Kyle didn't sleep that night.
The loss sat in his bones like wet cement, weighing down every thought. The dunk replayed in his mind, over and over—the one moment where he flew. But so did Rico's sneer. So did Coach's clipboard slamming. So did the final score.
52–54.
He tossed in bed, stared at the stained ceiling above him.
The fan spun slowly. His mother snored lightly across the room, her body curled under an old Bob Marley blanket. The fridge buzzed. Rats scurried in the walls. Same night symphony.
Kyle sat up, pulled on his shorts, and stepped outside.
The court behind the school glowed faintly in the moonlight, shadows curling around the edges like ghosts.
He picked up his usual ball—half-flat, beaten, peeling. It didn't matter. It was his.
He started with layups. Right side. Left side. One step. Two. Miss. Again. Miss.
He kept missing.
Frustration surged.
He backed up, launched a three. Brick.
Another. Brick.
His form? Sloppy. Elbows out. Feet uneven. He knew it. He just didn't know how to fix it.
"Yuh shoot like yuh scared the ball gon' bite yuh."
Kyle jumped.
From the shadows, a figure leaned against the fence. A man, older. Maybe mid-30s. Rasta beard. Hoodie torn at the sleeves. Slippers on his feet.
Kyle squinted. "Who you?"
The man smiled, slow and knowing. "Question is: who yuh tryna be?"
Kyle said nothing. Just picked up the ball again.
"Another tall boy with no fundamentals? Another body for Rico to clown?"
Kyle gripped the ball tighter. "You watch the game?"
"Seen every practice. Every scrimmage. Every pickup."
"Why?"
The man walked forward, hands in pockets. "Because I used to be you. Before injury, before mistakes. Before I let my ego run faster than my feet."
Kyle narrowed his eyes. "Yuh used to play?"
The man nodded. "They called me Ghost. Back in the U16 circuit, mi ran through di parish like wild fire."
Kyle searched his face. He recognized the name—Ghost. The mystery baller who vanished before his prime. Rumors said he broke a coach's jaw, then disappeared into the hills.
"You gon' teach me?" Kyle asked, skeptical.
Ghost grinned. "Yuh finally askin' the right questions."
They trained in secret.
Mornings before school. Nights after curfew. Nobody knew.
Ghost was brutal.
"You too stiff! Bend! Bend! Jump like yuh tryna kiss the clouds!"
SLAP.
He'd hit Kyle in the gut mid-dribble.
"Keep control!"
Every mistake, he punished with sprints. Every sloppy move, with ten push-ups. When Kyle slipped into old habits, Ghost walked off the court.
"You ain't serious? I don't waste time on half-hearted hearts."
Kyle would chase him every time.
Because he was serious.
More serious than he'd ever been.
They started from scratch.
Layups.
"High off glass. Kiss it like yuh love it."
Footwork.
"Jab step, pivot—feel di floor like it's alive."
Shooting form.
"Ball above the eyebrow. Elbow tight. Wrist flick. Fingers point down like rain."
Every session ended with free throws.
"If yuh cyan hit from here, yuh don't deserve the rest of the court."
Kyle's hands blistered. His knees ached. But after two weeks, the ball started listening.
It spun clean. Landed soft. Whispered through the rim like it wanted to stay.
One morning, Ghost tossed Kyle a blindfold.
"Put it on."
"Why?"
"Yuh want instincts or instructions?"
Kyle obeyed.
"Now dribble."
Eyes closed, he moved. Right hand. Left hand. Behind back. Cross.
At first, he stumbled.
Then… rhythm.
He felt the ball in his palm, not his eyes. Heard it. Trusted it.
"Good," Ghost said. "Ball is music. Yuh just learning the song."
At school, things didn't change right away.
Rico still dominated practice. Still ran the court like a king without a crown.
Kyle got his scraps. A few minutes here. One rebound. One assist.
Coach watched. Said little.
But one day, Coach called him aside after practice.
"You look... sharper," he said.
Kyle wiped sweat from his brow. "Been working."
Coach squinted. "With who?"
Kyle hesitated. "Just… myself."
Coach raised an eyebrow. "Keep it up. Yuh gon' need it."
Then came the next scrimmage.
This time, Kyle checked in early.
Rico, already annoyed, threw him the ball with mock drama. "Here, big man. Show us yuh greatness."
Kyle didn't speak.
He just took a jab step. Pivoted. Turned.
Hook shot.
Swish.
Next possession: pick and roll. Kyle rolled clean, caught, pump-faked, spun baseline.
Layup.
Another trip. Defensive switch. He denied Rico the ball. Forced a turnover.
Benches started watching.
Coach nodded once.
Rico scowled.
After practice, Coach clapped him on the shoulder. "Yuh still raw. But now yuh dangerous."
Later that night, Kyle met Ghost again.
"Mi started today. Got plays. Got points."
Ghost smirked. "Good. But careful."
"Why?"
"Success? It don't make enemies. It shows yuh who they already were."
Kyle nodded.
He understood.
Back home, his mother noticed too.
"Yuh walking taller," she said, folding laundry.
Kyle smiled. "Just training."
She stared at him. "Keep training. And remember—di only rim that matter is the one yuh climb, not the one yuh dunk."
He didn't understand the full meaning.
Not yet.
But soon, he'd learn that success comes at a cost.
And in Rose Heights, everything costs.
Even the truth.