The locker room stank of sweat, wet socks, and ego.
Metal doors clanged. Banter bounced from wall to wall—some real, some forced. And in the far-left corner, Kyle Wilson sat in silence, gripping his laces tight, pretending he belonged.
He didn't.
Not yet.
"New boy still look like he in shock," someone chuckled. "Big man tall like coconut tree, but play like him fraid to bend."
Kyle didn't react. He knew the voice: Rico. The same cocky point guard who torched him during tryouts.
Rico had quick hands, a jump shot like a sniper rifle, and a mouth that ran like the river after storm.
"You hear me, Wilson?" Rico pressed.
Kyle looked up. "Mi hear yuh."
Rico grinned. "Good. Jus' remember who run this team, yeah? It not height—it skill."
Another boy chimed in. "And chemistry. We nuh need no stiff tower messin' up di rotation."
Kyle didn't answer. He tied his shoes tighter. Let them talk. He had learned young—words couldn't bruise unless you let them in.
But inside? His chest simmered.
The gym was packed.
First preseason scrimmage of the year—Rose Heights Secondary vs. Montego Bay East, a private school with actual uniforms and sneakers that didn't squeak like dying rats.
The gym's walls pulsed with noise—girls screaming, parents arguing over seats, a drumline pounding on broken chairs. Sweat clung to the walls like an extra coat of paint.
Kyle followed the rest of the team into the light, blinking.
His name wasn't called in the starters.
Of course not.
He sat third row, towel across his knees, heart racing like he was already playing.
Coach Barrett stood in front of the team like a war general. "We show no mercy today. They got money, we got fire. Lock up on defense. Fight for every rebound. Pass smart. Don't play hero ball."
He scanned the bench.
His eyes stopped on Kyle. Just for a second. Then moved on.
Tip-off.
The private school boys looked polished. Clean cuts. Fresh kicks. No fear. They moved like machines—precise, sharp, deadly.
Rose Heights played with grit, muscle, heat.
Rico danced with the ball like he was on stage, crossing and spinning, scoring quick. But his assists were rare. He hogged the rock. Took wild shots. Coach shouted once—then twice.
No change.
By the second quarter, the team was down ten.
Kyle's knee bounced on the bench. His jersey clung to him even though he hadn't played a minute.
Then, with three minutes left in the half, Coach shouted: "Wilson! On!"
Kyle shot up. His legs trembled. Not with fear—with fuel.
He peeled off the towel, checked in.
Rico sneered. "Try not to trip, big man."
Kyle jogged onto the court, eyes sweeping everything. Players. Coach. Rim. Crowd.
Time slowed.
Then snapped.
First play: a pass to Kyle in the post.
He fumbled it.
Turnover.
Next play, he boxed out, snagged a rebound, kicked it out clean.
The play ended in a three.
Crowd roared.
Coach nodded.
Then Rico started ignoring him.
Twice Kyle got open on the baseline. Hands up. Ready. Rico drove instead, forced a layup, missed.
Kyle ran the floor on a fast break. Rico saw him. Wide open.
Chose not to pass.
Coach barked. "Move the ball!"
Rico waved him off.
Kyle gritted his teeth.
Fourth quarter. Down by six.
Kyle had 4 rebounds, 2 blocks, no points.
Timeout. Coach huddled them.
"Wilson, next set, cut inside after the pick. Rico, feed him."
Rico rolled his eyes. "Mi nuh trust him with game on the line."
Coach stared daggers. "Did I ask yuh fi opinion?"
Rico muttered something under his breath. Kyle heard it: "Foreign body."
Back on the floor.
Whistle. Inbound.
Kyle set the pick. Rolled sharp. Open lane.
Rico hesitated—then launched a deep three instead.
Brick.
Kyle charged in, caught the rebound mid-air, powered up between two defenders, and slammed it.
Boom.
The gym shook.
Gasps. Screams. One of the cheerleaders dropped her pom-poms.
Coach clapped hard. "That's what I'm talking about!"
Kyle didn't smile.
Rico glared.
Last minute. Tied at 52.
Coach drew the play.
"Rico, you penetrate. Kick to Wilson on the weak side. He finishes."
Rico's jaw clenched. "We really trusting the newbie?"
Coach slammed his clipboard. "Yes! Now move!"
Timeout over.
Kyle stood in position. Everything felt distant—the noise, the crowd, even his own heartbeat.
Ball inbounded.
Rico danced. Crossed over.
Kyle cut. Open again.
But Rico didn't pass.
He drove into traffic.
Triple-teamed.
Shot.
Blocked.
Montego Bay East grabbed the rebound, pushed it up.
Fast break.
Bucket.
Whistle.
Game over.
Silence in the locker room.
Coach was furious.
"We had it. And you choked."
Rico snapped. "Don't blame me! Blame yuh trust in that streetball scrub!"
Kyle stood. Quietly.
Coach turned. "Wilson made the right plays. You didn't."
Rico threw his towel. "Mi been carrying this team for years. Yuh let one tall bwoy with no skills come take my spot?"
Coach moved closer. "Play like a team, or don't play at all."
The air turned cold.
After the coach left, Rico walked past Kyle and bumped him hard.
"No matter how high yuh jump, streetboy, yuh still beneath me."
Kyle didn't flinch.
But when Rico left, Kyle stared at his reflection in the dented locker mirror.
All he saw was a name.
Just a name.
Not a player yet. Not a legend. Not even a starter.
But his name was there.
And he swore—
By the end of the season, the whole damn island would know it.