“You know!” she insists. “When you kicked the ball with your legs in the air.”
I close my eyes.Take a breath.“Bicycle kick.”
Her face lights up. “Ouuu.Bicycle kick.I can see it now. How it could work in-game.”
I watch her talk, hands moving, already building worlds in her head. And I realise something.
She’s warming up to letting me in.
That thought sits heavy in my chest as she plants herself between the posts, hands on her hips, chin lifted like she’s daring me to try and take her in an actual match.
No way in hell.
“Don’t take it easy on me,” Frankie calls out. “I already know you’re annoying about winning.”
I grin, rolling the ball under my foot. “You sure? I am somewhat of a professional.”
“Please. Do you know where I’m from?”
“Tuh! This is not 100 meters,” I gribble closer. “Usian Boltcan’t save you here.”
“Kick the bloodclaat ball, McKingsley.”
I do. Hard.
She moves quicker than I expect, drops low and blocks it clean with her legs. The ball ricochets, but not far.
Nice.
She laughs triumphantly.
“That was good,” she says. “Try again.”
I line up another shot, and another and another. She gets real fucking fast.
Was she fucking with me before acting like she didn’t know how to play?
“I thought you said you were a professional?” she taunts.
Fuck it.
I change the angle this time. She anticipates it, shifts, throws herself sideways making the ball hit her square in the stomach. She makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh and immediately bends forward, hands braced on her knees.
“Fuck,” she mutters. Then, louder, “Ugh. I think you just knocked my period back on.”
I freeze. “I beg your pardon?”
She straightens slowly, pointing at me. “I’m serious.”
I jog over, concern cutting through the joke. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” she says, waving me off. “Just winded. And mildly offended. I didn’t take you for a cheap shot, big man.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You’re actually good, you know.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Now that I think of it, you always were.”
