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.

He wasn't throwing games, not exactly. He was manipulating tempo. Influencing turnovers with subtle nudges. Feeding doubt into teammates during timeouts.

"Slow it down, don't rush it," he whispered to Portmore's big man under his breath — just enough to break their rhythm. Ardenne closed the gap. The final score: Portmore 68, Ardenne 62. A perfectly executed under.

Some called it brilliance. Others, betrayal.

But to Derrick, it was survival.

In the tape, Derrick sipped a beer, glanced off camera.

"There's a reason why most players don't last long once they get entangled. These people — they don't play basketball. They play chess. With lives."

"I had to disappear, Kyle. You'll understand soon."

Present Day — Boston

Kyle stood now, pacing the room. His mind raced.

How deep did this go?

Why hadn't his mother ever said a word? Did she know?

No, she couldn't have. She died before Kyle's first pre-draft workout. She never got to see her son in a Celtics jersey. She never knew about the Finals MVP. Or that her late husband's face would reappear, not in the news, but in the mirror every time Kyle checked his form at the gym.

But now... she wasn't the only ghost haunting him.

Flashback: 2003 — Derrick's Final Game

Montego Bay buzzed with rumors.

Derrick Wilson had been spotted back home. Word was he was fixing one last game — a high school championship between rivals Herbert Morrison and Munro College. But this wasn't about point spreads. This time, it was personal.

A young Glenford Reid, now operating under the alias "Mr. G," had begun expanding his influence. He saw Derrick's return as a threat.

The night before the game, Derrick received a call.

"You think you can just reappear? Run games behind my back? You fix this game my way... or you disappear for real."

Derrick hung up.

The next day, he never showed.

The tape cut to black.

Then one final message played — shaky, recorded over the previous footage.

"Kyle. If you're seeing this, then they haven't found me yet. But don't go looking. Some courts ain't worth stepping onto. I'm sorry for everything I missed. But I promise... it was to protect you."

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