Chapter 23
twenty-three
game on.
Jabari.
“Don’t move,” Frankie commands.
She stands between my knees, concentration written all over her face but I don’t care cause her tits are in my view. The tiny brush in her hand dips into a pot of white paint, then she lifts my chin with her fingers.
“I’m not movin’,” I lie, because my neck already aches and I absolutely want to move.
She dots my cheekbone. Then my temple. Then my jaw. Cold little taps I’m trying to focus on instead of how close she is, and how her thigh keeps brushing mine every time she leans in.
This is supposed to be work.
This does not feel like work.
“So,” I say, mostly to distract myself, “I been thinkin’.”
She doesn’t look up. “That’s usually where the nonsense starts.”
“Listen, yeah. Superman and Goku.” I pause until she sighs. “Both aliens. Came to earth as babies. Sent to destroy humanity and take over. Got taken in by loving families instead. Now they protect the planet.”
She finally looks at me. “I mean, sure...”
“So the mandem is cousins, right?”
“They are not.”
“They basically are.”
She presses her lips together, and goes back to dotting my face. “They’re from completely different universes, different species, different mythologies—”
“And they sound nice as fuck,” I interrupt. “Why would they even fight?”
“I mean, I don’t think they would.”
“So why’re you lot always puttin’ them against each other?”
“It’s just an internet thing,” she says. “The fans do it.”
“Sounds silly as fuck.”
She pulls back, glares at me. “Oh just shut the fuck up and let me finish marking you. You don’t get it.”
I grin. “No, no, explain. I’m intrigued.”
“You’re not intrigued. You’re just tryin’ to rile me up.”
“Maybe a bit,” I admit. “But it’s about time I did somethin’ to get under your skin. You live under mine.”
She pauses. “Fairs.”
I take that as a win.
She goes back to work as she explains, and I let myself look at her properly now.
She’s wearing one of my oversized tees she claims are for comfort. There’s paint on her fingers already.
“None of them are fuckin’ with Isagi though,” I say suddenly after she spent forever explaining it.
She freezes. “Wild statement.”
“Swear,” I say. “The way he scored that goal against U-20? Toughest shit I’ve seen in years.”
She blinks at me. “Says a lot about him if you’re complimenting another player. Fictional or not.” Then her eyes narrow. “Wait. You reached that arc already?”
“I mean,” I shrug, careful not to move my face too much, “it’s just drawings and text bubbles, bruv.”
“Ohhh,” she says slowly. “So you can read.”
I roll my eyes. “Not only did I read it. I started other series.”
She perks up immediately. “Oh?”
“And watched movies.”
“Completed?”
“Of course.”
She steps back fully now, brush hanging forgotten in her hand.
“All from your watched list on Letterboxd” I add.
Her mouth drops open. “No.”
“And—”
She leans in. “There’s more?”
“I got the physical copies.”
Her face lights up in a way that should probably be illegal. “Don’t stop. I’m close.”
I laugh and pinch her side before I can stop myself. She squeaks, elbowing me lightly, giggling.
“Behave,” I warn.
“You like it,” she says then goes back to dotting my face, gentler now. “You know, I didn’t expect you to actually care about this stuff.”
“I care about what you care about,” I say, before thinking too hard about it. “Besides, I think I do need a hobby, outside of football. And I think it’s nice for us to have things in common, right?”
She stills again, looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether to acknowledge that or pretend she didn’t hear it. That’s been happening a lot lately.
Ever since the investment paperwork went through, we see each other constantly now.
Meetings that turn into lunches. Test runs that turn into late nights. Me sitting on her couch while she tweaks code. Her turning up at my place with takeaway because she knows I’ve got training in the morning and won’t cook. And not all of it ends in sex.
That’s the mad part.
Sometimes we just exist in the same space. Arguing about films. Sharing headphones. Watching her draw out ideas on a tablet while I pretend I understand half of what she’s going on about.
We’re close.
Za knows we hang out. Everyone does. Media’s clocked it too with me popping up at the studio, her showing up at matches with my family, the occasional blurry photo online with captions asking questions neither of us answer.
“It’s for the game!” We tell everyone. “We’d never cross that line.”
To the world, we’re friends. Collaborators even. A weird but interesting pairing. They don’t know the rest. They don’t know that line has been crossed hundred times over. And some days, I think that’s the only reason this works.
