NOVEL NEXT Chapter 160: The Anchor
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."
"Basking is for tourists," Kyle murmured, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Laso will find every mistake I missed. I need to find them first."
She smiled, kissing the top of his head. "My humble superstar."
He wasn't being humble. He was being pragmatic. The Monaco game had been a perfect storm: his shot was falling, the matchups favored him, and Mike James had an off shooting night. It wasn't a sustainable blueprint. In the EuroLeague, adaptability was survival. The next opponent, FC Barcelona, was the ultimate test of that principle. They were the yin to Monaco's yang. If Monaco was a jazz improvisation, Barcelona was a meticulously rehearsed military march. They didn't have one superstar; they had a system of all-stars, a deep, relentless machine coached by the legendary Šarūnas Jasikevičius.
The focus in practice was not on offensive sets, but on defense. Specifically, on Nikola Mirotić.
"He is the engine," Laso stated, the laser pointer circling the Montenegrin forward on the screen. "He is not their best athlete, but he is their most important player. He spaces the floor, he can put the ball on the floor, he can post up, he is an elite passer. If we let him get comfortable, he will pick us apart. He makes everyone else better."
Laso's eyes found Kyle's in the darkened room. "Wilson. He is yours."
A different kind of challenge. Mike James was a hurricane; you battened down the hatches and tried to weather the storm. Mirotić was a master chess player; he would slowly, methodically, strangle you.
"He loves the pick-and-pop," Laso continued. "You cannot go under the screen. You cannot go over it. You must fight through it and be in his airspace before he can even catch the ball. If he puts the ball on the floor, you must force him left. His right hand is his life. Take it away."
The assignment was a testament to the trust Kyle had earned. Guarding the opposing team's primary offensive weapon two games in a row was a star's responsibility. It was also a brutal physical test. Mirotić was 6'10", a good four inches taller than Kyle. He would post him up, shoot over him, use every physical advantage.
Kyle's knee throbbed in anticipation.
The Palau Blaugrana was a fortress. The atmosphere was more intense, more focused than the WiZink. It was a cauldron of blue and red, and the crowd's energy was a low, constant hum of expectation. This was more than a game; it was a Clásico.
From the opening tip, the game was a stark contrast to the free-flowing affair against Monaco. It was a grind. Every pass was contested. Every shot was challenged. The score was 4-4 after four minutes of play.
Kyle's first touch was a shock. He came off a screen, received the pass, and was immediately met by a hard, smart double-team from Mirotić and guard Nicolas Laprovittola. They didn't jump; they walled up, their hands active, suffocating his space. It was a sign of respect. They had watched the Monaco tape. They were not going to let Kyle Wilson beat them.
He had to pass out of it. Barcelona's rotations were lightning-fast, cutting off the advantage. The possession ended in a contested shot clock violation. Jasikevičius clapped calmly on the sideline. Message received.
The battle with Mirotić was a fascinating, high-IQ duel. On Barcelona's first possession, Mirotić set up at the elbow. Kyle was glued to him, a hand on his back, feeling his movement. Mirotić set a screen for Laprovittola, then flared out to the three-point line—the classic pick-and-pop. Kyle fought through the screen like his life depended on it, his bruised thigh screaming in protest. He recovered just as the pass arrived. He didn't jump; he flew at Mirotić, hand high in his vision. The shot missed long.
A minute later, Mirotić tried to post him up. Kyle dug his knees into the back of Mirotić's legs, using every ounce of his core strength to prevent deep position. Mirotić took two dribbles, backed him down, then tried a quick turn-around fadeaway. Kyle, giving up height, stayed grounded and got a piece of the ball with his fingertips. It was a clean, spectacular defensive play. The ball went out of bounds off Mirotić.
The Barcelona star looked down at Kyle, a flicker of surprise and respect in his eyes. Kyle just turned and jogged back on defense, his expression stone-cold.
Second Quarter: 7:12
The game was a defensive slugfest. Madrid led 18-16. Kyle had only taken two shots, both heavily contested, and missed both. His points column was a zero. But his impact was immense. Mirotić was 1-5 from the field with a turnover.
Kyle checked out for a rest. As he sat down, Laso put a hand on his shoulder. "You are winning your war. Now, we need you to win ours. They are ignoring you on offense. They think you are only a defender now. Make them pay."
He re-entered with 4:00 left. Barcelona had taken a small lead. The ball swung to him on the wing. His defender, the physical Rolands Šmits, sagged off him, cheating into the lane to help on Tavares.
