Kyle's silence became louder than Rico's trash talk.
After the confrontation with Coach, something shifted—not just in Kyle's game, but in his presence. He stopped waiting to be accepted. Stopped hoping Rico would pass. He didn't ask for chances anymore.
He took them.
The next three games told the story clearer than words ever could.
Game one: 12 points, 8 rebounds, 3 blocks. Rico refused to pass to him after halftime. Didn't matter. Kyle dominated the glass, finished off putbacks, and even blocked Rico's defender so cleanly the coach rewound the footage during film study and clapped. Clapped.
Game two: 18 points. First double-double. Coach called a play for him. Rico protested mid-game. Coach ignored it.
Game three: 22 points. Posters.
Real posters.
Some student snapped a photo of Kyle dunking over a Montego Bay East forward—knees at chest height, rim in hand, mouth roaring mid-air. The photo made its way to Instagram. Got shared. Then reshared. Then reposted on a Jamaican sports page called "IslandHoops247."
Caption: "14-year-old monster alert. Kyle Wilson making noise in MoBay. Is he the next one?"
Overnight, Kyle had over 2,000 new followers.
In the locker room after game three, teammates surrounded him.
"Yo, that dunk? Madness."
"You get scouted yet?"
"Yuh get free shoes from Nike now, star?"
Kyle shrugged, laughing. "Mi just playin'."
Even the seniors nodded. Rico stood in the corner, lacing up his shoes tighter than usual, jaw locked, earbuds in—but even he couldn't ignore the tide turning.
Coach called the team into a circle.
"We got word a scout from Queens is comin' down for next match. From a prep school in Long Island. Real scholarship potential. He ain't just watchin' me coach. He watchin' y'all."
Eyes turned to Kyle.
No one said it.
But everyone knew.
That night, Kyle walked the long way home.
The slum was half-silent, the moon cracked in the sky, the streetlights flickering like tired eyes.
He stopped by the court.
Ghost was waiting.
Leaning on the chain-link fence, smoke curling from a half-burnt cigarette.
"Mi heard," Ghost said.
Kyle tossed his bag on the ground. "Heard what?"
"Yuh blowin' up."
Kyle gave a small smile. "Mi just hoopin'."
Ghost flicked the ash. "Don't lie to yuhself. Yuh know what's happening."
Kyle walked onto the court. "I ain't ask for attention."
"You never have to ask. When you rise, people look."
Kyle began shooting.
Ghost stepped closer.
"Prep school. U.S. ball. You leave this island, Kyle… it changes everything."
"I want out," Kyle said. "This place? It gon' eat me if I stay."
Ghost nodded. "Then yuh better make sure yuh more than just tall. More than just hops. Because over there—every boy got bounce. Every boy got skill. What yuh got that they don't?"
Kyle caught the rebound.
Held the ball.
Stared at the rim.
Then: "Grit. Pain. And a name to prove."
Two days later, the scout arrived.
He wore a white polo shirt, sunglasses, and had a clipboard bigger than Kyle's schoolbag.
The gym was packed. Word had spread. Local news cameras. Principals from other schools. Parents. Kids from rival teams. Even a few street vendors selling jerk chicken out front.
Kyle had never seen Rose Heights this alive.
Coach pulled him aside before tip-off.
"This yuh moment. Not just to play. To lead. Rico still gon' play wild. You? You stick to your game. No tricks. No hero ball. Just truth."
Kyle nodded. "Mi ready."
And he was.
From the first possession, Kyle played like the floor owed him something. He boxed out like he was clearing rubble from a house. He ran the floor like it was chasing him. Every board? His. Every second chance? Converted.
He dropped 10 in the first quarter alone.
Rico looked rattled. Threw two bad passes. Took a heat check three that missed by a mile. Coach yanked him mid-second quarter.
Kyle? Stayed in.
The crowd chanted his name. Real chants.
"Ky-LE! Ky-LE!"
He glanced at the scout once. The man was scribbling.
Fourth quarter. Tie game.
Final play.
Coach looked at both Rico and Kyle.
Then said it.
"Wilson. You inbound. After that? Iso."
Rico froze. "Yuh serious?"
Coach didn't blink.
Rico was benched.
Kyle wiped his hands on his shorts.
Ball in.
Ten seconds.
He took the dribble slow. Crowd standing.
Seven.
He crossed left. Defender bit.
Six.
He spun right, bounced hard.
Five.
Step back.
Four.
Shot.
Release.
The ball floated—like time stalled.
Net.
Splash.
The gym erupted.
Final buzzer.
Rose Heights wins.
And Kyle Wilson?
Officially a star.
After the game, the scout approached.
He shook Coach's hand, then turned to Kyle.
"You got a moment?"
Kyle nodded, heart pounding.
"I'm from BayPoint Prep. We recruit talent, train hard, place in the best U.S. colleges. We've been watching you for three games."
Kyle swallowed.
"We want to fly you out. Try out with our program. We'll talk to your mother. Your school. Your coach. But if this works out? Full ride."
Kyle blinked.
"You serious?"
The man smiled. "Serious as a fourth-quarter buzzer."
Kyle couldn't even answer.
Later that night, he stood in front of his mother.
She looked at the papers the scout left. Read them twice. Then looked at Kyle.
"You really ready to leave this island?"
Kyle didn't hesitate.
"Mi was ready the first time I touched the ball."
She stared at him.
Then, with a trembling smile: "Then fly, mi son. But don't forget who teach yuh to walk."
Kyle told Ghost the next day.
The older man stared at him long. Silent. Then he pulled something from his jacket.
A chain.
A small pendant of a cracked basketball.
"This was mine," he said. "Mi first dunk, mi first injury, mi last mistake. Take it. Not as a trophy. As a warning."
Kyle nodded and took it.
"Make sure you rise," Ghost said. "But never leave yourself behind."
As Kyle walked away from that court, the one behind Rose Heights Secondary, he didn't look back.
Because he knew:
The next time he came back here…
He wouldn't be Kyle the tall kid.
He'd be Kyle Wilson, the one who made it out.