“Alright! That’s enough of the rom-com,The Notebook,nonsense.”
We all turn.
Coach O’Shea stands near the touchline with his clipboard tucked under one arm, cap pulled low, unimpressed as ever.
“Warm-ups. Now,” he barks. “Italy doesn’t care who you’re kissing. Get moving.”
Groans ripple through the group. Sol jogs off, still laughing. A few of the boys clap me on the back as they pass. Frankie steps away, already backing toward the sideline.
“Go,” she says. “Before he benches you.”
I smirk. “It might be worth it.”
“Uck! I don’t like this lover boy thing you have going on. I miss the old Jabari.”
“Liar.”
“McKingsley! On the pitch NOW!”
For a second,before we start, I catch her watching me the way I move. Then Coach blows the whistle, and everything shifts. Training ramps up fast after that.
Italy isn’t just another away game—it’s a charity showcase. Bigger scouts, bigger eyes, bigger consequences.
You can feel it in the sessions.And apparently my old team will be there…
The pace tightens. Touches have to be cleaner. Decisions quicker. Coach rides us harder, drills stretching longer, and recovery shorter. Less room for mistakes. Everything is about precision now. All about positioning, recovery, decision-making under pressure.
I’m locked in.
Every sprint means something and every strike is deliberate. I can’t coast. I can’t joke. I’m ready for the next level and I'm making sure anyone watching knows it.
My new agent won’t shut up about it. He keeps reminding me who’s flying in to watch. Serie A names.
People who don’t come out unless there’s something worth seeing.
Everyone feels the pressure.
But.
When I glance over to the sideline and catch Frankie watching, it makes the pressure feel lighter.
I should’ve knownthey were up to something.
They wait until I’m distracted with lacing my boots, half-listening to Amin talk about stamina drills before it happens. Someone whistles and I turn to see Frankie walks by a few yards away, chin lifted, wearing Sol’s jersey.
The number hangs low on her thighs.
I stare at her.
She grins. “What?”
I walk straight up to her and grab the hem of the jersey.
“Take off this nonsense.”
She squeals as I tug it over her head, laughter and before the team can get another word out, I’ve got her wrist in my hand.
“Locker room,” I mutter. “Now.”
