Rose Heights had changed.
Or maybe it hadn't—and Kyle was just seeing it with different eyes.
The streets looked smaller now. The corners he used to fear felt familiar, almost harmless. The rusted rims, the dusty courts, the sounds of vendors yelling over old dancehall beats—it all smelled like home. But it didn't feel like home.
Not anymore.
He stepped off the bus with his duffel slung over one shoulder, and the moment he set foot near the school gates, people turned.
"Kyle back!"
"He really went to 'Merica?"
"Mi hear say him mash up BayPoint!"
"Scout them a call back?"
His name wasn't whispered anymore.
It was shouted.
Expected.
Carried with it an aura he hadn't earned—yet.
First Practice Back
Coach Barrett blew the whistle. "Yow! Look who finally grace wi humble court."
Kyle smiled faintly and dropped his bag.
Rico didn't smile at all.
He sat on the bench, chewing gum slow, watching Kyle with a look that screamed prove it.
Coach clapped twice. "Full court drill. Kyle—you running point. Show me what U.S. training teach yuh."
Kyle blinked. "Point? But mi not—"
"You been gone. Now show yuh lead."
He didn't argue.
He couldn't.
The drill started.
Push the ball. Read the floor. Pass ahead. Cut. Rotate. Finish.
Easy on paper.
But Kyle hadn't practiced lead guard skills. His footwork was cleaner, sure. His decision-making sharper. But point guard vision? That was a different beast.
He threw two bad passes. Missed one cutter completely. Drove too deep on one play and got stripped.
"Get outta your head!" Coach shouted.
Kyle shook it off. Next play—he hit a cutter in stride. Hit a jumper off a curl. Fought through a screen.
Still—he wasn't smooth.
Rico saw it. And pounced.
"Big man move like traffic jam," he muttered.
Kyle ignored him.
Until the scrimmage.
Scrimmage: Blue vs White
Coach split them into teams. Kyle captained Blue. Rico captained White.
No one said it—but everyone knew this was about more than winning a practice.
This was about the throne.
First possession, Rico cooked.
Step-back three.
Next play? He stole a lazy pass and finished with a windmill that made the bench scream.
Kyle responded with smart plays—kick-outs, screens, rebounds.
But he wasn't flashy.
Wasn't loud.
At halftime: White led 24–18.
Coach didn't say a word.
Just watched.
Second half
Kyle changed.
He stopped thinking.
He attacked.
Grabbed boards and pushed coast to coast. Posted up Rico and spun baseline. Hit a midrange jumper off one leg that made Rico pause and glance sideways.
Then—he called a play.
"Motion curl, Andre cut back door," he said.
The team listened.
Play ran clean.
Layup.
White called timeout.
Rico was fuming now.
He turned to Coach mid-huddle. "So we just letting the foreign man run plays now?"
Coach raised an eyebrow. "You wanna lead? Then lead better."
Final minute. Tie game.
Blue ball.
Kyle walked it up slow.
Crowd forming around the court, even teachers watching now.
He passed left. Got it back.
Rico switched onto him.
"Mi back now," Kyle said softly.
"Good," Rico grinned. "Now get ready to lose again."
Kyle jabbed. Stepped back.
Crossed right.
Rico bit.
Spin.
One dribble.
Up.
Contact.
Foul.
Basket.
Whistle blew.
Kyle hit the floor and slid, staring at the ceiling.
The gym exploded.
Benches cleared.
"THAT'S WHAT MI TALKIN' 'BOUT!"
Rico slammed the ball into the floor.
Kyle stood up slow.
Didn't celebrate.
He just walked to the free throw line.
Swish.
After practice
Coach caught him outside the gym.
"You're not perfect," he said. "Still don't play like a leader all the time. Still hesitate. Still learning."
Kyle nodded, already expecting the critique.
"But…" Coach smiled faintly. "You make people listen."
That stuck.
At Home
His mother fried plantains in the small kitchen. The scent filled the apartment.
"You look tired," she said, passing him a plate.
"Mi tired."
She studied his face. "But yuh different now. Like something broke… and rebuilt stronger."
Kyle chewed in silence.
"I didn't make the team," he said finally. "In New York."
She nodded.
"Mi know."
He looked up.
"Ghost told me. But yuh not defined by one no. Every no… just a yes that waiting its turn."
That weekend – Community Court
The younger boys were out. Playing barefoot. Screaming. Fighting over fouls.
Kyle watched from the fence.
Then one of them yelled, "Kyle! You playing?"
He hesitated.
Then dropped his bag and walked onto the court.
No cameras.
No coach.
No noise.
Just ball.
He crossed the first kid easy. Hit a floater over another.
But he wasn't trying to dominate.
He was teaching.
"Don't look at the ball—read the eyes."
"Use your hips on defense."
"Trust yuh first step."
The kids listened like disciples.
And for the first time since he returned…
Kyle smiled for real.
Later that night
Ghost met him under the same cracked hoop.
"You carryin' a lot, Kyle."
Kyle nodded.
"Everybody think mi ready to save the season."
"You are."
"Mi not a savior."
Ghost lit a cigarette.
"No. But yuh are a symbol."
"Of what?"
"Possibility."
Kyle sat on the bench.
"Tired of being possibility. Mi want reality."
Ghost stared ahead.
"Then stop playing like yuh waiting for permission."