She clears her throat, finally breaking the moment. “Alright. Last few dots. Then you’re free.”
“Free?” I repeat. “From you?”
“From sitting still,” she says. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We got a lot more work to do.”
She steps closer again, refocused, fingers steady as she finishes the markings along my jaw and neck.
I stay quiet and let her work. She steps back from me, finally satisfied with her work, and wipes her hands on her jeans.
“Thank you, by the way,” Frankie says suddenly. “I never said it but a lot of my team were questioning my vision after I walked out on the awards. But now that you’ve signed up… they’ve got hope again.”
I turn slightly so I can see her properly.
“I get it,” I say. “People don’t understand what it feels like to be overlooked when you know you’re the best in that room.
When you’ve done everything right and still get treated like an afterthought.
” I pause, then add, “You were robbed. And I’m glad you walked out. I would’ve done the same shit.”
Her jaw tightens for a second, like she’s holding something back.
“Everyone told me I should’ve handled it with more grace,” she mutters. “You don’t think I fucked things up for myself a bit?”
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “I think you showed people you know your worth. That scares them. Especially in industries that survive off of people accepting crumbs.”
That earns me a breathy, relieved laugh.
“God,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s wild hearing that from you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re… you, Jabari McKingsley,” she replies. “You win. A lot. I didn’t think you’d get it.”
I shrug. “Different field. Same bullshit.”
She nods slowly, absorbing that.
“Either way,” she says, straightening, slipping back into work mode, “thank you. For backing me when it would’ve been easier not to.”
She scans my face and studies the reference screen again, arms folded, then glances up at me like a thought has just finished baking.
“You know,” she says slowly, “maybe we could use some of your moves in the game.”
I raise a brow. “My moves?”
“Yeah,” she continues, warming up to it as she talks. “Like… actual football techniques. Special attacks. Skills. It could be really cool.”
A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it. “It is cool. I like it.”
She snorts. “You like everything that paints you in a positive light.”
“Of course,” I say easily. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling now, tapping her tablet pen against her lip. “Leon’s gonna kill me. Still. It makes sense. The game has a lot of strategy and timing. Football’s the same thing. There’s overlap.”
I nod. “Alright, I’m in. How you gonna pull it off though? A.I.?”
She makes a face like I just insulted her. “Fuck A.I.”
I blink. “Oh. My bad.”
“I mean really,” she starts her tangent.
“Why would I waste time marking you and putting all this effort in if I could’ve taken a picture of you from google, uploaded it into whatever rubbish these tech bros call the ‘future’, just for it to come out as a lifeless, soulless, dull, shadow of what it could’ve been if I had just taken the time to perfect it? ”
She looks at me like she expects an answer.
“Is… that a trick question?”
Her shoulders drop in exaggeration, “No, I just get offended at the idea. That’s all.
I’m a creative Jabari. I want my work to outlive me.
I want the player to feel all my efforts.
I want them to relate to my characters. I want them to feel represented and heard in a way only people would get.
It’s funny ‘cause when I talk to people about it, they think I have an unhealthy relationship with my work but I care so much. It’s mine. ”
“And you think A.I. takes away from that?”
“I think… The need to create is human. It’s something only we get. So yeah.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Well then. Sorry I asked. Mark away, I’m sure the poses you make will be good.”
“And I’m sure you think so,” She laughs, shaking her head. “But I need references first. Clean ones. From multiple angles.”
I tilt my head. “You could just… watch me practice.”
She pauses.
“…Watch you?”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “I train later anyway. Come by. See what translates. Might give you ideas you wouldn’t get from clips.”
She hesitates. I can see it on her face. That internal tug-of-war between interest and pride.
“I don’t wanna be in the way,” she says.
“You wouldn’t be,” I reply. “You’d be on the sidelines. Like a scout. Or a coach.”
“I get to boss you around?”
“You don’t need to,” I say. “But you do that already so that’s half the job.”
A smile. “Deal.”
The pitch is quiet when we arrive.
Late afternoon with just a few staff milling around. The smell of grass hits her first and she mentions it immediately.
“It smells… sweaty,” she says.
“That’s how you know today will be good,” I reply, tossing my bag down.
She stands off to the side as I warm up, arms folded. She’s not pretending to be interested, she actually is. I catch her tracking my footwork, my turns, the way I shift my weight.
Or she’s just checking me out. I like it.
I like that she notices.
I like that she’s here.
I could get used to it.