The driveinto central London gets quieter the closer we get to the hotel.
The city slidespast in streaks of orange streetlights and wet asphalt, traffic lights blinking tiredly in the late hour. My hands stay loose on the wheel, but my jaw isn’t. Frankie’s phone screen lights her face every few seconds, then disappears again.
We turn the last corner, and the quiet breaks before we even stop.
I see the press before she does.
Cameras. Boom mics. Security jackets. A cluster of bodies standing just outside the awning, faces half-lit by the hotel floodlights.
Reporters crowd the front like the true pigeons they are.
Security ropes are up but useless; people lean over them anyway, calling my name, yelling questions, shouting “Titan!” like it’s my government.
They’re here for me.
Her head lifts. She sees them.
I feel her stiffen. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Yeah. We can’t be seen together.
Not entering a hotel together.
Not like this.
Not with Za.
“How the fuck did they know I was here?”
Frankie shrugs. “Obviously, someone leaked it, genius. Do you know how much an interview with you after your first win in Croydon is worth?”
Right… I literally told them to talk to me after my first win.
My eyes narrow in amusement still. “Did you watch my game?”
“No,” she tosses her hair over her shoulder at me. “Now focus on getting in because I can not be seen with you, or filmed.”
Right.
“We gotta be smart,” I say.
She leans in, more curious than scared. “What’s the plan, strategist?”
We roll to a slow crawl.
I cut the music.
I pull the car forward a few more feet and ease us out of the flood of headlights. We slip along the darker edge of the driveway, right against the wall of the building where the shadow cuts clean across the bonnet. The main pack of reporters is camped tight near the official drop-off point, exactly where they’re supposed to be.
“They’re mainly camped by the drop-off,” I say. “If you go first, they won’t clock you. The entrance is recessed enough, so just keep your head down.”
She squints at me. “So I’m your distraction.”
“Yes.”
“Wow. No hesitation.”
I shrug. “You blend better, Jelly. I’m too pretty.”
