Chapter 15
fifteen
make it happen, captain.
Jabari.
The best pussy I ever had in my entire life just came out of some damn Superman panties.
So damn good, I couldn’t stop thinking about it all through warm-ups a whole five days later. Which led to me getting tackled so hard my shoulders felt like they were dislocated.
Amin and Sol sit on the weight bench while I’m pacing the length of the training room, rubbing Aboniki balm on my sore shoulders.
Amin scrolls his phone.
“Bruv,” he says without looking up, “I found an article.”
“Like… a real one?” I ask, looking directly at Sol. “Not Reddit.”
Sol gasps. “Reddit is a trusted source for information!”
“Can both of you shut up?” Amin continues. “This one says Rastafarians have a strict thing about the mouth being sacred.”
Sol squints. “So oral sex is… forbidden?”
“Bruv. Very forbidden.” Amin nods hard. “It’s like… the forbiddenest fruit.”
“Like haram,” Sol tries. Amin and I stare at him, trying and failing to see how he ended up there.
I drag both hands down my face.
“I cannot believe I’m having this conversation.”
Amin suddenly straightens.
“But wait—important question. Can she receive it only? Or is the whole act—the giving, receiving—everything—considered defilement?”
Sol tilts his head. “Do Rastas even believe in sin? Is it sin ‘sin’? Or like… a violation of purity? I mean—what even is sin? Are we just following rules based on our own moral compass hoping we end up in the afterlife’s good graces?”
Amin looks impressed for once. “Deep.”
“I try,” Sol shrugs.
I stop pacing and glare at both of them. “It doesn’t fucking matter.”
They look up in confusion.
“She should’ve told me,” I snap. “Before I… ate it.”
Sol nods sympathetically. “Consent is important culturally, too. It’s like… cultural consent?”
“You lost me again,” Amin starts scrolling. When they asked me what was wrong with me after warm ups, I didn’t think it would spawn a whole investigation into my sex life. All I asked is what religion could possibly ban oral sex. How we ended up judging ‘cultural consent’ is beyond me.
“I just don’t want her to feel like I disrespected her…” I tried to explain.
“Okay, listen to this.” Amin cuts me off, “Some sects have clauses where a woman can receive but not give if it’s to maintain divine balance or whatever. So it’s like… technically okay as long as she doesn’t use her mouth?”
Sol nods. “Clause ting.”
They both look at me like they’ve solved world hunger.
I stare at them.
“Yeah. That doesn’t help me,” I say flatly. “At all.”
Amin shrugs. “Look, bro, maybe she put you in a loophole.”
“Loophole, huh?” I repeat. “So I sinned on her behalf.”
Amin snorts. “Did she stop you?”
“No,” I grumble.
“So maybe she’s calm with it,” Sol says, hands up. “Even if she doesn’t do it, she might not mind you doing it.”
I pause.
Breathe.
Then I rub the back of my neck.
“Did she seem upset after?” Sol asks.
“Yes.”
“What? You didn’t tell us that part!” Amin starts typing on his phone again.
“Maybe you’re just bad at it,” Sol adds with a shrug. “No wonder she kicked your arse out.”
The pain in my shoulders moves to my head.
“It ain’t even about the sex—” I gesture aggressively at nothing “—she’s —ugh! She’s so fucking hard to get a read on. One minute, she’s cool. Next, I fucked up majorly, and I don’t even know how! Like, who the hell kicks someone out immediately after sex?! What planet is she from?”
Sol pats my back. “Jamaica ain’t a planet, fam.”
I glare. “I truly hate you.”
“So, what are you gonna do about this girl, man?” Amin asks.
“I don’t know,” I relax. “I don’t know what I can do.”
“You should try to get to know her.”
I blink. “I am trying to get to know her.”
Amin gives me one of those slow, older-brother, disappointed-coach looks.
“Do you think I’m not trying? You think I don’t like her or something?” I ask, heat rising in my chest.
Amin doesn’t flinch. “Nah. I think you like her a lot.”
Oh.
I fold my arms and hush as he can go on.
“But,” Amin continues, “I also think you’re using her as an emotional crutch.”
My jaw tightens.
“Crotch?” Sol jumps in, grinning. “He said crotch—”
“CRUTCH, Solace,” Amin snaps. “Crutch.”
“How the hell am I using her as a crutch?”
Amin tucks his chin, thoughtful. “Because she doesn’t treat you like the rest of the world does. You’re adored by fans, family, friends, and even the team.”
I shrug. “Not my fault.”
“No one said it was,” Amin replies calmly. “What I’m saying is she’s not moved by all that. She sees you as… human. Regular. A man. Not Jabari, the Titan.”
Regular?
“And in what way am I using her?” I push.
Amin meets my eyes dead-on. “You think if you can get the woman who isn’t impressed by you to fall for you, then it means something about who you are. It’s like you tryna prove to yourself that you’re exceptional beyond the fame.”
