Chapter 23 #2
Carefully, I run drills. Sprints. Ball control. A few shots on goal. After a while, I jog over and toss her a ball.
She looks down at it, then back at me. “What am I meant to do with this?”
“Play,” I say. “Come on.”
She laughs. “I will embarrass myself trying to impress you.”
“So will I,” I reply. “That’s part of the fun.”
She hesitates for half a second, then steps onto the grass.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns.
“I’m not,” I lie.
The first few minutes are rough.
At one point, I pull off a clean bicycle kick. The ball sails into the goal. Frankie’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God.”
I turn, proud. “What?”
“I really like that death drop thing you just did.”
I stare at her. “Girl. What?”
“You know!” she insists. “When you kicked the ball with your legs in the air.”
I close my eyes. Take a breath. “Bicycle kick.”
Her face lights up. “Ouuu. Bicycle kick. I can see it now. How it could work in-game.”
I watch her talk, hands moving, already building worlds in her head. And I realise something.
She’s warming up to letting me in.
That thought sits heavy in my chest as she plants herself between the posts, hands on her hips, chin lifted like she’s daring me to try and take her in an actual match.
No way in hell.
“Don’t take it easy on me,” Frankie calls out. “I already know you’re annoying about winning.”
I grin, rolling the ball under my foot. “You sure? I am somewhat of a professional.”
“Please. Do you know where I’m from?”
“Tuh! This is not 100 meters,” I gribble closer. “Usian Bolt can’t save you here.”
“Kick the bloodclaat ball, McKingsley.”
I do. Hard.
She moves quicker than I expect, drops low and blocks it clean with her legs. The ball ricochets, but not far.
Nice.
She laughs triumphantly.
“That was good,” she says. “Try again.”
I line up another shot, and another and another. She gets real fucking fast.
Was she fucking with me before acting like she didn’t know how to play?
“I thought you said you were a professional?” she taunts.
Fuck it.
I change the angle this time. She anticipates it, shifts, throws herself sideways making the ball hit her square in the stomach. She makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh and immediately bends forward, hands braced on her knees.
“Fuck,” she mutters. Then, louder, “Ugh. I think you just knocked my period back on.”
I freeze. “I beg your pardon?”
She straightens slowly, pointing at me. “I’m serious.”
I jog over, concern cutting through the joke. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” she says, waving me off. “Just winded. And mildly offended. I didn’t take you for a cheap shot, big man.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You’re actually good, you know.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Now that I think of it, you always were.”
I see the shift in her face as the memory clicking into place.
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “We used to play like this when we were kids. You’d make me goalie even though I hated it.”
“’Cause you were good at it,” I reply. “And ’cause you got mad when I scored.”
She snorts. “You cheated.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” she insists. “You were a cheap shot then too. You always kicked it harder when you were losing.”
I grin. “Still do.”
She straightens before standing up. “I won that one though.”
“You did,” I admit. “Fair and square.”
She moves to pass the ball back to me, missteps slightly, and I reach out without thinking. My hand catches her arm. She stumbles anyway, momentum carrying us both down.
We hit the grass hard.
She laughs on impact, breath knocked out of her. I brace myself above her, palms in the turf on either side of her shoulders, my knee between hers.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Her chest rises and falls fast. Her eyes are bright and focused on my face.
Say it…
I’m hovering too close.
I know it. She knows it.
My heart starts to pound.
Just say it…
Her hand shifts, fingers brushing my wrist. I inhale to speak.
“Oi!”
Voices cut through the moment.
I jerk my head up. The team’s walking onto the pitch, boots crunching, and laughter carrying. A couple of them slow when they see us on the ground.
Frankie’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
I push up immediately, offering her a hand. She takes it, a bit too quickly, dusting grass off her leggings.
“Training’s about to begin,” one of the lads calls. “You two having a private match or what?”
Frankie clears her throat. “Research.”
I bite back a smile.
She steps away from me, back into her armour, but as she does, her fingers brush mine again.
And even with the noise, the people, and the interruption I know that moment didn’t disappear, it just got paused.
The pitch feels different now that everyone’s drifting in. Frankie hangs back at my side, arms folded, taking it all in like she’s assessing a level before she plays it.
“Alright,” I call out, clapping once. “Everyone, this is Frankie.”
A couple of heads turn properly now. They know exactly who she is from clips, posts, and me never shutting up about her work.
“Hi,” she says, lifting a hand.
“You his girl?” someone shouts.
“His sister’s—”
“Yes,” I cut her off. “Don’t even fucking look at her Wick.”
And the team laughs. She doesn’t correct me like she would with anyone else. She could tell there is a lowkey rapport with me and the team.
