The next tape clicked in with a faint static hum, and Kyle settled deeper into the couch, ankle wrapped in ice. He hadn't moved much since dawn. The Celtics front office had urged him to rest, stay away from the media circus, and rehab quietly. No on-court drills, no viral training videos — just recovery.
But Kyle was chasing a different kind of healing now. One that came from unraveling the mystery of the man who gave him his name.
On-screen, Derrick appeared older — maybe mid-20s now — in a dingy hotel room lit by a single, yellow bulb. His voice was low, deliberate.
"Game 7. Portmore vs. Ardenne. Nobody remembers the score, but I remember the spread — Portmore favored by 12. I made sure it was only 6."
Kyle's eyes widened.
Flashback: 2001 — Kingston, Jamaica
The court was hot, the crowd hotter. Derrick was no longer a boy wonder from Montego Bay — he had become something else entirely. A fixer. A ghost in the machine.
