one
push to start.
Jabari.
“And what’sthe point of paying you seven percent if you couldn’t get me the private fucking charter?” I yell into my phone.
I’m still half-slouchedin this cheap leather airport seat, phone pressed to my ear, eyes burning from polluted, recycled cabin air. The arrivals hall reeks of cinnamon pretzels, fried oil, and too many bodies crammed into one tight space. I’m gonna have to scrub myself raw for hours to get the smell off me.
Commercial flights are truly the ninth circle of hell.
“Jabari, it wasn’t in the budget—” my agent starts, voice tiny through the line.
“Not in the budget?” I cut him off, practically shouting. “I score thirty-five goals in a season. I put arses in seats. I’m the reason Croydon even called. And you’re telling me there’s not enough in their budget to get me on a fucking jet?”
Daniel tries again, meek and useless as always.
“It’s the middle of the season, the club’s handling expenses, you know they’re in relegation?—”
“Don’t care. You’re supposed to handle them. That’s why you take seven percent off everything I earn, innit?”
I rub my temples, pissed all over again.
Flying commercial makes me feel… small.
And I’m not, figuratively or literally.
Can you imagine what I had to endure, squeezing this 6’7, 122 kilos—about 270-pound—body into a business-class seat?
I couldn’t wait to get off that plane and call to let him have it.
My agent sighs. “I’ll talk to them again next time.”
“You’ll do more than talk. Next time, if I’m not on a charter, find another job. And there better not be a single photo of me leaving this airport or sitting on that plane online. I don’t want anyone thinking less of me.”
Click.
I hang up before he can respond, pocketing my phone before standing and dragging my carry-on—another insult, because I shouldn’t be carrying shit myself—toward baggage claim.
I don’t belong in crowds like this.
If even one fan recognizes me under this balaclava, I’m gonna strangle Daniel.
I made too much of a big deal about this move, and if people knew Novis had me flying commercial because of the relegation, they’d lose respect for me. Shit, even I’m losing respect for myself, putting up with this bullshit, and I don’t give a fuck if the seat was first class.
After my internal battle with self-worth while I collect my bags, I spot them, and I can breathe again.
They’re impossible to miss.
Mum’s standing on her tiptoes, waving like she’s trying to land planes herself, while Dad leans against the wall with his arms folded, face half-hidden by a baseball cap. He’s pretending not to be excited, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching up when his eyes find me.
And for a second, my irritation melts.
“Ah, ah! Who is this hiding away in a robber’s mask?” Mum jokes.
“My son has left the country as a delinquent and returned as a full member of G-Unit,” My father adds.
“Alright. Alright. Come off it,” I laugh as I greet them. Suddenly, I feel stupid in this hot disguise, especially if my parents recognize me immediately.
