Game over.
Za screams and her dad pumps his fist while her mum claps like she’s at church. I sit frozen for half a second longer than everyone else. On screen, Jabari shakes hands, chest rising steadily, eyes already scanning the stands like he knows exactly who he’s looking for.
I don’t break my glance until my mum elbows me lightly.
“Breathe, child.”
My mum’s hand presses gently between my shoulder blades, grounding in the way only she knows how to do. I inhale. Exhale. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath.
The interviewer pops up on screen. Jabari stands there now with Sol and Amin, towel over his shoulders, sweat still clinging to his hairline.
He answers questions like he’s done it a hundred times before. He talks about teamwork. About Amin’s leadership. About Sol’s positioning. He doesn’t even take credit when he could.
But the interviewer threw a curve ball at him.
“Rumours are circulating about interest from bigger clubs. Care to comment?”
Za groans. “Here we go.”
Jabari smiles.
“I’m good where I’m at.”
Za scoffs. “Liar.”
He pulls Amin and Sol in close, arms around their shoulders.
“This,” Jabari says, tapping his chest once, “is the real big three.”
Damn. That was overly attractive.?The interview wraps up. The camera follows Jabari as he walks off the pitch, surrounded by noise and attention.
“God. He’s so full of himself,” Za mutters.
I bite my lip.
Yeah. I want to be full of him too.
Za nudges my knee. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. Then slower, steadier. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She watches me for a moment longer than necessary, then turns back to the TV.
My phone buzzes.
Once.
Twice.
I don’t check it. I already know who it is.Not yet, big man.
The noise in the room swells again as my mum and Mr. McKingsley get into a quiet discussion about whether European leagues lack discipline compared to Caribbean and African players.
Za’s mum disappears toward the kitchen and comes back with snacks I couldn’t have.
My phone buzzes again.Fine!
I stand abruptly.
