Cocky

Chapter 6 Playing The Field

six

playing the field.

Jabari.

I walk in behind Coach O’Shea, and heads turn.

Happens everywhere I go. Six foot seven and built like I should be playing a different sport, so people notice. The gym smells like fresh sweat, not that old funk from secondary school gyms that never aired out.

Nah. People are actually working here.

He stops at the center of the room and claps his hands. “Alright, team. This is Jabari McKingsley. Striker. Transfer from Gombe.”

There’s the sound of boots squeaking and a few balls bouncing, then nothing.

Before I can reply, someone steps forward.

A bigger guy—though he’s not bigger than me—solid frame, steady gaze. He moves with a slow, grounded confidence of someone who doesn’t need to shout to command a room.

I like that.

Coach nods toward him. “This is Amin, team captain. If you need anything, he’s your guy.”

Amin offers his hand, it’s firm but not crushing mine. Respectful. “Welcome, bruv. We didn’t expect to get a new transfers this late in the season, especially dealing with this relegation but we’re glad to have you.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, gripping back, “I’m not here to sit pretty.”

“That so?” One of the guys mutters under his breath. I catch it.

“That’s exactly so,” I answer to let him know I heard.

He chuckles. “Well, sitting pretty is all you’re gonna do till we see what you got.”

I grin.

Coach gives him a look. “Dial it back, Moore. This isn’t a damn circus. McKingsley’s here because he earns his place. You’ll see soon enough.”

I appreciate that, though I don’t need defending.

He gestures for me to step up. “Say something, son.”

I nod, tucking my hands into my shorts. “Uh—yeah. Appreciate the welcome. Back home, I played for Coach K. Some of you might’ve heard of him.”

A few heads bob. Some smirks. The same Moore guy says, “We heard he runs a tight ship.”

“Tight?” I huff out a short laugh. “Man, Coach K would’ve made half of you cry by now.”

That gets a few laughs, even from Coach O’Shea. “We’re not too far off, son. We play disciplined ball here. Everyone runs the same drills. Nobody’s above the system.”

“Even me?” I tease, just enough to see what kind of reaction I’ll get.

O’Shea smirks. “Especially you.”

Yeah.

He’s different from Coach K’s old-school, military approach, but still sharp.

The rest of the team gathers closer, introducing themselves with names I already half forget. Too many handshakes, too many fake smiles. I’m polite, but detached. I didn’t come here to make friends.

The truth? I came here to get noticed.

Nigeria gave me the grit and determination. This place will give me exposure. And exposure’s the only thing standing between me and the kind of contract that changes lives.

The big three.

Coach claps once. “Alright. Enough standing around. Let’s start pre-activation then see what the kid’s got.”

From the first whistle, the pitch comes alive. Shouts, cleats tearing at turf, the sound of the ball cutting through the air.

I like it, but they’re not ready for me.

Coach splits us into sides, and I’m barely two touches in before I remind everyone why I’m here. The ball lands at my feet, and instinct takes over.

One touch to control, one to spin past the defender, third to slice through midfield. I fake right, drag left, and fire low past the keeper.

Back of the net.

Moore, the same loudmouth from earlier, jogs up beside me. “Alright, Titan. You got a little skill.”

I grin at my nickname. It all makes sense now. He’s a fan.

“A little? That’s modest of you.”

“Modest? You know that word?”

The next play, they tighten up. Now, they’re double-marking me, trying to shut down every angle. Cute. I pivot, chip the ball between two defenders, and it finds our winger perfectly in stride.

Another goal.

“Is this supposed to be a challenge?”

Instead of groans of irritation like my last team, they all laugh.

Huh.

Now they’re watching me differently. Not with curiosity but with respect. And maybe a bit of fear.

Coach O’Shea blows his whistle. “Good. Good movement. Keep the ball moving. And someone stay on McKingsley.”

It’s flattering.

But the truth is, I’m showing off. I want them to know exactly who just joined their team, ‘cause I didn’t come here to blend in. I came to save them from failing out of the league.

In Gombe, I was the top scorer, untouchable, the ‘Titan’.

Here? I’m starting from scratch.

These boys are sharper, quicker, trained on precision instead of flair. But flair’s all I’ve ever needed. Flair got me here.

Coach pauses the scrimmage again.

“McKingsley,” he calls out, “you’ve got control, but remember this ain’t street football. We play team ball here.”

I nod, sucking in air, wiping sweat from my neck. “Got it, Coach.”

