The headlines in the Spanish sports dailies the next morning were a symphony of praise. "¡El Asesino Ha Vuelto!" (The Assassin Has Returned!) blared Marca. "Wilson's Masterclass Sinks Monaco," declared AS.
Kyle Wilson ignored them. He sat at his small kitchen table, the tablet before him not displaying news articles, but the cold, hard truth of game film. The 33-point explosion was a fading euphoria; what remained was the meticulous, unglamorous work of dissection. He watched himself, not with pride, but with a critic's cold eye.
There. The closeout on James was a half-step slow. Got lucky he missed. There. I should have driven on Motiejūnas instead of taking the three. Tavares was sealed. There. Lazy footwork on the pin-down. Gave Okobo a chance to recover.
Arianna placed a fresh cup of coffee beside him. "Shouldn't you be basking? I saw the headlines."
