The days following the sweep of Maccabi were a study in controlled chaos. Madrid was gripped by a feverish anticipation. The Clásico in the EuroLeague Final Four was more than a basketball game; it was a cultural event, a battle for the soul of Spanish sport. The city was painted white and purple, with banners depicting Llull's scowl and Tavares's imposing frame hanging from balconies. The air crackled with a tension that was both exhilarating and exhausting.
For Kyle, the external noise was a distant hum. The victory in Tel Aviv had forged a new level of confidence within him, a quiet certainty that was far removed from the brashness of his youth. He was no longer just playing basketball; he was stewarding a legacy. The whispers from the NBA felt like echoes from a past life. David Weiss had called, his voice giddy with the news that his performance in the playoffs had "reset the entire market," but Kyle had politely cut him short. "After the Final Four, David. Not before."