It was the same disrespect Okobo had shown. Kyle caught the pass, his feet set. The crowd held its breath. He rose. It wasn't the quick, fluid shot from the Monaco game; it was deliberate, almost angry. A statement.
Swish. 21-20 Madrid.
The next time down, the same thing. Šmits gave him a step too much space. Kyle didn't hesitate. Catch. Rise. Fire.
Swish. 24-20.
The Barcelona timeout was furious. Jasikevičius was in Šmits's face, gesticulating wildly. You do not leave the shooter!
When play resumed, Šmits was glued to him. This opened up the lane. On a simple high pick-and-roll, Tavares rolled hard. Kyle drew both defenders and lofted a perfect alley-oop that the big man hammered home.
The first half ended with Madrid up 38-34. Kyle's line: 6 points, 2 assists, and the silent, stat-sheet-stuffing job of holding Nikola Mirotić to 4 points on 2-9 shooting.
Third Quarter: The Turning Point
Barcelona adjusted. They started running Mirotić off a series of screens away from the ball, trying to lose Kyle in the traffic. It was exhausting. Kyle fought through every one, his lungs burning.
With 6:18 left, Mirotić finally shook free for a split second in the corner. He caught and fired a three. Kyle, recovering like a man possessed, leaped. He didn't block it, but his presence was enough. The shot rattled out.
Kyle secured the rebound and immediately pushed the ball. He saw a seam, attacked it, and drew the defense. At the last second, he fired a no-look, behind-the-back pass to a trailing Gabriel Deck for a thunderous dunk.
The play broke Barcelona's spirit. The momentum swung irrevocably. Kyle, empowered, hit another three. Then he posted up the smaller Laprovittola, who had switched onto him, and hit a smooth fadeaway.
He was doing it all. Scoring. Playmaking. And anchoring the defense.
Fourth Quarter: The Grind
The lead ballooned to 15 points. Barcelona made one last run, a 10-2 burst fueled by offensive rebounds. With 3:00 left, the lead was down to 7. The Palau was rocking.
Madrid needed a bucket to stop the bleeding. The play broke down. The shot clock wound down: 5…4…3…
Kyle found himself with the ball at the top of the key, Mirotić on him. No time to think. No time for a play. This was isolation. Star versus star.
He jab-stepped right. Mirotić didn't bite. He dribbled between his legs, left to right, creating a sliver of space. He took a hard dribble right, then crossed back over to his left. Mirotić, a step slow, tried to recover. Kyle created just enough separation. He rose up, fading away, and let the shot fly as the shot clock hit zero.
The ball hung in the air. The arena fell silent.
Swish.
It was the dagger. The backbreaker. Kyle landed, turned, and walked back down the court, his face still a mask of concentration, but he allowed himself to nod once. Mirotić looked at the floor, hands on his hips, defeated.
Final Score: Real Madrid 80 - FC Barcelona 70
It was an ugly, brutal, beautiful win. The kind that wins championships.
In the locker room, the mood was one of exhausted triumph. The stats were handed out. Kyle Wilson: 19 points (7-12 FG, 3-5 3PT, 2-2 FT), 5 assists, 7 rebounds, 1 block, +15 plus/minus. Nikola Mirotić: 11 points (5-17 FG), 6 rebounds, 4 turnovers.
Kyle sat by his locker, a bag of ice on his knee, another on his shoulder. He was drained.
Sergio Llull sat down next to him. "Mirotić," he said simply. "You buried him."
"He missed shots he usually makes," Kyle replied, ever the critic.
"Because you were in his jersey all night," Llull countered. "You think he enjoys shooting over your hand? You think he enjoys your knees in his back? That is not luck. That is work. That is defense." He paused. "The shot at the end… that was the killer. But the defense… that was the win."
Coach Laso addressed the team. "A magnificent performance. We showed our heart. We showed our toughness. Wilson," he said, locking eyes with Kyle. "You were our anchor tonight. On both ends."
The anchor. The word resonated. It wasn't as flashy as "assassin" or "superstar." But it felt heavier. More substantial. It meant you held everything together. You were the foundation. You provided stability in the storm.
On the bus back to the hotel, Kyle looked out at the Barcelona streets. He thought about the journey. The draft party. The championship in Boston. The crash. The long, dark nights of rehab. The fear. The doubt.
He wasn't the player he was supposed to be. The story had been rewritten by a drunk driver on a rainy night.
But as he felt the satisfying ache of a game well-played, a game won not just with points but with grit and intelligence, he realized something.
The new story was better.