“Of course.”
She steps back fully now, brush hanging forgotten in her hand.
“All from your watched list on Letterboxd” I add.
Her mouth drops open. “No.”
“And—”
She leans in. “There’s more?”
“I got the physical copies.”
Her face lights up in a way that should probably be illegal. “Don’t stop. I’m close.”
I laugh and pinch her side before I can stop myself. She squeaks, elbowing me lightly, giggling.
“Behave,” I warn.
“You like it,” she says then goes back to dotting my face, gentler now. “You know, I didn’t expect you to actually care about this stuff.”
“I care about what you care about,” I say, before thinking too hard about it. “Besides, I think I do need a hobby, outside of football. And I think it’s nice for us to have things in common, right?”
She stills again, looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether to acknowledge that or pretend she didn’t hear it. That’s been happening a lot lately.
Ever since the investment paperwork went through, we see each other constantly now.
Meetings that turn into lunches. Test runs that turn into late nights. Me sitting on her couch while she tweaks code. Her turning up at my place with takeaway because she knows I’ve got training in the morning and won’t cook. And not all of it ends in sex.
That’s the mad part.
Sometimes we just exist in the same space. Arguing about films. Sharing headphones. Watching her draw out ideas on a tablet while I pretend I understand half of what she’s going on about.
We’re close.
Za knows we hang out. Everyone does. Media’s clocked it too with me popping up at the studio, her showing up at matches with my family, the occasional blurry photo online with captions asking questions neither of us answer.
“It’s for the game!”We tell everyone.“We’d never cross that line.”
To the world, we’re friends. Collaborators even. A weird but interesting pairing. They don’t know the rest. They don’t know that line has been crossed hundred times over. And some days, I think that’s the only reason this works.
She clears her throat, finally breaking the moment. “Alright. Last few dots. Then you’re free.”
“Free?” I repeat. “From you?”
“From sitting still,” she says. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We got a lot more work to do.”
She steps closer again, refocused, fingers steady as she finishes the markings along my jaw and neck.
I stay quiet and let her work. She steps back from me, finally satisfied with her work, and wipes her hands on her jeans.
“Thank you, by the way,” Frankie says suddenly. “I never said it but a lot of my team were questioning my vision after I walked out on the awards. But now that you’ve signed up… they’ve got hope again.”
I turn slightly so I can see her properly.
“I get it,” I say. “People don’t understand what it feels like to be overlooked when you know you’re the best in that room. When you’ve done everything right and still get treated like an afterthought.” I pause, then add, “You were robbed. And I’m glad you walked out. I would’ve done the same shit.”
Her jaw tightens for a second, like she’s holding something back.
