The All-Star break loomed, a promised land of rest at the end of a brutal seven-game road trip. The Celtics were battered but triumphant, their league-best record a testament to their depth and resilience. Kyle's body was a map of aches and bruises—a deep thigh bruise from banging with Bam, a sore shoulder from taking a charge against Cleveland, the perpetual sting of floor burns on his elbows and knees.
They landed in Boston well past midnight, the team bus a silent, weary capsule rolling through the sleeping city. The only sound was the rumble of the engine and the soft snores of exhausted men. Kyle leaned his head against the cold window, watching the familiar streets blur past. He was operating on autopilot, his mind already in his bed, in the deep, dreamless sleep of the utterly spent.
