“I’m gonna—uh—use the bathroom,” I say.
Za barely looks at me. “Don’t take long. They’re about to show the post-match analysis.”
“Won’t,” I lie.
I slip down the hallway, heart already racing, and duck into the guest room instead of the bathroom. I close the door quietly and lean my back against it before pulling my phone out.
Missed call.
Another incoming call lights up the screen.
I answer immediately, bringing the phone to my ear as I step closer to the window, lowering my voice instinctively.
“Hey.”
The noise on his end is immediate.
“Francine,” His voice cuts through it all. “Did you see the game?”
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
A pause. I imagine him turning away from the chaos, finding a corner, a bench, somewhere quieter.
“What did you think?”
“It was good,” I say honestly. “Really good. Maybe you should let us watch you live next time.”
He laughs, breath still heavy, adrenaline still there. “Believe me, Jelly. I wish you were here right now more than ever.”
I press my forehead against the cool glass. “Why didn’t you invite me then?”
“I didn’t want to get distracted,” he says. Then softer, slower, “But something strange happened on that last play. It felt like you were watching me.”
I close my eyes.
“…You there?”
“You’re a really strange man,” I say quietly. “You know that, right?”
His laugh fades in and down as the background noise drops further.
“Congrats on the win,” I add. “But why aren’t you celebrating with your team?”
“’Cause I wanna see you,” he says, plain and direct. “I wanna be withyou. I wanna celebrate withyou.”
“Bari…”
“I can get a flight out in thirty minutes,” he continues. “But I wouldn’t reach you till, like, two in the morning.”
My heart stutters.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper. “You should be with your team. Your family’s literally in the other room with me.”
“I know,” he says. “Now answer my question.”
I straighten.
“If I come back,” he asks, “... will I see you?”
