Chapter 9 Fancy Meeting You Here
nine
fancy meeting you here.
Jabari.
The locker room is loud in that good way.
Cleats hit tile.
Lockers slam.
Someone’s got music blasting from a speaker that definitely isn’t allowed in here during games, bass rattling the benches. Sweat hangs heavy in the air, but is smothered in whatever industrial-strength cleaner the staff uses to pretend this place doesn’t smell like men after ninety minutes of war.
We won.
That’s the part that matters.
I drop onto the bench in front of my locker, peel my shirt over my head, and let it hang from my fingers for a second before tossing it aside. My chest’s still heaving, heart banging like it’s trying to escape my ribs.
Adrenaline hasn’t figured out the game’s over yet. Usually, we had press conferences after games, but thankfully Coach O’Shea decided to skip all that.
I didn’t need those pigeons in my space after my first game here anyway.
My first game.
Of course we won.
I have too much to lose and prove not to.
I won if we want to get technical.
But is it enough to get us out of relegation?
Coach claps his hands, voice cutting through the noise of the room.
“Alright, listen up. Good work today. That’s the tempo I want to see. Discipline. Communication. Hunger. We still have a lot to do so don’t get comfortable.”
The room settles just enough for him to pace, boots echoing against the floor as he points, corrects, rewinds the match in real time with his words. I like that even though we won, he still went over ways they could improve.
I tone it out as he goes over other players' faults, cause it has nothing to do with me.
Until he stops in front of me.
“Good first game, McKingsley,” he says. “But you missed that header in the second half. What’s going on?”
That’s it?
Why am I not surprised? I played a perfect game and the only criticism I got was missing a header on a goal I still scored? Well, the least I could do was give him an honest answer.
I lean back, stretching my neck and rolling my shoulders.
“Tuh,” I scoff. “And mess up my hair? I just got these braids, Coach.”
The room breaks.
Laughter bounces off the lockers. Someone whistles.
Solace’s voice calls out, “Man’s got priorities!”
I grin, wide and unapologetic.
What I like and what I didn’t expect, is that no one groans. No one rolls their eyes like I’m too much. They just shake their heads and let it be what it is.
They put up with me. And my so-called vanity.
Coach snorts. “Next time, I want the header and the hair intact.”
Fuck humility.
“Say less,” I say easily.
He moves on, still talking formations and fixtures, until he ultimately releases us, ending the talking points. I clock the way a couple of the lads slap my shoulder as they pass.
Approval.
I don’t need it, but it’s… nice.
Nicer than I thought it would be.
I reach for my towel, drag it over my face, breathing in deep.
“Yo, you rolling tonight?”
I don’t even need to look up to know it’s Sol, and I could bet my arse Amir is right there with him.
I’ve gotten close enough to Solace and Amir to know who I’d trust with my life, and who I’d trust to pass the damn ball. Together, we’ve been the unholy trio the rest of the team calls the imports.
I don’t know why, but I don’t really care.
“Rolling where?” I grab my water bottle and take a long sip.
“Festive Fridays at Prodigy Lounge,” he says, like it should mean something to me.
“And that is?”
“It’s the spot.”
I look up at him with a confused glare.
“Music, lights, people dancing till 4 in the morning,” he explains. “It’s like carnival but with better AC.”
Amir looks at his phone and shakes his head. “You two enjoy. Haram, bro.”
Solace groans. “Ain’t nobody asking you to sin, my guy, just to show face.”
“I don’t ‘show face’ where people are drinking and grinding. My mum raised me with sense.”
I laugh. “You sure you’re not just scared of the temptation?”
Amir smirks. “I’m scared of explaining to Allah why I was out watching you make bad decisions.”
“Fairs.”Sol turns to me, grin widening. “What about you, Titan? You in?”
“I don’t know, man.” I shrug. “Your useless arse dragged your feet with finding me a spot, so now I’m moving all my shit over to a hotel ‘til you get it together.”
“One,” Sol holds a finger up. “I don’t work for you.”
I scoff. “You’re on my team, of course you work for me.”
“Our team,” Amin corrects.
Sol ignores us both and continues his rant with another finger sticking up.
“Two. I got you in touch with my guy for the car. Don’t I get credit for that?”
Amon nods in agreement. “It’s a nice car, Jabari.”
“So nice! And so expensive!”
The way Solace exclaims has me thinking he paid for it. But I specifically remember the money leaving my account.
“And three,” he wraps up his verbal presentation. “I gave you options and you turned all of them down! I was convinced you didn’t really need a flat that badly. Mum’s house must not be as bad as you say it is.”
