July 14, 2021 – Kingston, Jamaica.

The heat hit Kyle like a wall the moment he stepped off the plane. The kind of heat that clung to your skin and stayed there, even when you weren't moving. It was his first time back since the season ended, and although Boston still had him on a minute restriction after the injury, the Celtics had no issue with him taking some offseason time to rest.

He'd brought minimal security this time—just two trusted guys from the team's staff who doubled as personal assistants. No media, no entourage, no flashy arrival. For once, it wasn't about appearances. Jamaica wasn't a place you paraded in unless you wanted trouble. Too many people here remembered Kyle Wilson as the tall kid from the slums, long before the championship ring, long before the "Kyonic" shoe empire.

The taxi from Norman Manley International wound through familiar streets. Rusted zinc fences. Street vendors shouting over the rumble of old minibuses. The smell of jerk chicken and salt from the nearby harbor. It wasn't Boston's clean streets and cool summer nights—this was raw, loud, alive.

His driver slowed when they hit a familiar corner. The mural was still there—Nichola Campbell's face, his mother's. Fresh paint around the edges, faded in the middle. "Gone too soon" in looping letters. Kyle turned his head toward the window, hiding his face.

July 15 – Downtown Kingston

Kyle's trip had two purposes: family and business.

Business first. The Kyonic brand was ready to roll out a limited Caribbean edition of his signature shoe, and he wanted it done right—no generic ad agency, no half-hearted campaign. He met with a local creative team, young designers and photographers who knew how to blend street culture with performance wear. They pitched shooting in Trench Town, along the courts where Kyle learned the game. He agreed instantly.

But family… that was harder. Derrick Wilson hadn't been seen in public in years. Kyle knew his father was alive—he got cryptic texts, the occasional money transfer into his own accounts when he was a teen—but there was no consistent contact. Coming back here always stirred questions: Where was Derrick? Why had he disappeared? And more importantly, was he still connected to the whispers that followed his name?

That night, Kyle met with his cousin Omar at a small bar tucked into the corner of an old concrete building. The music was low, the crowd mostly older men playing dominoes. Omar leaned across the table.

"You know everybody talkin' 'bout you since you land," Omar said. "But it's not just 'cause you win that championship. Some people think you here lookin' for Derrick."

Kyle frowned. "I'm here to see family. And work."

Omar gave a dry laugh. "Family, sure. But you don't think it's strange how every time you come back, man dem start moving quiet? Like they know you close to finding out something?"

Kyle took a slow sip of his drink. He wasn't here for conspiracy theories, but deep down, part of him knew Omar was right. Every offseason trip to Jamaica had been the same—unspoken tension, rumors, old debts still floating in the air.

July 17 – Trench Town Courts

The photoshoot for the Kyonic Caribbean release was electric. Local kids crowded the chain-link fences, phones out, watching their hometown hero pose in front of the cracked asphalt court where he once scraped his knees learning the game.

Between takes, one of the older ballers—man they called "Coach T"—pulled Kyle aside. "Yuh know, I play wid yuh father long time ago. Before him get deep into… certain tings. Yuh look jus' like him when him young."

Kyle's chest tightened. "You seen him recently?"

Coach T just shook his head slowly. "Not directly. But if you here long enough, you might hear things. Careful, though. Some rocks better left unturned."

The rest of the week, Kyle kept his public schedule light—charity clinic with local kids, a couple of meetings with the brand team, family dinners. But every night, the whispers about Derrick seemed to get louder.

On July 21, just before heading back to Boston, he got a call from an unlisted number.

"You keep lookin' like this, boy," a rough, Jamaican-accented voice said, "you gon' find more than you want to know. Some stories not ready to be told yet."

The line went dead.

Kyle stared at his phone, the heat outside suddenly feeling heavier.

The offseason had just started. But now… Jamaica wasn't going to let him leave without dragging him deeper into the shadow of Derrick Wilson.

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