Cocky

Chapter 1

one

push to start.

Jabari.

“And what’s the point of paying you seven percent if you couldn’t get me the private fucking charter?” I yell into my phone.

I’m still half-slouched in this cheap leather airport seat, phone pressed to my ear, eyes burning from polluted, recycled cabin air.

The arrivals hall reeks of cinnamon pretzels, fried oil, and too many bodies crammed into one tight space.

I’m gonna have to scrub myself raw for hours to get the smell off me.

Commercial flights are truly the ninth circle of hell.

“Jabari, it wasn’t in the budget—” my agent starts, voice tiny through the line.

“Not in the budget?” I cut him off, practically shouting. “I score thirty-five goals in a season. I put arses in seats. I’m the reason Croydon even called. And you’re telling me there’s not enough in their budget to get me on a fucking jet?”

Daniel tries again, meek and useless as always.

“It’s the middle of the season, the club’s handling expenses, you know they’re in relegation—”

“Don’t care. You’re supposed to handle them. That’s why you take seven percent off everything I earn, innit?”

I rub my temples, pissed all over again.

Flying commercial makes me feel… small.

And I’m not, figuratively or literally.

Can you imagine what I had to endure, squeezing this 6’7, 122 kilos—about 270-pound—body into a business-class seat?

I couldn’t wait to get off that plane and call to let him have it.

My agent sighs. “I’ll talk to them again next time.”

“You’ll do more than talk. Next time, if I’m not on a charter, find another job. And there better not be a single photo of me leaving this airport or sitting on that plane online. I don’t want anyone thinking less of me.”

Click.

I hang up before he can respond, pocketing my phone before standing and dragging my carry-on—another insult, because I shouldn’t be carrying shit myself—toward baggage claim.

I don’t belong in crowds like this.

If even one fan recognizes me under this balaclava, I’m gonna strangle Daniel.

I made too much of a big deal about this move, and if people knew Novis had me flying commercial because of the relegation, they’d lose respect for me. Shit, even I’m losing respect for myself, putting up with this bullshit, and I don’t give a fuck if the seat was first class.

After my internal battle with self-worth while I collect my bags, I spot them, and I can breathe again.

They’re impossible to miss.

Mum’s standing on her tiptoes, waving like she’s trying to land planes herself, while Dad leans against the wall with his arms folded, face half-hidden by a baseball cap. He’s pretending not to be excited, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching up when his eyes find me.

And for a second, my irritation melts.

“Ah, ah! Who is this hiding away in a robber’s mask?” Mum jokes.

“My son has left the country as a delinquent and returned as a full member of G-Unit,” My father adds.

“Alright. Alright. Come off it,” I laugh as I greet them. Suddenly, I feel stupid in this hot disguise, especially if my parents recognize me immediately.

But then again, they’re my parents.

Mum barrels into me first, wrapping her arms around me like I’m still fifteen. She smells like the same lavender lotion she’s worn forever, and that makes me smile.

My arms wrap around her tightly. Immediately, the irritation is completely gone because, like always, my mother calms it all.

Dad claps me on the shoulder hard enough to jolt me forward, and that’s about as much emotion I’m gonna get outta him.

I appreciate that.

“You took your time,” he says, voice gruff but warm.

“Blame the agent,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Apparently, I ain’t worth a jet anymore.”

Mum pulls back, eyebrows knitting. “You flew back regular?”

Regular.

I grimace. “Don’t remind me.”

Dad snorts, already steering us toward the exit. “Good for you. A little humility never killed anyone.”

“Yeah, but it’s trying,” I grumbled.

On the walk through the sliding glass doors, with the damp, nostalgic air outside of Heathrow hitting my face, I can feel the shift in power dynamics.

Though I’m not the fifteen-year-old my parents shipped off anymore, one thing became apparent. At home, with them, I’m not Jabari McKingsley or Titan.

I’m their kid.

Which is fine—except I don’t particularly enjoy being reminded I’m still expected to obey all the commands of my parents, especially since I don’t have the best record of obeying them to begin with.

At least they can’t ship my arse back to Nigeria this time.

But whatever. For now, I let them guide me toward their car like armored security.

I toss my bags in the boot, slide into the backseat, and stare out the window, already itching to get to Croydon.

The car barely clears the airport loop when Mum turns and drops it on me.

“Oh, by the way, Chinaza is coming over later, and she’s bringing her friend,” she says casually. “You remember Francine, yes?”

My head snaps up from the window. “Huh?”

“Who are you ‘huh’ing?” Dad grunts, eyes fixed on the road. “Zaza wants to see you. Haven’t you been gone long enough to miss your sister?”

“Of course I miss Za,” I mutter. “I’m here ‘cause I miss Za and you all. But tonight should just be the four of us. I’ve had enough people crowding my space.”

I cringe at the thought of the airport.

Mum smacks my knee lightly from the front seat. “Ah! Don’t be rude. She’s your sister’s only friend.”

“She’s my sister’s loudest friend too,” I shoot back. “The thought of the two of them together makes my head hurt already.”

It isn’t even Zaza that’s the problem. She’s tolerable in small doses. Loud, sure. Dramatic, definitely. But I put up with it because she’s my little sister.

The problem is that barnacle she insists on dragging everywhere.

Her strange and obsessive friend. Francine.

