The silence in the aftermath of the sweep was profound. There was no raucous celebration, no victory parade for winning the first round. For a team with championship DNA, it was simply a task completed, a box checked. The real work, they all knew, was yet to come. The four days between series were a strange, liminal space—the eye of the hurricane. A deceptive calm where the only sound was the distant, gathering roar of the next storm.
For Kyle, the time was a gift. A chance to truly rest his body, which was already collecting a catalog of aches and bruises—the deep thigh contusion from banging with Vucevic, the soreness in his lower back from fighting through countless screens, the general wear and tear that was the tax of playoff basketball. He spent hours in the cold plunge and the hyperbaric chamber at the facility, his body a temple under constant renovation.
