NOVEL NEXT Chapter 165: The Grind
The silence in the wake of the Jahmal Carter showdown was more telling than any headline. The NBA whispers, for now, faded into a background hum. David Weiss still called, his voice a persistent buzz of potential deals and interested teams, but Kyle found it easier to let the calls go to voicemail. The specter of his younger, brasher self had been faced down on the court in Tel Aviv, and in its place stood a clearer, more grounded version of the man he was becoming.
He wasn't just a player for Real Madrid; he was a student of the game in its purest, most demanding form. The "professor" moniker, once a taunt from Carter, now felt like a badge of honor. He began to lean into it, spending extra hours not just on his own shot, but dissecting film of upcoming opponents with the obsessive detail of a scout. He saw the game in layers now—not just the primary action, but the secondary cuts, the defensive tendencies of the weak-side help, the tells of a point guard about to call a set play.
This new focus bled into his leadership. He was no longer the quiet newcomer. During timeouts, he'd pull aside the younger players, a Guerschon Yabusele or a Carlos Alocen. "See how he cheats on the screen? Next time, backdoor. He is overplaying. Use it." He became an extension of Coach Laso on the floor, a translator of the system's complex language.
The EuroLeague schedule was a merciless gauntlet. No days off. No easy nights. After the emotional high of Tel Aviv, they flew to Milan to face a stubborn AX Armani Exchange team. It was a classic trap game—sandwiched between two marquee matchups, on the road, in a hostile environment.
And they fell right into the trap.
The legs were heavy. The shots were short. The defensive rotations were a step slow. Kyle, despite his newfound clarity, was human. The cumulative fatigue of the season, the mental toll of the constant travel and pressure, settled into his bones. His knee ached with a deep, persistent throb that even Hector's magic hands could only temporarily soothe.
They lost by nine. It was an ugly, grinding affair where they never found their rhythm. Kyle finished with a respectable 14 and 6, but it was an empty stat line. He had been a step behind all night, his body betraying the sharpness of his mind.
The loss was a bucket of cold water. It was a reminder that in this marathon, sentiment and moral victories meant nothing. Only wins mattered.
Laso was livid in the locker room afterward, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You think because you beat a child in Tel Aviv, you have arrived? You think the league will bow down? This is the EuroLeague! Every night, you must bring your heart, your soul, your lungs! You left them in Madrid tonight! This is unacceptable!"
The message was received. The victory high was officially over.
The next week of practice was the most brutal of the season. Laso worked them into the ground. There were no days off. Drills were run until players were vomiting on the sideline. The focus was on defensive shell work, on communication, on the unglamorous, gritty fundamentals of winning basketball.
Kyle embraced the grind. The physical pain was a purifier, burning away the last vestiges of his NBA ego. He dove for loose balls until his elbows and knees were scraped raw. He fought through screens until his chest was a mosaic of bruises. He was no longer Kyle Wilson, former All-Star. He was a soldier in Laso's army.
The next game was at home against a tough Zenit Saint Petersburg team. From the opening tip, it was clear Madrid was a different animal. The energy was ferocious, focused. They were first to every loose ball. Their defensive communication was a chorus of shouted instructions and warnings.
Kyle set the tone. He hounded Zenit's star guard, Kevin Pangos, full-court, draining his energy, making every dribble a battle. He wasn't looking for his shot; he was looking to disrupt. He finished the first quarter with zero points, but he had forced two turnovers and drawn a charge. They led by twelve.
The rest of the game was a masterclass in controlled aggression. When Zenit made a run in the third quarter, it was Kyle who stemmed the tide, not with a spectacular three, but with a series of simple, brilliant plays. He hit a cutting Tavares for a dunk. He drew the defense and kicked to an open Llull for a three. He secured a key offensive rebound off a missed free throw, keeping a crucial possession alive.
He was the glue. The connective tissue. The player who did all the little things that don't make the highlight reel but fill the win column.
Final Score: Real Madrid 91 - Zenit Saint Petersburg 78
Kyle Wilson: 13 points (5-8 FG, 1-2 3PT, 2-2 FT), 9 assists, 8 rebounds, 4 steals, 1 block.
It was perhaps the most complete, impactful game of his European career, and he hadn't even been the leading scorer.
After the game, as he iced his knee, Sergio Llull sat down next to him.
"You see?" Llull said, not looking at him, staring out at the emptying arena. "This is what it means. The points… they come and go. But this," he gestured vaguely at the stat sheet, "this is always there. This is who you are now. A winner."
It was the highest compliment Llull could give.
As the regular season began to wind down, the stakes grew exponentially. Every game had playoff implications. The pressure was a constant, tightening knot. But Kyle found a strange peace within it. The NBA offers felt distant, abstract. The only thing that felt real was the next practice, the next film session, the next game.
He was living in the present in a way he never had before. His life had narrowed to a beautiful, brutal simplicity: his family and his team.
One evening, he sat on the floor with Kaleb, helping him with a puzzle. Arianna was watching them, a soft smile on her face.
"You're different," she said.
"How so?"
"You're… quieter. Not in a bad way. You're just… here. Fully here."
He looked at his son's small, determined hands trying to force a piece into the wrong spot. He looked at his wife's face, finally free of the worry lines he'd noticed weeks before. He thought about the nine assists, the four steals, the approving nod from Laso.
He was building something here. Not just a stat line or a highlight reel, but a life. A legacy.
The grind wasn't something to be endured. It was the very thing giving him purpose. The NBA could wait. The vultures could circle. He had a season to finish, a championship to chase, and a family to come home to. For the first time since the crash, every part of him was exactly where it was supposed to be.