The morning of the regional matchup, Rose Heights felt different.
Brighter, almost. The salt in the air didn't sting as hard. The streets buzzed with chatter, the names of the school's top players being shouted from the mouths of schoolgirls and barbershop speakers alike.
"Kyle Wilson, di tall one, right? Number fifteen?"
"Yea man, mi hear him nearly broke the rim last week."
"Mi say, yuh sure him only fourteen?"
Kyle walked through it all, hoodie up, headphones in, but he heard every word. It filled his chest like helium. Not pride—pressure. The kind that weighed more than his backpack.
This was the first official match of the season. It wasn't just a warmup anymore. This was reputation. This was exposure. College scouts sometimes showed up at these, especially when Montego Bay East was involved.
Kyle didn't care about scouts.
He cared about silence.
The kind Rico gave him every time he walked into the locker room now.
Pre-game warmups were tense.
Coach Barrett scribbled notes while Rico took half-court shots, talking trash under his breath.
Kyle stretched alone.
He bounced the ball. Closed his eyes.
He could still hear Ghost's voice from the night before:
"They gon' come for yuh. Not just on the court. Off it. Your mind. Your peace. Jealousy don't knock—it kicks in di door."
Kyle shook it off.
He wasn't scared of Rico.
Not anymore.
The gym roared. Bleachers full. Everyone in uniform. Girls with painted cheeks. Boys with plastic vuvuzelas. Even the principal sat courtside with his arms crossed like a scout himself.
Tip-off. Whistle.
Game on.
Rico started hot. Two back-to-back threes. He chest-bumped a teammate, pointed at the crowd.
Kyle rotated in midway through the first.
His first touch: rebound. Kick out.
Next trip: screen. Roll. And-1 layup.
The crowd exploded.
Rico ignored him.
Coach didn't.
"Keep feeding the post!" he barked.
Rico rolled his eyes, but he obeyed—once.
Kyle caught the pass on the baseline, jabbed, spun left, went up—two defenders met him mid-air.
But he stayed up longer.
Bucket.
Bench went wild.
By halftime, Kyle had 8 points, 5 rebounds, and the gym chanting his name.
Then came the whisper.
Back in the locker room, Kyle sat with a towel over his head, breathing deep, locked in.
Rico walked by and dropped something on the bench beside him.
A folded paper.
Kyle frowned. Opened it.
Inside: a photo.
It was him.
At night.
On the court.
Training.
With Ghost.
The image was grainy, but clear enough—Ghost's unmistakable silhouette under the rim, Kyle mid-jump.
And under it, a note in messy handwriting:
"Coach might want to know who the streetboy training with."
Kyle's chest went cold.
He looked up.
Rico grinned. "What? Yuh think yuh secret was secret? People talk. People see."
Kyle stood, fists clenched.
"You follow me?"
Rico chuckled. "No, but someone did. And they ain't like yuh being the golden boy all of a sudden."
"Why you do this?" Kyle asked.
Rico stepped closer. "Because this team is mine. This school is mine. You? You just a tall shadow tryna block my light."
"You scared," Kyle said.
Rico's grin vanished.
"Yuh scared of what happens when I get good."
Rico leaned in, whispering: "Yuh already good. Just not better."
Then he turned and walked out.
Kyle didn't play the second half.
Coach subbed him out after two minutes and never looked his way again.
They won the game. Barely.
Rico had 24. Kyle had 10.
But it didn't feel like a win.
In the parking lot after the game, Kyle waited.
Then Ghost showed up.
"You look like yuh lost, even though yuh won," Ghost said.
Kyle handed him the photo.
Ghost's eyes narrowed.
"Where this come from?"
"Someone watch us," Kyle said. "Took this. Gave it to Rico."
Ghost crushed the paper in his hand.
"Mi told yuh. Eyes everywhere."
"You think Coach gon' cut me?"
Ghost paused. "He won't. But he'll test yuh. Hard."
Kyle nodded.
Then said something he'd never said before.
"Help me win. Not just matches. All of it."
Ghost looked at him long. Then nodded once.
"Tomorrow, we start footwork hell."
The next morning, Coach called Kyle into his office.
Door closed.
"Kyle," he said calmly, "I got a photo yesterday."
Kyle braced himself.
"You training with someone. A man I know."
Kyle blinked. "You know Ghost?"
Coach nodded. "Played against him back in the day. He had fire. Raw. But he snapped. Fought a ref. Broke a man's jaw. Never played again."
Kyle kept still. "He's teaching me more than just ball."
Coach's voice dropped. "And what's he teaching about respect? About team? About control?"
Kyle said nothing.
Coach leaned forward. "You keep training with him, you better learn one thing fast: talent ain't enough. Heart ain't enough. You need trust. And you don't earn that by hiding."
Kyle stood. "I wasn't hiding. I was surviving."
Coach watched him leave without another word.
That night, at home, Kyle sat in the dark, bouncing the ball off the wall.
His mother watched from the kitchen.
"You look like yuh carryin' weight on your back."
"I'm fine."
She walked over, sat next to him.
"Yuh father used to do the same thing. Sit in the dark. Throw ball. Carry pain."
Kyle glanced at her. "He ever get past it?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "He let it eat him. Don't let it eat yuh too."
The next day, Kyle showed up to practice late.
Coach stared him down.
Rico smirked.
Kyle walked straight to the middle of the court.
"I'm here," he said.
"I see that," Coach said coldly.
"No more secrets," Kyle said. "No more silence."
Coach didn't smile. But his eyes softened.
"Then show me. Show us."
Kyle dropped his bag.
And went to work.