Sol’s the first one over and Amin follows behind.
He grins, wide and bright. “Nah, nah. This is mad. Titan never stops chatting ‘bout you.”
Frankie nudges me. “Really?”
“True statement,” Sol answers for me. “I’m Light, by the way.”
She tilts her head looking over the tattoos on his arm. “Light?”
“Yeah.”
She squints at him, then her face changes as she points to the tattoos. “Light… like Light Yagami? From Death Note?”
His jaw drops and he gasps. “Exactly like Light from Death Note.”
I rub my face. “Here we go.”
“Is it… safe to be around you?”
“Depends… are you safe to be around?”
They do this weird, inside joke thing I already don’t like.
Sol turns to me immediately. “Where have you been hiding this woman?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You’ve been gatekeeping,” he cuts in.
Frankie points at me. “I’ve been meaning to ease him in Death Note next. We’re taking it slow. One manga at a time.”
Sol snorts. “I knew it. Yo, tell her about the Captain Levi thing.”
I groan. “No.”
Sol laughs harder. “I called him Captain Levi the first time we met and he almost flipped.”
Frankie’s eyes light up. “You called him Captain Levi?”
“And he hated it.”
“I didn’t hate it,” I argue. “I just don’t like random men yelling random names at me.”
Frankie pats my arm. “You’ll survive. We might make a weeb of you yet.”
“He’s already halfway gone. You got him reading manga,” Sol adds.
She turns on me. “You told them?”
“You told me not to tell Za,” I say. “You didn’t say anything about the team.”
She shakes her head, smiling.
More of the lads drift closer now.
Curious and open but no weirdness.
Someone asks what she does even though they knew because I told them. Someone else says they watched her stream once and didn’t understand anything but liked the vibes. She laughs, explains without talking down to anyone. Then Sol brightens again. “Wait. You play games too?”
She squints. “That’s… literally my job.”
“Favourite Zelda?” he asks, serious.
She doesn’t hesitate. “Majora’s Mask.”
Sol makes a sound like he’s just witnessed something holy. “That’s it. We’re friends now.”
Excuse me?
I point at him. “Oi.”
He ignores me. “Tell me you didn’t cry at the ending.”
“I did,” she says. “And I’ll do it again.”
He clutches his chest. “Incredible.”
They’re already deep into it. Talking mechanics. Lore. Favourite dungeons. I stand there, listening, arms crossed.
Sol glances at me. “Aww. You jealous I have more in common with your girl than you do?”
I raise a brow. “Nope.”
“Liar.”
I step forward, hook a finger gently under Frankie’s chin, and pull her in.
I kiss her, just enough to make the point.
When I pull back, the pitch goes quiet for half a second. Then someone whistles.
Sol claps slowly. “Okay. Fair.”
Frankie looks up at me, eyes warm, surprised but entertained. “Feel better?”
“Much,” I confess.
She bumps her shoulder into my chest.
Sol shakes his head, grinning. “Mad. Absolutely mad.”
A couple of the lads laugh. Someone mutters something about me finally acting human. I ignore it, still looking down at her. And for the first time, standing there with my team and the woman I care about right beside me everything feels easy.
“Alright! That’s enough of the rom-com, The Notebook, nonsense.”
We all turn.
Coach O’Shea stands near the touchline with his clipboard tucked under one arm, cap pulled low, unimpressed as ever.
“Warm-ups. Now,” he barks. “Italy doesn’t care who you’re kissing. Get moving.”
Groans ripple through the group. Sol jogs off, still laughing. A few of the boys clap me on the back as they pass. Frankie steps away, already backing toward the sideline.
“Go,” she says. “Before he benches you.”
I smirk. “It might be worth it.”
“Uck! I don’t like this lover boy thing you have going on. I miss the old Jabari.”
“Liar.”
“McKingsley! On the pitch NOW!”
For a second, before we start, I catch her watching me the way I move. Then Coach blows the whistle, and everything shifts. Training ramps up fast after that.
Italy isn’t just another away game—it’s a charity showcase. Bigger scouts, bigger eyes, bigger consequences.
You can feel it in the sessions. And apparently my old team will be there…
The pace tightens. Touches have to be cleaner. Decisions quicker. Coach rides us harder, drills stretching longer, and recovery shorter. Less room for mistakes. Everything is about precision now. All about positioning, recovery, decision-making under pressure.
I’m locked in.
Every sprint means something and every strike is deliberate. I can’t coast. I can’t joke. I’m ready for the next level and I'm making sure anyone watching knows it.
My new agent won’t shut up about it. He keeps reminding me who’s flying in to watch. Serie A names.