It’s subtle. A small lift of his chin. A corner-of-the-mouth shift. A look that saysyou good?
I nod once.
He nods back.
Then he’s all focused.
The crowd roars as the match begins.
Za’s dad is a few seats down, shouting instructions like Jabari can hear him through forty thousand people.
“Move wide! Wide!”
“Hello my friend,” Za’s mum hisses. “Let the coach coach.”
He ignores her.
I smile automatically at the familiarity of it.
Then it hits me.
Za isn’t here.
This is the first big match since everything blew up and she’s not sitting beside me analysing body language and critiquing referee calls.
I swallow.
The game is intense from the start. Amin commands midfield and Sol makes a run that leaves defenders spinning. Jabari drops back, collects, drives forward with that controlled arrogance he’s perfected.
The crowd chants his name.
It’s surreal how quickly we’ve become a thing. His fans zoom in on my reactions in the stands. They analyse my outfits. They make compilation videos of me biting my nails when he takes penalties.
I should feel powerful but I feel hollow.
He takes a shot and it clips the post.
The stadium groans in unison.
Mrs. McKingsley clutches her chest. “Jesus.”
My mum hums low. “He’ll correct it.”
I nod automatically but my mind drifts as it does so often these days.
What is Za doing right now?
Is she rehearsing?
Is she still angry?
Does she hate me?
The whistle blows for halftime.
I barely register the score.
My phone buzzes.
