The silence after a lost season is a unique kind of quiet. It's not peaceful; it's hollow. The relentless, daily rhythm of practice, travel, games, and film—the very heartbeat of existence for eight months—vanishes, leaving a vacuum. For the first week, Kyle Wilson did nothing. He slept. He ate meals with Arianna that weren't scheduled around a tip-off. He sat for long, quiet hours with his hand on her stomach, feeling the vigorous, insistent kicks of his son, a life blissfully unaware of defensive rotations or missed shots in Game 7.
