The morning was crisp, a sharp, classic Boston autumn day. The sky was a pale, endless blue, the kind that promises clarity and purpose. Kyle Wilson sat in the back of the black Navigator, the "Reaper Icons" on his feet still pristine, his gym bag beside him. He was scrolling through film on his tablet, a breakdown of the Cleveland Cavaliers' new offensive sets. The car was a cocoon of quiet luxury, the hum of the engine a soothing drone.
He'd just kissed Arianna and Kaleb goodbye. The baby had been fussy, and the lack of sleep was a dull throb behind his eyes, but it was a good ache. The kind that meant he had a family. He'd texted Marco: 'Ready for today. Let's work on that weak-side help D.' He was deep in the rhythm of the grind, the season stretching before him like a promised land.
