Chapter 2

Back at the small row house we shared, the one I grew up in, Uncle Leo sat me down at the kitchen table. He looked older than his fifty years, the lines on his face deeper than I remembered.

"I didn' t want to tell you," he started, his voice heavy. "I didn' t want to worry you."

He slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a medical bill. A very large one. The letterhead was from a top cardiology center.

"My heart," he said, tapping his chest. "It' s not good, Maya. The doctor says I need a procedure. Soon."

I stared at the number on the bill. It was staggering. More money than we had.

"But... our savings?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "The money from the last few seasons..."

He wouldn' t meet my eyes. He looked down at his hands, ashamed. "I' m so sorry, kid. I got a bad tip. A friend... he swore it was a sure thing. I thought I could double our money, pay for this, and have plenty left over. I lost it all."

My head spun. All my hard work, all those hours staring at stats and game film, gone.

He finally looked at me, his eyes wet with tears. "I know you' re tired. I know you want a break. But I need you, Maya. Just one more big win. One last analysis to cover this. Please."

The guilt was a physical weight, pressing down on me. How could I say no? This was my uncle, the man who was like a father to me. His life was on the line.

I felt trapped. The memories of the alley, of the betrayal, seemed distant and dreamlike compared to the very real crisis in front of me.

"Okay," I said, my voice flat. "Okay, Uncle Leo. One last time."

A flicker of something-relief, triumph?-crossed his face before he masked it with a grateful sob. He pulled me into a hug that felt less like comfort and more like a cage.

I spent the next two days locked in my room, ignoring the world. I poured over every piece of data, every injury report, every coaching tendency. I needed a lock. A guaranteed hit.

And I found one. A little-known rookie running back on a team with a weak offensive line. But I saw something no one else did: a new blocking scheme they' d practiced in secret, designed to spring him. He was poised for a monster game against a favored defense. The odds would be incredible.

I wrote the player' s name on a piece of paper and gave it to my uncle. "This is it," I told him. "Bet everything you can on him."

He hugged me again, promising this would be the last time he' d ever ask for anything.

As he left, I logged into my own small betting account. I was going to place my own wager, to start rebuilding my own funds.

But before I did, a strange impulse made me open TikTok. I searched for "King K."

My blood ran cold.

He had posted a video just five minutes earlier. He was leaning against a flashy sports car, a cocky grin on his face.

"Yo, what' s up, high rollers! King K with the hot tip of the week! There' s a rookie running back nobody is talking about, but your king knows all. He' s about to go nuclear! Get your bets in NOW before the line moves!"

He named the exact same player.