Chapter 25
twenty-five
i choose you!
Frankie.
“Okay. The ad blockers are up. It should be fine now.”
Mrs. McKingsley squints at her phone, then she taps the screen once, twice, again but harder.
“Hm.” She tilts it toward me. “Why is the sound still low?”
“That’s not the ads,” I say gently, reaching over. “That’s just your volume.”
“Oh.” She laughs, unbothered. “Well. You’re clever with these things. Sit. Sit before the match finishes.”
I barely put my arse to the sofa before the living room erupts.
Amin steals the ball near midfield and Sol makes a run. Jabari breaks free down the right wing with so much pride and confidence.
My stomach tightens anyway. I sink down beside Za, knees tucked under me, hands clenched together without realizing it. Za nudges my leg with her foot.
“You alright?” she murmurs, eyes still on the match.
“Yeah,” I lie easily. “Just loud in here.”
She snorts. “They’ve been loud about football since primary school. Don’t start acting brand new.”
On screen, Jabari dribbles past a defender like it’s nothing. The commentator raises his voice.
“And there’s McKingsley again. Composed, dominant, dictating the pace—”
“That’s my son!” Mrs. McKingsley claps.
“That’s my brother!” Za beams.
That’s my—oop.
Let me shut the fuck up.
The camera cuts to a close-up of Jabari’s face. Sweat on his brow. Jaw set. Focused in a way I recognize too well. I think about him yesterday morning before he left:
“You’ll cheer for me right?” he asks as he presses a kiss into the tip of my nose.
“I don’t know, I’m a big fan of the other guys.”
“Uh-huh,” I cock an eyebrow. “And what’s their team name?”
“... the Other guys.”
He laughs once. “Right, And the other guys had you cumming all over—”
“Alright!” I cut him off. “Alright. Fine. I think… I can spare an inch of my breath to add to the already overwhelming size of your ego.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He picks up his duffle and slings it across his shoulder. “Frankie?”
“Whaatttt?” I groan.“What else do you want from me, Jabari?”
He pauses as he picks his words carefully.
“Nothing, I just— I— Thank you.” He didn’t say what for. “I’ll see you when I get back. Keep an eye on the place for me?”
I caress the key on my lanyard for reference. “No problem. Good luck, big man. Give ‘em hell.”
A whistle blows. Timeout.
My mum laughs. “The striker dere pon the floor more than the damn ball.”
On screen, Salvatore Moretti stands chest to chest with Jabari, shouting. Even through the TV, I can see Jabari smile. The one that means he’s about to be unbearable.
Za nudges me again, this time harder. “Look at him running his mouth.”
“I see it,” I say, too quickly.
The weird part of us all being friends is that I’m now included in on her family’s banter. No one walks on eggshells when it comes to me and Jabari anymore. It almost makes me think maybe they would be accepting… if we decide to say what’s going on between us.
Well, first I’d have to name what’s going on between us.
The match resumes.
Moretti scores.
The Italian crowd explodes.
My heart drops straight into my stomach.
Za curses under her breath, her dad slaps his knee and Mrs. McKingsley shakes her head displeased.
“That’s alright,” my mum says calmly. “Pressure makes men.”
I watch Jabari wipe his face, look down at his kit, then walk off. I swallow because I know that look on Jabari’s face and I know what it means when he leaves the pitch like that.
Mrs. McKingsley groans. “Why’s he coming off?”
“He hates being dirty.” Za and I answer in unison.
“That’s just ridiculous,” my mum mutters.
Za laughs. “He’s such a diva.”
He comes back a moment later and takes the ball the moment play resumes.
The final minutes blur together but towards the end, as Amin controls the midfield, Jabari passes the final shot to Sol and he scores.
Za gasps. “Did he just—”
“Yes,” her mum says confused. “He did.”
The whistle blows.
Game over.
Za screams and her dad pumps his fist while her mum claps like she’s at church. I sit frozen for half a second longer than everyone else. On screen, Jabari shakes hands, chest rising steadily, eyes already scanning the stands like he knows exactly who he’s looking for.
I don’t break my glance until my mum elbows me lightly.
“Breathe, child.”
My mum’s hand presses gently between my shoulder blades, grounding in the way only she knows how to do. I inhale. Exhale. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath.
The interviewer pops up on screen. Jabari stands there now with Sol and Amin, towel over his shoulders, sweat still clinging to his hairline.
He answers questions like he’s done it a hundred times before. He talks about teamwork. About Amin’s leadership. About Sol’s positioning. He doesn’t even take credit when he could.
But the interviewer threw a curve ball at him.
