July 22, 2021 – Kingston, Jamaica.

Kyle didn't sleep.

The words from the unknown caller replayed in his head like a broken loop: "Some stories not ready to be told yet."

He'd heard threats before—heckling fans in hostile arenas, drunk rivals in nightclubs, even anonymous messages online. But this wasn't that. This was personal. The tone wasn't meant to scare him; it was meant to warn him. And the way it had been said, heavy with that Kingston drawl, carried a weight he couldn't shrug off.

By sunrise, Kyle was sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, shirtless, sweat already rolling down his chest despite the morning breeze. His security staff had crashed a few doors down, but Kyle hadn't told them about the call. If he did, they'd file a report, and then Boston's front office would know. Then the headlines would follow:

"Celtics Star Linked to Father's Criminal Past?"

Nah. He wasn't feeding that fire.

July 22 – MorningHe decided to keep his day moving like nothing happened. Breakfast with the creative team at Devon House. Public smile, casual jokes, tapping kids on the head when they asked for selfies. He played the part well.

But when he looked at Omar across the table, his cousin gave him a sharp nod, like he already knew. After the meeting, Kyle pulled him aside.

"You hear something last night?" Kyle asked.

Omar sucked his teeth. "Kingston small, fam. Phone calls like dat don't just drop from nowhere. Somebody watchin' yuh."

"Who?"

"That's the thing. Could be ally, could be enemy. Could be—" Omar lowered his voice, "—Derrick himself."

The name hit like a jab to the ribs. Kyle wanted to laugh it off, but he couldn't.

July 22 – Afternoon, Spanish Town RoadInstead of heading back to the hotel, Kyle told the driver to take a detour. Past Coronation Market, past half-broken plazas, deeper into the parts of Kingston where tourists never went.

The driver glanced nervously in the mirror. "Boss, yuh sure?"

Kyle's voice was flat. "Drive."

They pulled up near an old basketball court half swallowed by weeds. Kyle remembered it—he'd come here with his father once, back when he was barely tall enough to shoot at the rim. He could almost hear Derrick's voice in his head:

"Ball don't lie, son. But people? People always do."

A group of teenagers were shooting around on the cracked pavement. When they spotted Kyle, the game froze. Phones flew out, wide eyes stared. Kyle gave them a wave, trying to ease the tension.

One of the older kids—skinny, maybe sixteen—jogged up. "Yo, Kyonic! My uncle know yuh father. Say he still 'round. Just not where people expect."

Kyle crouched a little, locking eyes. "What you mean?"

The boy shrugged. "Ask the man dem at Tivoli Gardens. Dey know."

July 22 – EveningBack at the hotel, Omar barged into Kyle's room without knocking. "You can't just walk into dem areas, star. You asking for trouble."

Kyle leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "I need answers, Omar. I can't keep running from this."

Omar sighed, pacing. "You think you ready? You think championship rings protect yuh? Nah. If Derrick alive and still mix up in certain circles, it's not basketball yuh dealing with. It's war business."

Kyle stayed silent, staring out the window at the Kingston skyline, lights flickering in the humid night. The truth was heavy on his chest, pressing harder than any defender ever had.

July 23 – The EnvelopeThe next morning, one of his assistants dropped a small manila envelope on the table. "This was left at the front desk. No sender."

Inside: a grainy photo.

Derrick Wilson.

Older, beard grayer, eyes colder. Standing outside what looked like a rum shop, somewhere deep in the garrison.

On the back, scrawled in rough handwriting:

"If you want the truth, come alone."

No date. No time. Just a dare.

Kyle's heart thudded as he gripped the photo. He had come to Jamaica for family and business. Now, it was clear—both were about to collide.

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