It started with a new kid at the academy.
Dre was flashy. Designer cleats, custom fade, and a diamond earring that probably cost more than most people's rent. He had a verified Twitter account and videos floating around online with thousands of retweets. No one quite knew how he ended up at Metro, but he made sure everyone noticed when he got there.
He was also good. Not KJ, Kyle, or Kareem good—but good enough to turn heads.
Within a week, Dre was already tight with a small crew of older players and was dropping subtle lines like:
"My agent said Adidas is watching."
"I got options overseas—Spain, Germany, maybe even Brazil."
"You don't have someone yet? Damn, bro."
KJ didn't bite. He'd already been approached. Multiple times. He'd politely said "not yet" to most and flat-out ignored the rest. But Dre wasn't talking to KJ. He was talking to Kyle.
Kyle didn't show it, but he listened.
Because Dre had an agent.
Because Dre got free gear sent to the locker room.
Because Dre had people who weren't his parents showing up to training, watching, taking notes.
Kyle wasn't stupid. He knew hype didn't equal greatness. But at 12 years old, watching a kid just a couple years older flash around like he'd already made it—it messed with his head a little.
Kareem noticed.
"You good?" he asked Kyle one day after training.
Kyle shrugged. "I'm chillin'."
But his touches were off that day. His usually sharp first step looked rushed. He barely spoke during lunch, and when Kareem joked about Dre being all style and no substance, Kyle didn't laugh.
Later that night, Kyle found a business card slipped into his cleat bag.
Raymond Voss
Youth Talent Coordinator, Voss Global Sports
"We build stars."
KJ saw it first.
"You gonna call him?" he asked casually.
Kyle paused. Then smirked.
"Nah. I don't need someone to build me into a star. I already am one."
They dapped each other up.
But neither of them threw the card away.