Cocky

Chapter 15 #2

Sol spots it at the same time and darts into space, dragging a defender with him. The back line hesitates, unsure who to track, and that half-second is all Amin needs.

He sends a laser of a pass straight through the middle.

I take it in stride, chesting it down, the ball dropping perfectly in front of me. One defender lunges.

I skip past him.

Another tries to clip my heel.

Misses.

The keeper comes out fast, trying to make himself big.

I don’t even slow down. I slot it past him, clean and low, and watch it roll into the net like it was always meant to be there.

Four–one.

The final whistle cuts through the air.

For half a second, nobody moves. Then the stadium erupts.

Sound slams into me from every direction—cheers, shouting, the deep rumble of thousands of people on their feet. The scoreboard flashes the final score in blinding white, and it takes my brain a moment to catch up to what my body already knows.

We won.

Not just scraped by.

We dominated.

Amin barrels into me first, wrapping me in a headlock that nearly takes my head clean off.

“You madman!” he yells. “Did you see that last run? You killed them!”

I’m laughing before I even realize it, adrenaline buzzing through every inch of me. Sweat drips down my temples, my chest heaving, legs still twitching like I could sprint another mile if someone told me to.

Solace jogs over with the rest of the team, crashes into us, hands slapping backs, shouts overlapping, someone screaming about drinks later.

We walk toward the sideline together to shake hands with the other team, the roar of the crowd following us. Fans lean over the railings, waving shirts, holding up phones, shouting my name.

“TITAN!”

I lift a hand, half-wave, half-salute. The balaclava isn’t allowed on the pitch, so they get my face instead.

“Good game,” we repeated and repeated and repeated to the devastated faces of the other team.

It just ain’t right. We already killed their spirits, now we have to lie to them?

After that humiliation ritual, we head into the tunnel, the stadium’s noise slowly muffling behind us. The air inside is cooler, quieter, but my blood is still on fire.

Winning always does this to me.

For a few seconds, everything else disappears. There’s just the high in my chest, the ache in my legs, the truth of it:

I did my job and I did it well.

Coach O’Shea pulls me aside near the tunnel, patting my shoulder, almost like my dad does.

“Hell of a game, McKingsley,” he says as he walks by. “That fourth goal? That was pure instinct. You’re reading the game better every week.”

My chest warms. “Appreciate it, Coach.”

Then my phone buzzes before I even hit the changing room. Daniel.

I swipe to answer.

“You seeing this?” he says immediately. “Social’s going mad. Clips are already everywhere.”

“Social?”

“Insta? Tiktok? We gotta get you on there. People love you!”

My mind wanders back to the conversation with Amin.

“Good,” I reply, dropping onto the bench. My legs feel like lead now that the adrenaline’s fading.

“I’m serious, Jabari. Scouts were in the stands. Proper ones. If you keep this up, you’ll be playing with bigger teams sooner than you think.”

That should make me smile. Instead, something tightens in my previous warmed chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. This Novis stint? A stroke of genius. It’s the perfect stepping stone. I know it’s hard cause you’re bigger than this, but hold on. Almost at the finish line.”

I glance around the locker room, eyes landing on Amin laughing as Sol flicks tape at someone.

“Mhm,” I say slowly.

He doesn’t miss the hesitation. “Don’t get sentimental. You’re here to be the top.”

Tuh. I know that.

“By the way,” he adds, “when’s the next game?”

“Tomorrow. Wales.”

There’s a small pause that means he’s already calculating something. “Good. Another chance to prove yourself.”

I roll my eyes, dragging a towel over my face.

“I already proved myself,” I mutter. “Now do your part. I gotta go do cool-downs.”

“I was serious about socials, Jabari. I can—”

“I’ll set it up,” I cut him off. “Now fuck off. I need a steam.”

The line goes dead.

For a second, I just sit there, phone in my hand, staring at nothing while his words linger in my head.

Top. Big leagues.

Always more.

Of course, I want bigger crowds.

Bigger stadiums.

Bigger everything.

That’s the dream. That’s the whole point of everything.

But I look around the room again and something settles in my chest.

Why does it have to mean leaving?

Why can’t I take this team to the top?

This is my team now after all.

We could become dangerous if given enough time. And with me here, we’re winning.

Maybe the big leagues can wait.

Maybe building something from the ground up is the better story.

Back at the hotel, the noise finally drops away.

No crowd. No teammates. No agent in my ear. Just carpeted hallways and the faint hum of air-con behind the walls. I feel… lonely.

I toss my kit bag onto the floor, kick off my trainers, and sink onto the edge of the bed, forearms resting on my knees. My body’s still buzzing from the match in muscle memory, adrenaline, and heat, but my mind’s already somewhere else.

I close my eyes for a second, and she’s there instantly. Like a memory. Or a haunting. I smell her perfume, I taste her flesh and she’s mine.

I drag a hand over my face.

This is stupid.

I should be thinking about Wales. About training tomorrow. About my team. About how I can try them into the big leagues. I should be staying sharp.

Instead, I’m wondering if she’s still mad at me. If she’s replaying our last conversation. Or regretting kicking me out. If she’s thinking about me the way I can’t stop thinking about her.

My phone buzzes on the bedside table. For half a second, my heart actually jumps thinking maybe it’s her.

I check and it’s not. Just some team group chat blowing up with memes and goal clips.

