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.
