The lights dimmed. The music hit.
Green lasers sliced the air.
Fans roared.
Cameras flashed.
Opening Night.
The Boston Celtics vs. Philadelphia 76ers.
Kyle Wilson stood in the tunnel.
Jersey crisp.
Knees tight.
Mind racing.
All his life—gritty concrete, blood-stained alleys, bullet-whispers, broken nets—
Led to this moment.
Jumbotron boomed:
"NOW INTRODUCING… THE BOSTON CELTICS!"
One by one, players ran through the fog.
Kyle stood back, unnoticed.
13th man.
No spotlight.
But his heart? Pounding like a war drum.
First Quarter – Speed of the GameIme nodded to him with four minutes left in the first.
"Kyle. Let's see if the Reaper's real."
Kyle exhaled, rose, and peeled off his warmup.
Court felt like glass. Air like static.
He checked in.
First matchup?
Tobias Harris.
The Sixers swung the ball. Harris pump-faked, drove—Kyle stayed with him.
BAM! A chase-down block.
Crowd buzzed.
But next play?
Harris faked again.
Stepback.
Three in Kyle's face.