Three days before U16 Trials.
The morning was too quiet.
Not peaceful—eerie.
Even the stray dogs on the corner seemed hesitant to bark. The usual vendors who argued over bread prices weren't outside yet. The morning fog lingered a little too long, as if the sky itself knew something was coming.
Kyle stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, tightening the laces on his worn-down trainers.
He studied himself—not with pride or excitement—but with calculation.
The boy in the reflection didn't smile. He looked older, like he had aged two years in two months.
His arms were more defined now. Not from lifting weights, but from carrying everything: pressure, grief, expectation, and threat.
He stared harder, like maybe if he looked deep enough, he could see the moment he stopped being a kid.
That same wall bore only one poster.
A single image.
Five Black boys—jerseys crisp and grins wide—posing with the Jamaican flag at the U16 Caribbean Showcase five years ago.
Three of them were now overseas.
One went to Spain.
One played JUCO ball in Texas.
The third?
Killed in a robbery before he ever got a contract.
Kyle ran his thumb down the poster's edge.
Rico used to say, "That's gon' be us, star. You run point, I shoot the lights out. National team. Then we outta here."
Rico was dead.
And Kyle?
He wasn't sure what "outta here" even meant anymore.
At School – Gym
After practice, Coach Barrett handed him a letter.
Thick white envelope. Official JABA seal.
Kyle's hands shook as he opened it.
Inside: crisp paper, neatly folded.
"Mr. Kyle Wilson,
You are formally invited to participate in the U16 National Team Selection Trials this Saturday in Kingston. Please arrive by 8 a.m. sharp with proper identification and attire. We are honored to consider you…"
He exhaled slowly.
Coach clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Congrats."
But Kyle noticed how his eyes never softened.
Barrett looked like a man who'd seen this story before.
"Big moment," Coach said. "But listen good. You go to Kingston, you don't come back here. Not until the season's done. You hear?"
Kyle blinked. "Why?"
Coach looked toward the gym doors.
Closed.
Still, he lowered his voice.
"Word is... Chino's crew gearing up for something big. Cops raided his cousin house last night. They found artillery. Real stuff."
Kyle didn't respond.
He felt the silence close in around him like a fist.
That Night – Rose Heights Burns
It happened around 9:47 p.m.
Kyle sat on the couch watching an old EuroLeague match on YouTube when the power cut.
Then came the gunshots.
Not single pops. Not warning shots.
Bursts.
Screams.
Followed by fire.
The first reports hit Twitter minutes later. A bar near Crosses Alley—one of Chino's hangouts—was torched. Gunfire exchanged in the street. Three dead. A fourth—a 7-year-old—caught in the crossfire.
Kyle watched it all unfold on his cracked phone screen.
Not blinking.
Not breathing.
His mom clutched her rosary so tight the beads left marks in her hand.
She turned to Kyle and whispered:
"This place... it's burning from the inside."
Next Morning – Aftermath
Smoke still lingered in the air when Kyle stepped outside.
Charred debris littered the sidewalk near where the police perimeter had been. Yellow tape flapped lazily in the breeze.
But what chilled Kyle more than the smell of fire… was how quiet the neighborhood was.
No one looked each other in the eye.
No music. No movement. Just shadows behind windows.
He checked his phone.
📲 "U good? Stay close to home." — Dre
📲 "Police talkin' 'bout Chino. Say he gonna retaliate."
📲 "They saying YOU next, bredrin. Careful."
Unexpected Visitor – That Afternoon
Ghost showed up like he always did—without a sound.
But this time?
He wasn't alone.
A tall man stood behind him. Bald. Dark skin. Slim black briefcase. Eyes hidden behind tinted shades.
"Kyle," Ghost said, nodding. "This is Mr. Jervis. He's from a group that helps ballers like you. Overseas transition. Quiet work."
Kyle eyed him suspiciously.
"What kinda help?"
Jervis stepped forward. His voice smooth like expensive rum.
"We move players out of the country. Quietly. Legally. When the heat gets too high."
Kyle crossed his arms.
"Yuh think mi need to run?"
Jervis raised a brow. "I think you're talented enough to leave. But I also think you're smart enough to know this ends two ways: you either fly… or you burn."
Ghost looked down. "You got three days 'til trials. After that… we can have the paperwork ready. One call."
Kyle looked between them.
Then at the court behind them.
Then at the street.
Home.
Warzone.
History.
Graveyard.
He swallowed hard.
That Evening – Team Meeting in the Locker Room
Barrett gathered them up.
"All of you are targets now. Not just Kyle. We're winning. People notice. And some of those people don't like success that doesn't answer to them."
The room went quiet.
"Anyone who don't feel safe playing, step out."
No one moved.
Kyle finally stood.
"Yuh don't have to play for me. Mi not tryna be no hero."
Dre stood beside him. "We not playing for you. We playing with you."
Kyle nodded, heart swelling.
Then someone knocked on the locker room door.
A teacher entered, pale.
"There's a black car parked outside the gym. Windows tinted. Just… sitting there."
Kyle's gut twisted.
Barrett locked eyes with him.
"Go home through the back."
Later That Night – Final Practice Before Kingston
Kyle shot in silence.
Ghost passed him the ball each time.
No words.
Just rhythm.
Then Ghost broke it.
"Yuh ready?"
"For Kingston?"
"For the choice. You take that flight after the trials… or you stay and finish the season."
Kyle wiped sweat from his face.
"What would you do?"
Ghost smiled faintly. "Mi? I stayed."
"And?"
Ghost looked at the stars.
"Mi still here. But mi lost a lot."
Kyle nodded slowly.
Then said:
"Mi tired of losing."
Friday Morning – The Trap
Just one day before Kingston.
As Kyle left school, his phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
📲 "Meet mi at the old bodega. Come alone. Or we visit yuh mother." — C.
His throat went dry.
He walked straight to Coach Barrett's office.
Slid the phone across the desk.
Coach read it.
His jaw locked.
"We go to the cops."
"They won't move in time."
Coach sat forward. "So what you saying?"
Kyle stared at the floor.
"Mi saying… I go."
That Night – The Confrontation
The old bodega near Rasta Hill was long shut down.
Graffiti covered the front.
Kyle walked up slowly. Hoodie on. No bag. Just him.
The metal shutter creaked open.
Chino stepped out. Alone.
This time—no smile.
"Yuh really brave, yuh know that?"
Kyle didn't flinch.
"Don't touch mi family."
Chino shook his head. "I could've made you rich. Could've flown you out myself. Instead? Yuh talk to police. Yuh talk to cameras. Yuh act like yuh invincible."
"I'm not."
Chino blinked.
Surprised by the honesty.
"Mi scared every day," Kyle said. "But mi more scared of living on my knees."
Chino stepped forward.
Then stopped.
"You think the court gonna save you from me?"
Kyle stared at him.
"No. But the court's the only place I know who I really am."
A long pause.
Then Chino reached into his jacket.
Kyle tensed.
But Chino only pulled out a flyer.
U16 Trials. Kyle's face on it.
He dropped it on the ground.
And walked back into the shadows.
Final Scene – Saturday Morning, 5 a.m.
Kyle stood outside the Kingston bus terminal.
Bag packed.
Letter in hand.
Jersey number #6 stitched on the side.
His mom stood beside him, trying not to cry.
"You go show them who yuh are," she whispered. "And if you never come back to this place, it's okay. But if you do—come back a man. Not a martyr."
The bus doors opened.
Kyle stepped inside.
He didn't look back.
He just held the letter close.
And whispered:
"This is for Rico. For mi mom. For me."
"Mi ready."