The limited minutes against Virtus Bologna were a cage. Kyle felt it with every cautious cut, every hesitant closeout. The medical staff's mandate was a leash, and the specter of Delow's trip—the sharp, sickening twist of the knee—played on a loop in his mind every time a defender closed out too aggressively. He finished the game with a stat line that was the very definition of fine: 8 points, 4 assists, 3 rebounds in 18 minutes. They won comfortably. He was a non-factor in the best way, and it chafed.
The real work began when everyone else had gone home.
The WiZink Center, empty at 10:30 PM, was a cathedral of silence. The only light came from the scoreboard, casting a dim, ghostly glow over the hardwood. The only sounds were the hum of the cooling system and the rhythmic, solitary thump… swish… thump… swish of a basketball.
Kyle Wilson, drenched in sweat, was alone.
This wasn't about practice. This was about exorcism.
