NOVEL NEXT Chapter 166: The Crucible
The victory against Zenit wasn't just a win; it was a reaffirmation of identity. The bitter taste of the Milan loss had been washed away, replaced by the clean, metallic flavor of sheer, uncompromising effort. The team had looked into the abyss of complacency and collectively taken a step back. The resulting cohesion was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to hum in the air during practices and crackle through the WiZink Center on game nights.
They entered the final month of the EuroLeague regular season not just as contenders, but as a force of nature. The basketball they played was a brutal, beautiful form of art. It was symphonic in its complexity yet primal in its execution. The ball moved with a hypnotic, whirring precision—side to side, inside and out—until the defense, stretched to its absolute limit, would finally snap, yielding an open three or a thunderous dunk at the rim.
Kyle Wilson was the metronome at the heart of this symphony. His personal transformation was now complete. The last lingering traces of the isolation scorer had been sanded away, replaced by the polished, multifaceted game of a true floor general. He was averaging a stat line that was the envy of the league: 15.8 points, 8.2 assists, 6.1 rebounds, and perhaps most tellingly, a league-leading +22.3 plus/minus. He wasn't just filling the box score; he was dominating the game in the silent, subtle ways that only purists truly appreciated.
The NBA rumors, while persistent, had lost their power over him. When David Weiss called now, Kyle listened with the detached interest of a man hearing about the weather in a foreign country.
"Oklahoma City is getting desperate, Kyle. They're talking a bigger role. Phoenix is intrigued by your efficiency. They see you as a perfect complement to Booker."
"That's great, David," Kyle would reply, his eyes often on a tablet showing clips of CSKA Moscow's defensive schemes. "Let's table it until the season is over. My focus is here."
Weiss, a veteran of a thousand negotiations, knew when a client's heart wasn't in it. He shifted tactics. "Understood. Just remember, a deep EuroLeague run, maybe a title… that only makes your price go up. You're playing for two contracts now, Kyle."
Kyle knew he was right, but the financial incentive felt secondary. He was playing for something more visceral: respect. Not the fleeting, fickle respect of the NBA, but the hard-earned, enduring respect of his peers, his coach, and the Madrid faithful. Every win was another brick laid in the foundation of his new legacy.
The crucible of the final stretch tested this newfound resolve in every conceivable way. It was a brutal sequence of travel, recovery, and high-stakes basketball that pushed mind and body to their absolute limits.
The first test was a back-to-back against their two most bitter rivals: a road game in Barcelona, followed by a home game against CSKA Moscow just 48 hours later.
The return to the Palau Blaugrana was a different beast from their first visit. Barcelona was fighting for a higher playoff seed, and the atmosphere was venomous. The game was a war of attrition from the opening tip. It was physical, chippy, and the referees, influenced by the roaring crowd, let everything go.
Kyle found himself once again locked in a battle with Nikola Mirotić. But this time, the Barcelona star was ready. He used his size mercilessly, backing Kyle down in the post, shooting over him, drawing fouls. It was a systematic, brutal dismantling. Kyle fought, using every ounce of his strength and guile, but Mirotić was a man possessed, finishing with 28 points and 12 rebounds.
Madrid lost by seven. Kyle, despite a valiant 18-point, 10-assist double-double, felt responsible. He had been targeted and, on this night, beaten.
There was no time to dwell. They flew back to Madrid, their bodies aching, their spirits dampened. The 48-hour turnaround was a physiological nightmare. Kyle's knee was swollen and stiff. Hector worked on him for two hours straight, a mix of intense massage, electro-stimulation, and ice, trying to coax life back into the joint.
The arrival of CSKA Moscow was the ultimate test of their championship mettle. The Russian giants were a powerhouse, a team built on a foundation of tough, disciplined, Eastern European basketball. They were big, they were physical, and they would exploit any sign of weakness.
The WiZink Center was a madhouse, the fans understanding the magnitude of the moment. This was a statement game. A loss would sow seeds of doubt. A win would cement their status as the team to beat.