“Rumours are circulating about interest from bigger clubs. Care to comment?”
Za groans. “Here we go.”
Jabari smiles.
“I’m good where I’m at.”
Za scoffs. “Liar.”
He pulls Amin and Sol in close, arms around their shoulders.
“This,” Jabari says, tapping his chest once, “is the real big three.”
Damn. That was overly attractive. The interview wraps up. The camera follows Jabari as he walks off the pitch, surrounded by noise and attention.
“God. He’s so full of himself,” Za mutters.
I bite my lip.
Yeah. I want to be full of him too.
Za nudges my knee. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. Then slower, steadier. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She watches me for a moment longer than necessary, then turns back to the TV.
My phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
I don’t check it. I already know who it is. Not yet, big man.
The noise in the room swells again as my mum and Mr. McKingsley get into a quiet discussion about whether European leagues lack discipline compared to Caribbean and African players.
Za’s mum disappears toward the kitchen and comes back with snacks I couldn’t have.
My phone buzzes again. Fine!
I stand abruptly.
“I’m gonna—uh—use the bathroom,” I say.
Za barely looks at me. “Don’t take long. They’re about to show the post-match analysis.”
“Won’t,” I lie.
I slip down the hallway, heart already racing, and duck into the guest room instead of the bathroom. I close the door quietly and lean my back against it before pulling my phone out.
Missed call.
Another incoming call lights up the screen.
I answer immediately, bringing the phone to my ear as I step closer to the window, lowering my voice instinctively.
“Hey.”
The noise on his end is immediate.
“Francine,” His voice cuts through it all. “Did you see the game?”
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
A pause. I imagine him turning away from the chaos, finding a corner, a bench, somewhere quieter.
“What did you think?”
“It was good,” I say honestly. “Really good. Maybe you should let us watch you live next time.”
He laughs, breath still heavy, adrenaline still there. “Believe me, Jelly. I wish you were here right now more than ever.”
I press my forehead against the cool glass. “Why didn’t you invite me then?”
“I didn’t want to get distracted,” he says. Then softer, slower, “But something strange happened on that last play. It felt like you were watching me.”
I close my eyes.
“…You there?”
“You’re a really strange man,” I say quietly. “You know that, right?”
His laugh fades in and down as the background noise drops further.
“Congrats on the win,” I add. “But why aren’t you celebrating with your team?”
“’Cause I wanna see you,” he says, plain and direct. “I wanna be with you. I wanna celebrate with you.”
“Bari…”
“I can get a flight out in thirty minutes,” he continues. “But I wouldn’t reach you till, like, two in the morning.”
My heart stutters.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper. “You should be with your team. Your family’s literally in the other room with me.”
“I know,” he says. “Now answer my question.”
I straighten.
“If I come back,” he asks, “... will I see you?”
The house feels suddenly very far away.
“If I get on that flight,” he presses, “will you be waiting for me when I arrive?”
My throat tightens. I think about everything we’re not saying.
Everything we’re avoiding. Everything that will get complicated if this continues.
And then I think about him. About the way he looked at the crowd after that final whistle.
About the way my chest felt when he scanned the stands like he was searching for me through a screen.
“Yes,” I answer.
“I’m coming,” he says. “See you when I land.”
The call ends.
I stay where I am, phone still pressed to my ear, heart pounding, thoughts spiralling. I don’t know how long I stand there before my mum knocks lightly on the door.
“Frankie?” she calls. “Ya alright in there?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Just need a minute.”
She opens the door anyway, because she’s my mother and she never cares about boundaries.
“Why yuh lock up in here like a—”
Her eyes flick to my face then my phone. “Oh,” she says softly. “Is him.”
I don’t answer.
She steps inside, closing the door behind her, voice dropping. “You and that boy going to give me grey hair before my time.”
“Mum…”
She waves her hand. “I not saying nothing. Yet. But yuh looking like yuh deep in thought already.”
“I’m always thinking.”
She sighs, reaching out to straighten my collar like she’s done since I was a child. “Go wash ya face.”
I do.
Cold water definitely wakes me up but doesn’t clear my mind. I stare at my reflection, palms pressed to porcelain.
The bathroom door creaks open behind me.
Of course it does because my mum doesn’t ask for permission. She never has.
She leans against the doorframe, arms folded, watching me like she’s been watching me my whole life and waiting for me to say something stupid.
I turn off the tap slowly. “You don’t agree with what I’m doing, huh.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You agree?”
I open my mouth. “I— like him. A lot. More than I intended to.”
She nods once, like she expected that.