Cocky

Chapter 30 Alone Together.

thirty

alone together.

Frankie.

I’m in the family section at the stadium, pressed between Mrs. McKingsley and my own mum, both of them dressed like they’re attending church instead of a football match.

Mrs. McKingsley has on gold bangles that clink every time she claps. My mum has brought red stripe in a flask like the stadium doesn’t sell drinks.

“You sure you warm enough?” my mum asks for the third time.

“I’m fine, Mummy.”

She narrows her eyes. “You always say that when you’re not.”

Mrs. McKingsley leans forward as the teams walk out.

“Look at him,” she says under her breath, pride woven into every syllable.

Jabari jogs onto the pitch with Amin and Sol flanking him. The three of them move like they know cameras are watching but don’t care.

He doesn’t look up at the stands immediately.

He waits until they’re lined up, until the anthem fades, until the noise dips just slightly—

Then his eyes scan and find me.

It’s subtle. A small lift of his chin. A corner-of-the-mouth shift. A look that says you good?

I nod once.

He nods back.

Then he’s all focused.

The crowd roars as the match begins.

Za’s dad is a few seats down, shouting instructions like Jabari can hear him through forty thousand people.

“Move wide! Wide!”

“Hello my friend,” Za’s mum hisses. “Let the coach coach.”

He ignores her.

I smile automatically at the familiarity of it.

Then it hits me.

Za isn’t here.

This is the first big match since everything blew up and she’s not sitting beside me analysing body language and critiquing referee calls.

I swallow.

The game is intense from the start. Amin commands midfield and Sol makes a run that leaves defenders spinning. Jabari drops back, collects, drives forward with that controlled arrogance he’s perfected.

The crowd chants his name.

It’s surreal how quickly we’ve become a thing. His fans zoom in on my reactions in the stands. They analyse my outfits. They make compilation videos of me biting my nails when he takes penalties.

I should feel powerful but I feel hollow.

He takes a shot and it clips the post.

The stadium groans in unison.

Mrs. McKingsley clutches her chest. “Jesus.”

My mum hums low. “He’ll correct it.”

I nod automatically but my mind drifts as it does so often these days.

What is Za doing right now?

Is she rehearsing?

Is she still angry?

Does she hate me?

The whistle blows for halftime.

I barely register the score.

My phone buzzes.

Notifications. Mentions. Tags.

I ignore them. This being known thing is new to me.

I lean back in my seat and stare at the pitch like it might answer something.

“Why yuh look so serious?” my mum asks quietly.

“I’m just watching,” I reply.

She studies me for a second longer than comfortable.

“You miss Za,” she says softly.

I don’t answer.

Because if I do, I’ll cry in front of half the McKingsley family and the camera crew that keeps panning over the VIP section.

The second half starts.

Jabari is electric now. Controlled aggression. Clean touches. He links with Sol seamlessly and they break through the defensive line.

He scores.

The stadium erupts.

Mrs. McKingsley stands so fast her bangles clash like cymbals.

My mum squeezes my arm hard.

I stand too.

Not because of the cameras. Because that’s my man down there and I feel the pride in my chest.

He points to the stands.

To me.

The crowd goes wild.

Somebody behind me yells, “That’s his girl!”

I smile automatically, then give him a thumbs down that makes him belly laugh.

Wait…

At the end of the row.

I see her.

She’s dressed simply. Jeans. Coat. Hair pulled back in a low natural bun stripped of her braids.

For a second, I think I imagined her.

But then she steps forward into clearer light.

Our eyes lock.

Everything else blurs. The cheering. The commentary. The people filming.

It all fades into background noise.

She looks different.

There’s a steadiness in her face I haven’t seen in weeks.

My heart pounds.

I stand there frozen while the crowd continues celebrating a goal I barely remember seeing.

Mrs. McKingsley notices her next.

“Ah!” she exclaims. “Chinaza!”

My mum turns.

Za nods politely to both of them.

Then her eyes come back to me.

No smile. No hostility.

The game continues but I’m not watching anymore. I’m watching her.

She sits three seats away.

Close enough to talk to.

Far enough to remind me what distance feels like.

For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. Then she leans slightly toward me.

“Nice goal,” she says, voice neutral.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. “Yeah.”

“You look… claimed,” she adds, glancing at my jacket with his number stitched on the sleeve.

“Yeah,” I reply softly.

She nods once.

On the pitch, Jabari steals the ball again and drives forward, and the stadium lifts with him.

Za watches him this time.

“He looks happier,” she says.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“And you? Are you happy?”

“I should be,” I say honestly.

She doesn’t press.