From the opening tip, it was clear that Kyle's body was not fully recovered. His first step was a fraction of a second slow. His lateral movement was labored. Mike James, his old Monaco adversary, would have feasted. But Kyle's mind was sharper than ever.
He understood he couldn't win with athleticism tonight. He would have to win with intellect.
He became a puppet master. He used his defender's aggression against him, using subtle pump fakes and changes of pace to create slivers of space not for himself, but for his teammates. He became a decoy, drawing the defense and then whipping passes to open men with breathtaking precision.
He scored only four points in the first half. But he had seven assists and had orchestrated the offense to near-perfection. They held a slim four-point lead.
At halftime, Laso looked at him, his eyes asking the silent question.
"I'm fine, Coach," Kyle lied. "I've got this."
The second half was a masterpiece of cerebral basketball. CSKA, expecting him to be more aggressive, continued to play him for the pass. So, with the shot clock winding down late in the third quarter, Kyle gave a slight head fake, took one dribble to his left, and rose up for a clean jumper.
Swish.
The crowd erupted. It was a simple shot, but it was a message: I am still here. I can still hurt you.
The threat of his shot, however diminished, forced the defense to honor him, which opened up everything else. He hit Tavares for two easy dunks. He found Llull for a transition three. He was conducting, his mind working three passes ahead, his tired body simply the instrument executing the commands.
With two minutes left and Madrid clinging to a three-point lead, CSKA set up for a critical possession. Their point guard, a crafty veteran, tried to isolate Kyle on the wing, sensing his fatigue. He drove hard, but Kyle, anticipating the move, dug his feet into the hardwood and took a charge. The collision was brutal, sending Kyle sprawling onto his back, the air rushing from his lungs.
He lay there for a moment, the roar of the crowd a distant echo. Pain shot through his back and his already-sore knee. But as his teammates helped him up, he saw the frustration on the CSKA player's face. It was a winning play. A championship play.
They held on for the win.
Final Score: Real Madrid 84 - CSKA Moscow 80
Kyle Wilson: 11 points (4-9 FG, 1-2 3PT, 2-2 FT), 14 assists, 5 rebounds, 1 charge drawn.
He had willed his team to victory not with his body, but with his mind and his heart. In the locker room, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, Walter Tavares put a massive hand on his head. "You are the brain, my friend. We are just the arms and legs."
The final game of the regular season was a formality, a home victory against a already-eliminated team. When the final buzzer sounded, Real Madrid had finished with the best record in the EuroLeague, securing home-court advantage throughout the playoffs.
The celebration on the court was joyous, but restrained. They had hugged, raised their hands to the crowd, but their eyes held a hardened glint. This wasn't the goal. This was just the beginning of the real journey.
The playoff draw was announced. Their first-round opponent, in a best-of-five series, would be none other than Maccabi Tel Aviv, and their young phenom, Jahmal Carter.
A sense of destiny settled over the team. It was a perfect narrative. The professor versus the prodigy, round two. But this time, the stakes were infinitely higher.
The first practice for the playoff series was intense, focused. The scouting report on Maccabi was detailed, but everyone knew the subtext: stop Carter, and you stop Maccabi.
As practice wound down, Kyle stayed late, as had become his ritual. But he wasn't alone. A few of the younger players, Yabusele and Alocen, stayed with him.
"Show us again, Kyle," Alocen said, his young face serious. "How you force him left. His weak hand."
Kyle nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. He wasn't just a player anymore. He was a mentor. A leader.
He spent the next thirty minutes working with them, demonstrating the footwork, the hand placement, the psychological tricks to get into a scorer's head. He was passing on the knowledge he had paid for so dearly.
As he finally walked off the court, his body screaming for rest, he felt a profound sense of peace. The grind of the season, the physical pain, the mental fatigue—it had all been a forging process. He had been hammered and tempered in the crucible of the EuroLeague, and what had emerged was something stronger, sharper, and more valuable than he had ever been before.
The playoffs were here. The real season was about to begin. And Kyle Wilson, the professor, the ghost, the metronome, was ready.