Moore jogs past, shoulder-checking me lightly. “You sure this isn’t all luck, Africa?”

He’s quite a short thing.

Or maybe he’s of normal height? I don’t know, everyone under six feet looks the same to me.

I laugh, not breaking stride. “I could do it again if you want.”

He smirks. “How about you try to keep up, yeah?”

Huh?

“You have yet to score against me. What am I keeping up with exactly?”

And the weirdo just laughs in response.

Coach’s whistle snaps again. “You two done with your romance? Back to position!”

We line up again.

And when the whistle blows, I’m already moving.

By the time this round ends, my shirt’s soaked through, my lungs are burning, and I’m smiling. They’re good. Way better than the fuckers I played with before. But so am I. And so is any secondary student whose mum puts them on a pitch for extra credit. So that’s not really saying much.

Still, if this is the level it takes to get noticed by the bigger clubs, then I’m exactly where I need to be.

Swoosh.

The ball hits the net, but this time it isn’t me.

“Falling asleep there, McKingsley?” Moore winks.

I scoff. “Man gets a pity goal and doesn’t know how to act.”

Coach’s whistle cuts through the noise. “Alright, lads. Since you two can’t seem to stop trying to outdo each other—McKingsley, Solace—one-on-one. Let’s see who’s got the better legs.”

The whole team erupts with ooohs and wolf whistles.

Solace, who I guess is Moore, grins, stretching like he’s about to walk into a runway show. He’s quick and lean, wiry, while I’m taller by a lot and heavier by a good forty pounds.

This won’t be easy for him.

“First to score wins,” Coach says. “Keep it clean.”

“I hear you like it clean, Titan, prefer it even.”

I’m getting a headache.

“Why’re you still chatting bruv?”

The ball drops between us.

Solace makes the first move, darting right with lightning speed. I shadow him close, body low, reading every twitch of his calves. He’s fast, faster than I fucking expected, but I’ve got reach.

“I heard you say in an interview you were coming to save us Titan. That true?”

“Shut up and play.”

“Ouuu. Someone’s mad.”

He flicks the ball between my legs; I pivot fast enough to cut him off.

He laughs. “Not bad, Titan.”

“Shut up, I said.”

I push past him, shoulder in his chest, the ball glued to my foot as I sprint toward the goal. He catches up, sliding in from behind, and for a second, my boot catches mud. I slip, recover, and fire it bottom right.

Goal.

The whistle blows. The field goes wild.

I’m breathing hard, sweat dripping, shorts smeared with dirt.

In frustration, I quickly start wiping off my kit.

Solace drops to his knees, laughing his arse off. “Holy shit! The rumors are true. You really do hate getting dirty! Oh man. They call you the Titan, but they really should call you Captain Levi instead.”

I blink, frowning. “The fuck did you just say to me? That some kind of inside joke?”

Amin jogs over, trying not to laugh. “Whoa, whoa, easy, McKingsley. Forgive Light here, he’s a little weird, but he’s harmless.”

Coach claps his hands once, breaking up the post-goal chaos. “Good run, both of you. That’s the kind of energy I want all season. Now back to drills.”

The guys scatter, still chatting shit and laughing.

Solace gives me a salute, smirking like he didn’t just lose. I’m half-tempted to wipe the smirk off his face.

I pair up with Amin to do drills so we can talk some more. He’s tall, maybe my height, with a calm energy that makes the rest of the team listen when he talks.

“Not bad, McKingsley,” he says, offering a fist bump. I tap it.

“Could’ve done better,” I mutter.

He chuckles.

“That’s what they all say after their first win.” Then his tone softens, assessing. “Not many players can keep up with Light, though. He’s fast, unpredictable. With you two on the same team, we’ll be unstoppable.”

“Guess we’ll see.”

Amin smirks. “Oh, we’ll see, alright. Coach has been praying for someone who can challenge him. Just don’t start any fights before your first game, yeah?”

“No promises.”

Practice rolls on with possession drills, sprints, and small-sided scrimmages. The tempo’s higher than what I’m used to. It’s not like back in Gombe, where I could coast and still dominate. Here, I’ve got to grind for every touch.

By the time Coach calls it, my shirt’s drenched, thighs burning, lungs tight, but the adrenaline feels good.

In the locker room, the noise is all banter and music. Someone’s blasting Stormzy through a speaker.

I strip off my muddy jersey and toss it into my bag, catching my reflection in the mirror.

Not bad for day one.