The girl had been orbiting me ever since Zaza first brought her home. I was eleven then. Eleven years old and dealing with that creepy, green-eyed leech sneaking into my bedroom, sniffing my clothes.

And she laughs so loudly at things I don’t even find funny. It’s so fucking annoying.

I swear, one time she laughed when I was eating cereal, because she said I “always hummed when I liked what I was eating.”

Who the hell notices that?

The thought of her creepy, glow-in-the-dark eyes watching me eat enough to notice I always hum makes my skin crawl.

“Why does she have to come?” I demand, dragging my voice into that slow, exasperated tone that drives Mum crazy.

“Because they’re inseparable,” Mum says. “And she’s sweet. You should be nicer to her.”

I roll my eyes. “She’s obsessed with me.”

“No, she admires you,” Mum corrects.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Mum twists in her seat to give me the look that says she raised me better than this, which is debatable.

“Jabari. Francine is a nice young woman. She is not the child you remember.”

“Hm,” I groan. “I‘ll believe it when I see it.”

“You are so irritable lately,” Mum says while sighing. “It’s like the mention of other people has you in a sour mood.”

“It does,” I confess. “I don’t like people in my personal space.”

Dad snorts. “Your personal space could use some humility.”

“Again with this humility,” I mutter, leaning my head back. “Why is everyone begging for me to be miserable?”

“Because,” Mum says with a smile, “misery keeps you human.”

I scoff. “Misery also likes company.”

I can picture it now:

Zaza bouncing into the house, voice two octaves too high, dragging her shadow behind her.

The friend will squeal when she sees me, probably ask me to sign something, then she’ll hover—always fucking hovering—asking questions, giggling, looking at me like I’m the answer to every prayer she ever whispered at Sunday service.

It’s exhausting. I don’t even remember her name, even though Mum said it already. It never sticks. She’s just… Zaza’s friend.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not talking to her.”

“Yes, you are,” Mum says firmly.

“No, I’m not.”

“Jabari, just be polite.”

Polite.

I can fake politeness when I have to, like with press conferences, sponsorship deals, the occasional award ceremony, where the cameras won’t stop rolling.

But in my own house? With my own family?

No.

That’s sacred ground.

And sacred ground means I don’t waste energy on protecting the feelings of people who don’t matter. Especially not someone who’s been acting like my unofficial fan club since puberty.

I stare out the window at the blur of traffic, every mile closer to home tightening the knot in my stomach.

“Stop scowling,” Mum says suddenly.

“I’m not scowling.”

“You’re scowling.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ll be nice. That’s final.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. No point. She always wins these battles, and besides, the war’s not here. The war’s later, when Zaza’s friend opens her mouth, and I have to decide whether to ignore her or cut her down.

For now, I lean back, close my eyes, and brace myself. Because apparently, surviving commercial flights wasn’t enough punishment for one day.

Home feels the same even though the house was new.

The walls smell faintly of Mum’s cooking. I half-expected some sort of celebration to welcome their only son, who had been gone for eleven years, back home.

But no. Not even a balloon.

Dad dumps my bag by the stairs, already muttering about being hungry, and Mum disappears into the kitchen.

“Wash up and come down. We eat at 7 p.m.” He commands before sinking into the sofa he had since I was two. I can’t believe he brought that ratty thing with him to the new house.

Actually, I can believe it.

Rolling my eyes behind his back, I grab my shit and head upstairs.

I plan to stay with them for a while before I start flat hunting. Their new house is big enough that I should still have my privacy, and even though this is my first time stepping through it, I should know.

I bought it for them.

All six thousand square feet, five bedrooms, and seven bathrooms of it.

And despite that fact, I still had to carry my own bags upstairs. I kept my annoyance to myself, though, because only my parents could get away with treating me so poorly.

My room is easy to spot.

Mum went through the trouble of setting it up and displaying almost every photo of me ever taken. The evidence of her pride in me makes up for my previous qualms about my luggage.

More or less.

After scrubbing every inch of myself to rid my body of any lingering airport filth, I return downstairs, drop onto the couch with my Dad, stretch out, and let myself sink into the torn-up cushions.

The remote lies right next to my dozing father, and I grab it and then flip the channel, scroll past some match highlights, and smirk when I catch my own face filling the screen for a half-second.

I settle in with my feet up, arms spread.

Yeah. This is better. This is where I belong.

“With the loss of Jabari McKingsley to Novis in Croydon, the Disciples look to sign Striker Salvatore “Tore” Moretti.”

Hmm. ‘Tore’ huh?

I watch some of his reels. He’s okay, I guess. Probably better than they deserve.

“I was watching TV!” Dad insists next to me, still very much asleep.

“Dad—” I start, but I’m cut off by the doorbell ringing.

Mum yells from the kitchen, “Jabari, get that!”

I groan. “Why me?”

“Because you’re closest,” Dad answers, snatching the remote from me.

I’m not, but fine.

Apparently, rest and relaxation are forbidden in this country.

I drag myself off the couch, muttering my vexation under my breath. My legs still feel heavy from the flight, but I move anyway, because in this new house, I’m still the errand boy.

The bell rings again to my annoyance.

I swing the door open, half-ready to slap at whoever’s pressing like the world’s ending—

But when my eyes met the person responsible, I couldn’t look away from the Kryptonite.