My throat goes tight.
I have to look away.
Sol whistles low. “Damn. That one cut deep.”
Amin sits back. “I’m not saying you don’t genuinely like her. I’m saying… don’t make her your yardstick for self-worth. That’s not fair to her.”
Silence spreads between us.
Finally, I mutter, “I know enough about Francine to like her for other reasons.”
Amin raises one brow. “Do you?”
I swallow hard.
“Yes,” I lie.
“Like what? What do you know about her?”
Before I can make something up, Coach O’Shea’s voice cuts through the changing room.
“Alright, lads! On your feet!”
The room shifts instantly. Laughter dies. Conversations drop.
Boots scrape against the floor as everyone stands, pulling on jerseys, fixing shin guards and grabbing water bottles. Coach steps into the center, clipboard tucked under his arm.
“Same plan as always,” he says. “High press, fast breaks. We keep the tempo, we own the pitch. They don’t like pressure, so give it to them until they crack.”
A murmur of agreement rolls through the room.
He points at Amin. “Make it happen, Captain.”
Amin nods. “Always.”
Coach’s eyes slide to me. “McKingsley. Use your size. Use your speed. Don’t get comfortable.”
I grin. “Never do.”
“I don’t know what was going on with you at warm-ups, but you’d better shake it off.”
“I’m good. Swear down.” Francine is gonna have to sit in the back of my mind for a bit.
The tunnel is already filled with noise when we step out. Crowd roaring, lights blazing, the kind of atmosphere that makes your skin buzz.
Amin bumps my shoulder again as we line up. “Think about what I said.”
I ignore him.
I can’t think of Francine now.
I can’t…
Frankie…
I wonder what she’s doing.
The whistle shrieks, and everything snaps into focus.
Boots pound the turf.
The ball slides clean across the centre circle, and suddenly the noise of the crowd fades into a dull roar behind my ears.
All I hear is breath, studs, shouts.
The other team comes out aggressively.
They’re testing us, trying to see if we flinch.
We don’t.
Amin cuts out the first pass and fires it wide to Solace, who sprints down the wing. I’m already moving, cutting diagonally through their back line, dragging two defenders with me. Solace looks up, sees the gap, and whips it in.
I leap.
The header grazes just wide of the post.
The crowd groans in one long breath, but I barely register it. I’m already jogging back, palms up, telling Solace it was the right idea.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
We keep pressing.
Forcing mistakes. They start panicking by the tenth minute, misplacing simple passes, booting the ball clear just to breathe.
That’s when Amin makes it count. He threads a ridiculous through ball between two centre backs, splitting them clean, then passes it to me.
One touch to settle, second to bury it into the bottom corner.
One–nil.
The stadium explodes.
I jog over, grabbing him by the shoulders, shouting in his face even though neither of us can hear a word we’re saying.
I’m never impressed by anyone’s performance during games. But Amin continues to earn my respect. On and off pitch. Amin lifts both arms, soaking it in like he was born for this.
They don’t fold after that, but they wobble.
We feel it.
They push harder, commit more bodies forward, leaving space behind. That’s my favourite part of the game: when teams start getting desperate.
Around the half-hour mark, Solace sends a long diagonal ball my way. I bring it down on my chest, shrug off a defender, and cut inside. Another one steps up.
I don’t even think.
I drop my shoulder, slip between them, and crack the shot low. The keeper gets a hand to it, but not enough.
Two–nil.
The roar hits me in the chest like a wave. My teammates swarm me, slapping my head, my back, my arms.
“Titan!” someone yells. “That’s you!”
I’m grinning like an idiot as we reset.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Halftime comes and goes in a blur of sweat and shouting. Coach wants more. Always more.
Second half, they come out swinging. We soak up pressure for a while, Amin and the back line holding firm, me tracking back more than I’d like. They get a goal back off a messy corner, and for a minute, the stadium tightens.
Two–one.
I catch Amin’s eye across the pitch. We’re not losing this.
We answer almost immediately. A quick break, three passes, Solace down the wing again. I time my run perfectly this time, ghosting in behind their defence.
The cross is perfect.
I meet it clean.
Three–one.
That’s the dagger.
The rest of the match is just control and keeping the ball, slowing the tempo, letting the clock bleed. At least that’s what Coach wants.
But Amin, Sol, and I ain’t built like that.
I’m not content with that.
After all, Francine could be watching.
We exchange one look across the pitch, and that’s all it takes. Amin drops a shoulder, Sol drifts wider, and I start creeping forward like I’ve got somewhere better to be.
They think we’re settling.
We’re not.
Amin picks the ball up deep in midfield, shaking off a challenge like it’s nothing. Instead of recycling it back, he turns, head up, already scanning.
I make the run.