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.
