Chapter 10 Let Me Leave It In
ten
let me leave it in.
Jabari.
The drive into central London gets quieter the closer we get to the hotel.
The city slides past in streaks of orange streetlights and wet asphalt, traffic lights blinking tiredly in the late hour. My hands stay loose on the wheel, but my jaw isn’t. Frankie’s phone screen lights her face every few seconds, then disappears again.
We turn the last corner, and the quiet breaks before we even stop.
I see the press before she does.
Cameras. Boom mics. Security jackets. A cluster of bodies standing just outside the awning, faces half-lit by the hotel floodlights.
Reporters crowd the front like the true pigeons they are.
Security ropes are up but useless; people lean over them anyway, calling my name, yelling questions, shouting “Titan!” like it’s my government.
They’re here for me.
Her head lifts. She sees them.
I feel her stiffen. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Yeah. We can’t be seen together.
Not entering a hotel together.
Not like this.
Not with Za.
“How the fuck did they know I was here?”
Frankie shrugs. “Obviously, someone leaked it, genius. Do you know how much an interview with you after your first win in Croydon is worth?”
Right… I literally told them to talk to me after my first win.
My eyes narrow in amusement still. “Did you watch my game?”
“No,” she tosses her hair over her shoulder at me. “Now focus on getting in because I can not be seen with you, or filmed.”
Right.
“We gotta be smart,” I say.
She leans in, more curious than scared. “What’s the plan, strategist?”
We roll to a slow crawl.
I cut the music.
I pull the car forward a few more feet and ease us out of the flood of headlights.
We slip along the darker edge of the driveway, right against the wall of the building where the shadow cuts clean across the bonnet.
The main pack of reporters is camped tight near the official drop-off point, exactly where they’re supposed to be.
“They’re mainly camped by the drop-off,” I say. “If you go first, they won’t clock you. The entrance is recessed enough, so just keep your head down.”
She squints at me. “So I’m your distraction.”
“Yes.”
“Wow. No hesitation.”
I shrug. “You blend better, Jelly. I’m too pretty.”
She snorts under her breath.
I reach into the back seat, grab my balaclava, and hand it over.
She studies it for a second, like she’s about to say something smart, then just pulls it on. The knit hugs her cheeks and nose, resting under her eyes.
Only those pretty green eyes are visible now.
It shouldn’t be attractive.
It absolutely is.
“You sure you’re good?” I ask.
“Please.” She waves a hand. “Sneaking around is my specialty.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Yes.”
She cracks the door open a touch. Cold air sweeps in, carrying city noise and camera shutters.
“Once I’m inside, then what?” she asks.
“Head for the lifts, then text me when you’re clear. I’ll walk through after.”
She nods, fingers tightening briefly on the handle.
Then she pauses then looks back at me.
Her voice drops. “You owe me for this, you know.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, I plan to pay up.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t trust me not to mean that exactly the way it sounds, but there’s a smile there, hidden under the knit.
Then she slips out of the car and disappears into the space between streetlight and shadow, moving fast and neat toward the recessed entrance with her head down and shoulders tucked, like she’s done this her whole life.
The flashes keep going. None of them follow her. The reporters don’t even glance her way.
To them, she’s just another guest.
I watch carefully as she slips through the doors easily.
A minute later, my phone buzzes:
Jelly-bean:
Jelly-bean: Was that supposed to be hard?
I bite back a laugh.
I pull around to the main entrance, where the pigeons-turned-vultures wait.
They spot me immediately.
“Jabari! Over here—look this way!”
“Thoughts on the game?”
“How’s training so far?”
I keep walking.
Hood up.
Head down.
Face blank.
No comments.
Inside, it hits me how much I hate this part. Not the attention, that’s whatever. It’s the feeling of being tracked. Plotted. Followed.
Somebody leaked that I was staying here.
I’m calling my agent in the morning.
No— tonight.
He’s going to find out who opened their mouth, and then he’s going to close it for good.
The lobby is warm and too bright. I step inside, exhaling.
Frankie stands near the lifts with the balaclava now tucked in her hoodie pocket, pretending to scroll her phone.
Her eyes flick up, meeting mine.
I walk toward her.
“Smooth,” I murmur.
“You doubted me?”
“Likkle bit.”
We step into the lift, and I press the button for my floor. Doors slide shut, sealing us away from the noise.
She exhales, shoulders finally dropping. “That was… kinda fun.”
I lean against the rail, watching her. “Could be the adrenaline.”
“True.”
