dynamic stretches, form shooting, visualization exercises. But today, everything took on new significance. The way he tied his sneakers. The way he taped his fingers. The way he glanced at that photo one last time before heading to the court.

Udoka gathered them in the locker room for final instructions. The whiteboard was crammed with plays and matchups, but the message was simple: "This is why we grind. Forty-eight minutes of maximum effort. Leave nothing out there."

As they broke the huddle, Marcus caught Kyle's eye. "No rookies in the playoffs. Just players."

Kyle nodded. He was ready.

The tunnel to the court felt longer than usual. The roar of the crowd grew louder with each step. And then—light.

The Garden erupted as they took the floor. Kyle squinted against the strobes, the noise vibrating in his chest. This was it. No more preparation. No more waiting.

The ref tossed the ball in the air.

Game on.

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