The AVE high-speed train from Barcelona to Madrid sliced through the arid Spanish plains, a silver bullet of efficiency. Kyle watched the landscape blur past, a monochrome tapestry of olive groves and sun-baked earth. The frantic, month-long world tour was over. The polite courtship of Milano, the gaudy spectacle of Shanghai, the honest grind of Berlin, the hyper-efficient buzz of Chiba—they were all data points, memories filed away. This felt different. This wasn't an audition. This was a pilgrimage.
Real Madrid Baloncesto wasn't just a team; it was a global institution, a franchise where the weight of history was woven into the very fabric of their iconic all-white kits. The pressure to win was not a concept; it was the oxygen they breathed. For a player whose career had been defined by proving himself, it was the ultimate proving ground.
