July 18, 2021.

Boston was deep in the heart of its summer rhythm—tourists filling Quincy Market, the Charles River sparkling under an unforgiving sun, and the streets humming with post-championship energy. For Kyle Wilson, it was a strange mix of freedom and restlessness. The season was over, his body was healing, but his mind refused to slow down.

The ankle injury was still lingering, even though the Celtics' medical staff kept telling him it was "progressing well." He knew better. Every time he tried to push, even in simple drills, there was that familiar sting in the joint—sharp enough to remind him he wasn't 100%. The playoffs were done without him, Boston had lifted the trophy, but it didn't feel like the story was finished.

Kyle's summer plan had been simple: rehab, stay in shape, and travel a little before training camp. He'd booked a short trip to Jamaica—a chance to breathe, reconnect with family, and remind himself of where it all started. But he'd also circled Las Vegas Summer League on his calendar, not to play, but to watch. Even though he was one of the league's rising stars, Kyle still had the itch to scout talent, see who was coming up next, and maybe even spot a future teammate.

July 20 – Kingston, Jamaica

The heat hit him differently the moment he stepped off the plane. Boston's summer was warm, but this was humid, almost suffocating—like walking into a sauna you couldn't escape. His cousin Troy met him outside Norman Manley International, grinning wide.

"Bredda, you still look like you could drop 40 right now," Troy laughed, giving him a firm hug.

Kyle chuckled. "Only if I don't have to run back on defense."

The days in Jamaica passed slowly but richly. He visited his father's old haunts—bars, basketball courts, and even a faded corner shop where Derrick Wilson's name was still whispered by old-timers who remembered "the man who knew how to turn a game." Kyle listened, asking careful questions, piecing together more of the man's life.

One night, over dinner, Troy leaned in and told him something that made him pause mid-bite.

"You know your father didn't just bet on games. There were people here… powerful people… who owed him. And some still do."

Kyle didn't press right away, but the comment sat heavy in his mind. It wasn't the first time he'd heard hints about Derrick's connections.

July 25 – Boston

Back in the States, Kyle's apartment felt quieter than usual. The city had moved on from the championship parade—now it was baseball season, and the Red Sox were the talk of sports radio. Kyle dove back into rehab, doing resistance band work, light shooting drills, and pool workouts.

But the trip to Jamaica had stirred something in him. Late nights were now spent scrolling through old articles about his dad, finding mentions in half-forgotten sports betting scandals from the late '90s and early 2000s.

It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was starting to feel like unfinished business.

July 31 – Las Vegas

Kyle landed in Vegas for Summer League, keeping his appearance low-key—no big entourage, just his trainer and his business manager. But even in a hoodie and shades, people recognized him. Kids ran up for pictures, reporters shouted questions, and players glanced his way like they were seeing a glimpse of their own future.

He sat courtside for a Celtics game, smiling at the rookies' energy but also noting their flaws. During halftime, a man he didn't know slipped into the seat beside him. Late 50s, sharp suit despite the heat, gold ring catching the light.

"You're Derrick's boy," the man said without introduction.

Kyle froze for a second. "And you are?"

The man smiled faintly. "Someone who used to do business with your father. Someone who knows the truth about why he disappeared."

Before Kyle could respond, the man stood, left a small folded note on the seat, and walked away into the crowd.

When Kyle unfolded it, there were only four words written:

"We need to talk

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