The arena lights burned brighter in the playoffs. The air tasted different—thicker, charged with something raw. Kyle "The Reaper" Wilson stood at half-court during warmups, rolling the ball between his hands, feeling the deep grooves of the pebbled leather. The nickname had followed him since his U16 days in Jamaica, when he'd ended a rival team's championship hopes with a game-winning block so vicious, the opponent's coach had called him a "grim reaper of dreams."

Tonight, Atlanta would learn why.

---

### **First Quarter – 10:52 Remaining**

**Celtics 4, Hawks 4**

Trae Young brought the ball up, his dribble lazy, almost taunting. Kyle crouched low, his fingertips brushing the hardwood. The Garden crowd roared, but all he heard was his own pulse.

"You gonna guard me or just stare, Reaper?" Young smirked, freezing him with a hesitation dribble.

Kyle didn't bite. He knew the scouting report—Young loved the stepback three when defenders overcommitted. Instead, Kyle gave him half a step, hands up, mirroring every twitch.

Young took the bait. He pulled up from 28.

Kyle exploded forward, his outstretched fingers grazing the ball just enough to alter the trajectory. *Clank.*

The rebound landed in Tatum's hands. Fast break. Kyle sprinted the lane, catching the outlet pass in stride. One dribble, then—*elevation.*

Collins met him at the rim.

Bad idea.

Kyle cocked the ball back with his left hand and threw it down so hard Collins stumbled backward. The dunk shook the backboard, the rim vibrating like a struck gong. The crowd erupted.

"And that's why they call him The Reaper!" the announcer bellowed.

Young's smirk was gone.

---

### **Second Quarter – 6:18 Remaining**

**Celtics 38, Hawks 34**

Kyle sat on the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, watching Atlanta's adjustments. They'd started double-teaming him off screens, forcing the ball out of his hands. Smart play. But Kyle wasn't just a scorer.

Udoka motioned to him. "Back in. Hunt the mismatch."

First possession: Kyle found himself switched onto Bogdanovic. He backed him down in the post, feeling the defender's weight shift. A quick spin, then a fadeaway so smooth the net barely moved.

"Too easy," Brown chuckled as they jogged back.

Next trip down: Young tried to exploit Kyle in the pick-and-roll, but Kyle fought through the screen, staying glued. Young lost his dribble. Kyle pounced—a steal, then a one-man fast break.

He could hear Young's sneakers slapping the hardwood behind him, could feel the chase. At the last second, Kyle Euro-stepped, leaving Young grasping at air before dropping in a finger roll.

The Hawks called timeout.

On the bench, Marcus handed him a water bottle. "They scared of you now."

Kyle wiped his mouth. "Good."

---

### **Third Quarter – 3:09 Remaining**

**Celtics 72, Hawks 68**

Atlanta adjusted. Hard fouls. Trash talk. Anything to rattle him.

Kyle caught an elbow from Collins on a box-out, the pain flaring hot across his ribs. No call. He glared at the ref, then at Collins, who grinned.

"Welcome to the playoffs, rookie."

Kyle exhaled through his nose. *Control the rage.*

Next play: Kyle set a brutal screen on Young, sending the guard sprawling. "Welcome to Boston," he muttered, stepping over him.

The Garden loved it. Young did not.

By the fourth quarter, the game had turned into a street fight. Kyle's jersey was drenched, his legs burning, but his focus was razor-sharp.

---

### **Fourth Quarter – 1:12 Remaining**

**Celtics 98, Hawks 97**

Crunch time.

Udoka drew up the play during the timeout: "Floppy action for Tatum. If they switch, Reaper gets the iso."

The Hawks switched.

Kyle found himself isolated on Young at the top. The crowd rose to its feet.

He could hear Ari screaming from the sideline. Could see his mother's face in his mind.

One dribble between the legs. A hard crossover left. Young stumbled.

Kyle stepped back, rose up—

*Swish.*

Three-pointer. Celtics up 101-97.

Young's expression was priceless.

---

### **Final Possession – 0:04.2 Remaining**

**Celtics 103, Hawks 101**

Atlanta's last chance. Everyone knew where the ball was going.

Kyle denied Young the inbound, forcing Bogdanovic to take it. The pass went to Young anyway, but Kyle was already there, hounding him like a shadow.

Young tried a stepback. Kyle contested perfectly.

The buzzer sounded.