“I didn’t come to fight,” she says.

“I didn’t think you did.”

“I came because… I didn’t want my last memory of us before the tour to be that fight.”

My throat tightens.

“Before the tour?” I ask. “What tour, Za—”

She holds up a hand. “Not here.”

“Yes here,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Why is it always ‘not here’ with you? We’ve done ‘not here’ for weeks. We’ve done silence. We’ve done distance. I’m tired.”

Her jaw tightens instantly. “And you think I’m not?”

The stadium erupts as Jabari takes a shot, but it barely registers. It’s just me and her and everything we didn’t say.

“You’re going on tour?” I press. “You didn’t even tell me.”

“You lost the right to be the first person I tell, Francine,” she shoots back. “Besides, I gave you your stuff back. Didn’t that let you know I was leaving?”

“No!” I get closer to her, not caring who’s toes I stepped on. “I thought you were kicking me out!”

“Tuh, does that even sound like something I’d do Frankie?”

Mrs. McKingsley leans forward from the row behind us.

“Girls,” she warns, low but firm. “People are watching.”

“I don’t care,” I say at the same time Za says, “Let them.”

Za turns back to me. “Yes. I’m going on tour. Six months. Maybe more. Manchester. Birmingham. Dublin if it goes well.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I was,” she says, and then corrects herself. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You don’t know if you were going to tell me you’re leaving the country?”

“You’re not my keeper,” she snaps. “You forfeited that position.”

I swallow hard.

“You think I don’t know that?” I fire back. “You think I haven’t replayed that day a hundred times? You think I don’t wake up feeling like I detonated my own house?”

“You chose him,” she says, voice trembling despite how steady she’s trying to keep it.

“I didn’t choose him over you,” I say quickly. “I just… couldn’t choose at all.”

“Oh, come on, Francine. That is choosing and you know it,” she says through clenched teeth. “You were choosing every day you stayed with him.”

The crowd roars again as Sol makes a run. People are standing. Clapping. Shouting. It feels obscene that life is continuing around us like this isn’t a breaking point.

“I love him,” I say, and my voice cracks around it.

She flinches. It’s small, almost invisible, but I see it.

“I know,” she says quietly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Her mum leans in again, more desperate this time. “This is foolishness. You two are embarrassing yourselves.”

“You stay the fuck out of it!” Za and I say in unison.

We both freeze for half a second because the synchronization is muscle memory, years of it. That has Mrs. Mac clinching her pearls. People around us are starting to glance over.

I don’t care.

Za’s breathing is uneven now.

“You know what hurt the most?” she continues. “It wasn’t even that you slept with him. It wasn’t that you fell in love. It was that you let me find out like that!”

I blink rapidly. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”

“But you did,” she says. “You let me look stupid in my own house.”

“I was scared,” I admit. “I was scared if I told you, I’d lose you immediately.”

“And you thought lying was better?” she demands.

“I wasn’t lying,” I say weakly.

“You were hiding it,” she counters. “And hiding is lying with extra steps.”

That almost makes me laugh because it’s such a Za thing to say, but the moment is too raw.

“I hated you,” she says suddenly.

My chest caves in.

“I hated you for a minute,” she clarifies, voice breaking. “Because I kept thinking, ‘Out of everyone in the world, why him?’”

“I didn’t plan it,” I whisper.

She lets out a hollow breath. “That’s what you don’t get. It doesn’t matter if you planned it. It happened.”

Silence stretches between us for a second. Then she looks at me properly.

Not at my jacket with his number. Not at the cameras.

At me.

“You look tired,” she says.

“I am.”

“Are you happy?” she asks again.

I hesitate.

“Yes,” I say. “And no.”

She nods slowly. “Same.”

Another roar from the crowd. Another shift in the game.

“I don’t have it in me to beef with you anymore,” she says finally.

I blink. “What?”

“I’m tired too,” she repeats. “I don’t want to carry this around with me on tour.”

I swallow back the tears.

“Relax. I’m not saying we’re going to go skipping through the meadow,” she continues, almost dryly. “I’m not saying we’re back to normal. But I don’t hate you.”

The words feel like oxygen.

I let out a breath that shakes on the way out.

“I don’t hate you either,” I say, because it needs to be said even if it sounds ridiculous.

She gives me a small, crooked look. “You better not.”

I let out a weak laugh.

We don’t hug or cry.

We just sit side by side.

The game continues in front of us. Jabari makes another run. Amin commands the midfield. Sol scores again and the stadium explodes.

This time, when we stand, we stand together.

The final whistle blows announcing another win.

Another wave of celebration.