Solace—Light, as everyone calls him—is talking so damn loud, and Amin’s trying to keep order, but he’s on top of one of the benches, reenacting our match like we didn’t all just watch it happen.

“Man, you shoulda seen him, Cap! I had him right there—” He mimes dribbling, weaving, then clutching his chest dramatically. “And then this brick wall just comes outta nowhere and shoves me off my rhythm!”

I throw my towel at him. “You tripped over your own damn feet.”

He dodges it, grinning. “Lies! You body-checked me! This ain’t rugby, fam.”

“Play better next time, innit.” I mutter, untying my boots.

“You two done yet?” Amin asks. “It’s one practice. No need to get all worked up, yeah?”

Solace points right at me. “Tell that to your new prodigy, Captain! He’s acting like we’re in a World Cup final already.”

Amin looks at me with that calm, older-brother smirk. “That’s what I like to hear. We could use a little pressure around here.”

“Yeah,” Solace scoffs, “if we survive his ego.”

I glance up, deadpan. “If I had an ego, I wouldn’t still be in this room with you.”

The team howls. Solace’s mouth drops open, then he laughs and tosses a water bottle at me. “You hear that, Amin? Man thinks he’s too good for the rest of us!”

Amin chuckles. “He is too good. But I like that. Keeps you humble, Light.”

“Bruv, I’m already humble!” Solace throws his arms out. “I’m the humblest man alive. Ask anybody!”

One message from Zaza:

Big head lil’ sis: Here’s the address, Flat 3C. I’m still at rehearsals, but Frankie should be home.

I stare at the text for a second too long.

Frankie.

I wipe my face with a towel, grin to myself, and reply:

Me: I see. Just me and her then.

The three dots pop up right away.

Big head lil’ sis: Behave. Abegi.

I type back a halo emoji.

“Anybody got a toolbox?”

What the hell am I even doing?

I don’t help.

I don’t fix tables.

I don’t fix anything.

I hire people for that. I send a text to my agent, money leaves my account, and the problem disappears. That’s how life works.

And yet here I am, sitting in Solace’s surprisingly well-kept car with his borrowed toolbox in the passenger seat, listening to him explain how things work like I’m some toddler.

He gestures at the drill I’m holding as he drives. “So, this bit—no, this thing here—you just twist it—”

“I know how a drill works,” I mutter.

He side-eyes me. “Do you?”

“I have preconceived notions of how a drill functions. For instance, if I press the bit to your temple and squeeze the throttle while you’re driving, it’ll kill us both and helpfully take us out of our shared misery.”

He nods along, “Yeah, but then traffic’s gonna be backed up. I don’t wanna go out as an inconvenience to other people. I don’t wanna be an inconsiderate prick.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’ve been an inconsiderate prick most of my life, and I’ve never had any issues. If anything, it’s made my life easier because I’m getting a free ride and a toolbox after embarrassing you at practice.”

He laughs like I’m joking, though I am 100% not.

He is an interesting guy, though.

Loud.

Chaotic.

Talks like he’s narrating a vlog.

But he’s weirdly organized. Everything in this toolbox is labelled, and his car is clean.

I don’t know why, but I expected a mess. Not that I’m complaining.

I hate mess.

“You know,” he says, returning my attention to him, “I know someone who could help you out with getting a car sorted.”

I raise a brow. “Yeah? What makes you think I need your help?”

“Well, you’ve been looking around Olé Betsy for a while, so I figured you’d be interested in getting your own.”

My neck heats. The cheek to think he could have something I want is beyond laughable.

“I’m just surprised you can keep the fucking thing clean. With the way you play, I just assumed you were naturally sloppy.”

Solace bursts out laughing again. “Ha! There’s that arrogance I heard so much about.”

“Tuh.” I look out the window at my Croydon. When he jumped up and offered me a ride and his toolbox back in the lockers, I wasn’t thinking of what I’d be getting myself into.

Still, he wasn’t terrible to be around. Annoying, sure, but stomachable in small doses.

He taps the steering wheel. “On a serious note though, you were good today.”

I didn’t look his way.

“I know.”

“Bruv.” He nudges my shoulder. “Just take the fucking compliment, Titan.”

I roll my eyes but give him a grudging, “Thanks.”

Silence felt uncomfortable after that.

“The team’s decent,” I added.

“And me?” he asks.

“You’re part of the team, aren’t you?”

He laughs again. “Haha! I’ll take that. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

“Do not get used to it. Niceties are rarely passed out by me. Between fixing my sister’s table and this conversation, I’m spent.”

“Hmph! Noted.”