Saturday – 8:02 a.m.
Kingston National Arena – U16 Selection Trials
Kyle stood at half-court, blinking under the harsh white lights.
The arena smelled like varnish and sweat. Polished wood glistened beneath his sneakers. Branded banners fluttered overhead. Everything screamed official.
But this wasn't a game.
This was war.
Every boy here had a dream—and no one came to share it.
There were sixty-eight players.
Only twelve would make the national U16 squad.
Kyle scanned the court.
Tall kids from Montego Bay. Slick shooters from Spanish Town. Guards with braided hair and cold eyes from Portmore. He recognized one name from social media: Delano Morrison, the 6'3 point god from St. George's College—already rumored to be getting attention from European scouts.
Kyle wiped his palms on his shorts.
He wasn't nervous about the competition.
He was nervous about failing.
Because this wasn't just about a roster spot.
This was about getting out.
Drills – Morning Session
The first few hours were all fundamentals.
Three-man weaves. Closeouts. Ball-handling under pressure. Shooting stations.
Kyle moved clean. Smooth. Locked in.
But he noticed something strange:
Two of the evaluators—JABA officials with clipboards—kept whispering every time he got the ball.
By lunch, he overheard one of them.
"Isn't that the one from Rose Heights? The one mixed up with the gang stuff?"
He pretended not to hear it.
But his stomach turned.
His game wasn't just being judged.
His reputation was too.
Scrimmage Time – Afternoon Session
Coaches called five-on-five full court.
Kyle got dropped into a second rotation team—bench players, mostly.
It felt deliberate.
He wasn't supposed to shine.
But he did anyway.
First possession: he split a trap and hit a floater in traffic.
Second possession: steal, then bounce pass behind the back for a fast break layup.
By the fifth trip down the court, the gym was murmuring.
Even Delano Morrison raised an eyebrow.
Timeout
Coach Barnes, the lead selector, pulled Kyle aside.
"Your game's polished. IQ solid. But I've got scouts whispering in my ear about Rose Heights. Gangs. Murder."
Kyle nodded. "I expected that."
"Tell me why I should look past it."
Kyle didn't blink.
"Because if yuh want a team that can handle pressure on the court—you want a player who survived pressure off it. I didn't choose the fire. But I didn't burn either."
Coach Barnes stared at him.
Then walked away.
End of Day One
Players were dismissed to a group dorm in New Kingston.
Kyle sat on the bunk, watching rain tap against the window.
A boy across the room offered him a juice box. "You dropped 12 points in a 10-minute scrimmage. That's different."
Kyle nodded. "Mi name's Kyle."
"Courtney. From Mandeville."
"Mi from—" Kyle stopped.
Then said, "Jamaica."
Because where he was from didn't matter anymore.
Only where he was going.
Back in Rose Heights – That Night
Ghost sat on the bleachers of an empty gym. Watching.
Coach Barrett paced with a clipboard.
"He make it?" Ghost asked.
"He's lighting it up," Coach replied. "But word is the politics heavy. Some board members don't want the risk."
Ghost lit a cigarette.
"They'd rather build a team of soft-spoken yes-men than kids who climbed out of fire."
Coach looked over. "Playoffs start next week. Without Kyle…"
"We hold the line," Ghost said.
"But what if we make finals?"
Ghost's eyes narrowed.
"Then we save a seat for him on that bus back."
Trials – Day Two
Sunday. The cuts begin.
From 68 to 30.
Kyle's name stayed on the board.
Now came position battles.
He was matched up with a pure shooter from May Pen—lean, quick, deadly off screens.
First set: Kyle locked him down. No dribble penetration. Denied passing lanes.
Second set: Kyle dropped 10 points, including a spin-move and-1 that made the gym erupt.
But between games, he noticed a familiar face in the bleachers.
Mr. Jervis.
Black suit. Dark shades. No emotion.
Kyle stared at him.
Jervis nodded once.
And disappeared.
After Scrimmages – Final Evaluation
Coach Barnes posted the names.
Only 15 called forward to a private meeting.
Kyle was one.
He sat in the hallway, hands trembling slightly.
Then Barnes came out.
"You made the cut."
Kyle exhaled.
But Barnes didn't smile.
"There's a condition. You need to issue a public statement distancing yourself from everything going on in Rose Heights. JABA wants 'clean profiles.' They want to avoid controversy."
Kyle stood slowly.
Voice low.
"But I never joined them. Mi been clean."
Barnes nodded. "We know. But perception is power."
Kyle stared at the wall.
Then at the flag hanging above the hallway entrance.
Green, gold, black.
Hardships there are… but the land is green and the sun shineth.
That Night – Kyle Alone on the Court
He snuck into the gym.
Just him, the ball, and the echo.
He whispered to himself:
"Mi not running. Mi not lying. If they want my game, they take all of me."
And for the first time in weeks…
He smiled.
Meanwhile – Coach Barrett on a Phone Call
"Yeah. He made it. But they're trying to muzzle him."
Ghost on the other end: "So we got no guarantee?"
Coach: "We got one thing: Kyle ain't soft."
Ghost: "We'll be in the playoffs either way. But if we make finals?"
Coach: "I'll get him back."
Final Scene – Monday Morning
Kyle boarded the bus back to Rose Heights.
New duffle bag. New focus. Same fire.
In his lap?
His U16 acceptance letter.
No statement issued.
No apologies made.
Kyle Wilson made the team on his own terms.
But as the bus passed the city limits, he checked his phone.
📲 "Welcome to the roster, #6. Trials over. Now the real work start."
Then another message.
Unknown number.
📲 "Finals next week. You better make it back alive." — C.