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 knowthisclosely 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 nakedandbeen 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 herHallOfFameStreamschannel.
It asks for a login.