*Celtics win.*

---

### **Postgame – The Reaper's Harvest**

The locker room was chaos. Reporters swarmed, cameras flashing.

"Kyle! How'd it feel shutting down Trae in the clutch?"

He shrugged. "Just doing my job."

Ari pushed through the crowd, her Kyonic hoodie drenched in champagne (courtesy of Marcus). She grabbed his face. "You looked like *him* out there. The Reaper."

Kyle allowed himself a rare smile.

He pulled out his notebook later that night, flipping to the draft-night photo. Beneath his previous note, he added:

*The Reaper doesn't chase. He arrives.*

Series: 1-1

But Atlanta wouldn't go down easy. And Kyle? He was just getting started.

The plane ride to Atlanta was quiet. Most of the guys had their headphones in, some sleeping, others reviewing film. Kyle stared out the window, watching the clouds drift beneath them. His body still hummed with the energy of Game 2, but his mind was already on Georgia.

Ari had sent him a text before takeoff: *"They're gonna come at you harder now. You ready?"*

He hadn't responded. He didn't need to.

---

### **State Farm Arena – Game 3**

The Hawks' crowd was loud. *Hostile.* Kyle could feel the difference the second they stepped onto the court for warmups. This wasn't Boston. This was enemy territory.

Trae Young was waiting for him at midcourt during shootaround, dribbling lazily between his legs. "Hope you enjoyed that last game, rook. Ain't happening again."

Kyle didn't even look at him. Just took his shot, caught the rebound, and moved to the next spot.

Young laughed. "Yeah, okay. Silent treatment."

Kyle exhaled through his nose. *Focus.*

---

### **First Quarter – Hawks 12, Celtics 7**

Atlanta's adjustments were obvious. They were blitzing every pick, forcing the ball out of Tatum and Brown's hands early. That left Kyle open on the weak side—*too* open.

First possession, he caught the ball in the corner. Wide. The crowd roared as he hesitated, then drove baseline. Missed the layup.

Next time down, same thing. Open three. He shot it. *Clank.*

Udoka yanked him at the 6-minute mark. "Breathe," was all he said as Kyle sat down.

---

### **Second Quarter – Hawks 38, Celtics 30**

Kyle watched from the bench as the Hawks stretched the lead. Young was cooking, hitting stepbacks, drawing fouls. Every time the camera cut to Kyle, the Atlanta fans jeered.

Marcus leaned over. "They want you rattled."

Kyle clenched his jaw. "I'm not."

"Prove it."

When he checked back in, the game slowed down. He stopped thinking. Just *played.*

A steal. A fast-break dunk. A corner three.

Halftime score: Hawks 52, Celtics 50.

---

### **Third Quarter – The Turn**

Atlanta came out firing. Young hit back-to-back threes. Then Collins posterized Rob Williams. The lead ballooned to 12.

The Celtics looked *lost.*

Timeout.

Udoka's clipboard hit the floor. "Wake the hell up!"

Kyle wiped sweat from his brow. They needed a spark.

Next possession, he took matters into his own hands.

Hesitation crossover. Drive. *Contact.*

The and-one layup dropped. The free throw tied it.

The Hawks called time. The crowd groaned.

Tatum grabbed Kyle's head. "That's it. That's the energy."

---

### **Fourth Quarter – War**

Back and forth. Lead changes. Hard fouls.

With 1:12 left, Boston down 1, Kyle found himself isolated on Young again.

He knew what was coming.

Young tried the stepback. Kyle stayed down, contesting perfectly. *Clank.*

Boston ball.

Udoka drew up the play: "Floppy for Tatum. If they switch, Kyle gets the iso."

They switched.

Kyle sized up Bogdanovic. One dribble. Pull-up. *Swish.*

Celtics up 1.

Atlanta's final possession. Young drove, but Kyle cut him off. Forced the kickout.

The shot missed.

*Celtics win, 98-97.*

Series lead: 2-1.

---

### **Postgame – Silent Treatment**

The locker room was electric. Music blasting. Guys laughing.

Kyle sat in the corner, icing his knees.

Ari slid next to him. "You good?"

He nodded. "Just getting started."

She smirked. "Scary."

He pulled out his notebook later that night. Flipped to the draft photo. Wrote:

*Pressure is a privilege.*

Game 4 was in two days.

The Hawks were on the ropes.

And Kyle?

He was just warming up.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.