I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms spread wide, ignoring my mentions in the chat to pull up to any party. I’m not interested ‘cause my mind is elsewhere.

I don’t even know why she gets to me like this.

I don’t know why I find myself craving her company.

I used to love being alone. Back in Gombe, I barely went outside if it wasn’t football related.

I didn’t make friends. I didn’t care either.

I had a few relationships, some I really cared about, but it always seemed to come down to them or football and I chose.

Being in this career meant choosing.

But Frankie never asked me to choose. Frankie never asked me for anything.

I’ve dealt with reporters, fans, managers, women who always want something from me. I know how to handle people like that. But her?

She looks at me like she sees straight through the ‘Titan’ nonsense. She’s clocked every weak spot I don’t let anyone else near. And somehow that makes me want her more.

“You should try to get to know her.”

I grab my phone again, thumb hovering over her name.

I don’t text. I just stare at it, wondering if she’s doing the same thing on her end.

My thumb drifts away.

Instead, I do the next stupid thing that occurs to me:

I type her name into Google.

FRANCINE CAMPBELL.

The results come up fast.

Gaming articles, Archived forum posts.

A clip compilation titled “HallOfFame: Toxic or Iconic??” with a laughing emoji.

I click it.

A video loads of her on a livestream, headset on, hair tied up, eyes focused, voice clipped and irritated.

“CAN WE PLEASE LAND SOMEWHERE THAT ISN’T A DEATH TRAP?” she snaps at her teammates. I grin involuntarily.

Yeah. That’s her.

Another clip plays.

Then another video.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And there’s something strange about watching someone you know this closely without them knowing. The little habits you pick up on. The way she talks to the camera as if it’s a person. The dry jokes that don’t land as well because she doesn’t have someone to bounce off.

It feels too intimate, and this is coming from someone who’s seen her naked and been inside of her.

Multiple times.

Fuck, I miss her warmth.

Before I even realise it, it’s almost midnight, and I’ve speed-run (a word I only know because of her) my way through her entire channel.

Are there no more videos to watch?

I scroll and scroll until I find a link to her HallOfFameStreams channel.

It asks for a login.

Ugh! Fine.

I make an account using some random burner name because no way in hell I’m showing up as myself for her to block. Once I’m in, her live comes up. She did mention streaming at night now that I think about it.

She’s sitting cross-legged in her gaming chair, cute cat-eared headphones holding back her mane.

Tonight, she’s working on some mechanics for her game, but she promised a playthrough of ‘Alice: Madness Returns’, then maybe she’ll start ‘South of Midnight’.

I’m glad I caught this.

Her chat is moving nonstop and people love her.

I can see why.

She’s… everything.

Beautiful.

Magnetic.

Authentic.

Charming.

Energetic.

And most importantly, passionate.

Where was this energy when I was in her bed?

There’s a donation button at the bottom of the screen. ‘Help support the channel.’

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

I’m not even sure I belong in here, and if she even finds out I’m watching her like this, she’d block me out of her life completely. I know her. She hates me getting too close.

But watching her in her element does it for me.

I click the button and type in ￡5000. Then, I set it to anonymous before hitting confirm.

A notification pops on her screen instantly.

ANONYMOUS DONATED ￡5000.

Her head jerks back. “What?”

She leans toward the screen, squinting. “One thousand? As in… real pounds? British pounds?!”

She sits back, hands on her head, laughing in disbelief.

“Oh my God! Anonymous, who are you?! Why you sending so much money?” She pauses. “Wait… is the queen watching my stream? Lizzie, is that you?”

I laugh—actually laugh—into my empty room.

I sent another ￡5000 with the words: SHE’S DEAD GENIUS.

Her chat goes wild. She shakes her head, smiling softer now, talking to the camera.

“Well… thank you, whoever you are. That’s mad generous.

Actually I wanna thank all of you honestly because…

getting nominated seven times in the Game Awards?

As a debut indie company? A Black woman-owned indie gaming company?

I swear I screamed for hours when the nominees dropped.

Y’all have me up against gaming companies that raised me!

I’m all the way gassed. Fuck! I want it all!

But, can you imagine what it would feel like to win Best Debut? ”

I immediately pull up the Game Awards page and search the nominations. She’s nominated for:

BEST NARRATIVE

BEST GAME DIRECTION

BEST ART DIRECTION

BEST SCORE AND MUSIC

BEST COMMUNITY SUPPORT

BEST SOUND DESIGN

BEST RPG

BEST DEBUT INDIE GAME

And I vote for her in all categories.

“Like seriously, when I created RudeGal Gaming with my friend I knew it would be amazing. The fact that it’s all happening now, while I’m neck deep in our new project? It’s an amazing feeling.”

What the hell… one more for the road.

ANONYMOUS DONATED ￡5000: I hope you win it all Frankie… Congrats.

“Anonymous, if you send any more money, I’ll feel entitled to flash you.”

Not in front of all these people, you ain’t.

“Well. I appreciate it all. Thank you guys so much. Seriously. I hope I make you proud.”

I watch her for a little longer, until she’s done with rendering backgrounds and starts loading up Alice. She talks about the donations nonstop, and I’m tempted to send more to see her smile. Until I start feeling guilty for how much I like this. But this is what was missing from our last meetup.

This is what has been missing with us on a whole.

Interest.

I need to get her interested in me like she is for her streams.

Whatever it takes.