“I wouldn’t know.” I answer. I haven’t been home that much other than to sleep. Majority of my free time has been spent at Za’s driving a certain green-eyed woman to madness. It’s almost fun how easy it is for her to cuss me out.
But as entertaining as it is, messing around with Francine is a distraction. Getting woken up by my parents to do something like take out the trash is also a distraction. I need my own spot to focus. And with the tournament season coming up? I can not do distractions.
Especially if I wanna make it to the big three.
“Doesn’t matter anyway. I need to catch up on sleep.”
“Sleep?” Solace repeats, deadpan. “You’re in a city full of beautiful women who love footballers. Specifically, footballers who win, like we just did. And you’re talking about sleep?”
“Sleep’s important,” Amir says without looking up.
Solace ignores him. “Come on, Jabari. We’re going out. We got a whole season to worry about sleep and practice and bullshit. We deserve one last hurrah.”
When he puts it like that…
A drink sounds good. The sound of music, too.
“Fine,” I say, standing. “One drink.”
Solace grins. “That’s the spirit. But it won’t stop at one.”
He’s probably right.
“No it won’t.” Amin adds. “So I’ll pray for you both because the bullshit starts.”
Right again.
You see? They get me.
I might actually miss them when I leave this team for better. But this is a necessary evil. I can’t stay at entry level forever. Hopefully we would see each other again on the opposite sides of the pitch.
However, it won't be happening tonight so I’ll enjoy my last distraction.
I hop in my expensive car and head home after practice for the last time.
The McKingsley house is loud as always. Something frying in the kitchen, my mum’s gospel playlist going off, and my dad’s yelling football stats from the living room like the players can hear him through the TV.
“I’m home!” I call out, toeing my trainers off at the door. “I just came to pick up the rest of my things then I’m heading out.”
Mum appears from the kitchen in her robe, wooden spoon in hand, eyes squinting like I’m already in trouble. “And where are you going?”
I groan. “We talked about this. I’m staying at a hotel until I find my own spot.”
“Oh!” She acts shocked like this is the first she’s ever heard of this. “I didn’t realize this house was below your standards, King Charles.”
Here we go.
“Pardon us common folk, is the bed not to your liking? The roof must be leaking? No? Is the food I cook not good enough?”
This damn sarcasm is almost as mind numbing as Francine’s.
“Mum, please.” I massage my temple. “It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. I need my space. I shouldn’t be living with my parents at my big age. I bought this house for you and Dad to enjoy.”
She isn’t taking that explanation. Instead, she folds her hands and looks away.
“Mummy,” I stand closer and squeeze her forearms. “I promise, I’ll visit.”
That softens her a little.
“Don’t forget you have church in the morning.”
I groan. “Mum—”
“Don’t ‘Mum’ me. I’m serious, Jabari. No excuses.”
I raise both hands. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gives me a side-eye but lets it go. “And cut your hair. You look like a runaway.”
“Love you too,” I mutter, ducking past her and heading for my room.
As soon as the door closes, I exhale.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my Mum. But it’s hard to feel like a grown man when she’s still on me like this. So leaving is for the best.
I shower quick, throw on a black button-up and dark jeans.
Nothing fancy.
I grab the rest of my shit, say my goodbyes and head out.
I fucking hate having people close to me.
Not on the pitch.
I can handle the tackles and the press of an opponent trying to break me in half.
That part’s easy.
It’s the other closeness that grates.
The hands touching me without asking.
The way people think a good game buys them access to you.
If it wouldn’t get me arrested, I’d burn this section to the ground along with all the germs.
After I dumped my bags at the hotel, not even bother unpacking, I drove into central London to meet up with the team.
The club was already loud from the pavement. Bass thumping through concrete and a line curled around the corner I skipped with just my face.
Now I’m inside.
Bottles on ice.
Sectioned off.
Yet people still were surrounding me.
People were still coming and going nonstop. Mostly girls with cameras and guys with jerseys, all shoving phones in my face before anyone’s said hello.
“Titan, just one!”
“Smile, bruv!”
“Can you shout out my cousin?”
Thank God I brought the balaclava.
I pull it over my head, fabric soft against my jaw, hiding everything but my eyes.
It takes the edge off.
Makes me feel less like prey.
I lean closer to Sol, voice low so it doesn’t carry over the music.
“This is supposed to be a club outing,” I say flatly. “Not a fucking meet and greet.”
Sol laughs, already half-drunk, arm slung over the back of the booth. “Come on, man. It’s good to meet fans.”
“Fans don’t need to breathe on me.”