The lift hums upward. She looks everywhere but at me.
And I look only at her.
Before I forget, I pull my phone from my pocket.
“Hold up,” I say, more to myself than to her. “Let me call my agent before this pisses me off more than it already has.”
I scroll, tap, lift the phone to my ear.
He answers on the second ring, chipper.
“Titan! Hell of a game—”
“Yeah,” I cut in, voice flat. “Save it.”
Silence.
Good.
“Who leaked the hotel?” I ask. “Because there were cameras waiting before I even turned onto the street.”
He launches straight into excuses:
“The press always guesses!”
“Public records?”
“Fan forums?”
“It happens.”
I let him talk for maybe a minute, then I snap.
“No. Don’t play dumb. This isn’t some kid outside with an iPhone. That was organized. Somebody told someone. I don’t give a fuck if they were on our side or not. Find them and get the fuck rid of them. Get me?”
He tries to reassure me.
“It could be a PR spin.”
“We’ll manage.”
“Good exposure.”
The same rubbish they always say when they’re not the ones being followed everywhere they breathe.
“I don’t want exposure,” I say. “I want privacy. That’s your job. If I see reporters outside again, we’re gonna have a real problem.”
He sighs. “I’ll look into it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Do that.”
I hang up without waiting for a goodbye.
The lift hums quietly.
Frankie’s watching me now, head tilted.
Then she bites her lip and shakes her head.
“I almost wish that didn’t turn me on.”
She’s still got that loosened edge from the club. I wish I knew what changed in the last twenty-four hours to make her warm up to me so much.
“Yeah?” I tilt my head in return. “What are you gonna do about it?”
When the lift dings, she steps out first.
The hallway’s empty. Thank God.
I unlock my suite door and push it open.
“After you.”
She walks in like she’s not sure she’s allowed to be here.
It’s not even messy. No kit on the floor, or takeaway cartons, or boots by the door.
She stops in the middle of the living room and takes it in.
“This is where you’ve been hiding,” she says finally.
“Hiding?” I close the door behind us and the click of the lock sounds louder than it should.
She hears it too and her shoulders tense.
“Relax,” I say. “You can leave whenever you want.”
“Oh, I know.” She looks around again. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a lipstick.
I watch her in the reflection of the window as she twists it up and reapplies it before she presses her lips together, checking the corners with her thumb.
“This place is nice.”
“You sound shocked.”
“I am,” she says, capping the lipstick and setting it on my counter, “but not for the reason you think.”
“Okay…”
“I’m just shocked you actually left your mother’s house.”
I scoff. “Why is that? I left before.”
“That was different.”
“How so?”
“You didn’t have a choice before,” she says plainly. “Your parents shipped you out.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. “You don’t know anything about it, Frankie.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Then tell me about it.”
I look away for a second, jaw working.
“Fine, then,” she starts to walk out the door. “Keep your secrets.”
“I had a mouth on me,” I admit in a rush, making her pause. I exhale in defeat before continuing. “I was always arguing. Teachers. Coaches. My parents. Didn’t matter. If I thought someone was chatting shit, I’d let them know.”
She looks at me with brows lifted slightly like she’s not surprised.
“I got into fights,” I go on. “Nothing mad, but enough. Got sent home from school more times than Mum could defend me.”
“At fifteen?” she asks.
“Started before that,” I say. “I hated being told what to do. Hated being wrong. Hated people thinking they could talk to me any kinda way just because they were older.”
“So they sent you away to fix your attitude?”
“They sent me away before someone else did it for them,” I say bluntly.
The gears turn in her head visibly.
“I see,” she steps closer. “That must’ve pissed you off.”
“It did,” I say. “Until I realised something.”
“What?”
“That I could either fight everyone… or I could put all that energy somewhere useful.”
She leans against the counter now, actually listening. “I’m guessing you mean football.”
“Of course I mean football,” I say. “I stopped arguing and started tackling harder. Stopped running my mouth and started running past defenders. Every time I got angry, I’d stay after training and shoot until my legs shook.”
“And that worked?”
“Yeah,” I say simply. “Turns out, when you stop talking and start scoring, people listen another way.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she steps closer.
So close we’re basically chest to chest. Frankie’s tiny compared to me. When she’s in front of me, she’s right under my chest like eye-level with my shirt buttons, even in her heels.
It makes me feel massive.
It does something to my head that I don’t like examining too closely.
I keep trying to find her angle.
She’s not this ‘welcoming’ to me with Zaza around so I’m still tryna figure out why she’s so open to me right now.