Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: The Exit Row

"I love away games."

"I hate away games." Sibisi pulls his suitcase out of the back of my Mercedes-AMG G 63, my newest purchase, before shrugging on his suit jacket.

"You hate them for the exact reason I love them so much." I lock the car and throw my keys in my bag, taking a deep breath as the dry Highveld air fills my lungs. End of August. The veld out past the fence is brown and flat, the sky is a hard empty blue, and there's dust lifting off the edge of the apron in a thin brown drift. I love the football season, and this week is the start of the football season on the road.

The G is parked in the shade of the executive terminal, in a bay at an airport where there was a time I couldn't have afforded the parking, never mind the car.

"Why, because you've got girls lined up waiting to see you in every city we fly to? Whereas the only woman I want to see is my wife, who is here in Joburg with my daughter and my newborn son."

"Exactly." I clap Sibisi on the shoulder as we head into the executive terminal here at Lanseria.

We show accreditation at the boom, a guard runs his finger down the manifest, and then they let us out across the apron on foot. "Yoh. Did we get a new plane?" I stop dead, my head tilting at the new bird sitting there in sky blue and white with our badge on the tail.

"Seems like it," Sibisi says absently, looking down at his phone.

"How's Naledi doing?" I ask about his wife, who I know he's WhatsApping right now. He's obsessed with her. He's never not messaging her.

"She's a machine, man." Sibisi's voice drips with pride. "TJ's only a week old and she's already got his schedule down."

No surprise there. Sibisi's wife, Naledi, is one of my closest friends and probably the most capable person I know. They're my only friends with kids, but their family of four has become my extended family. Their daughter calls me Uncle Zee, and I call their kids my niece and my nephew, whatever the blood says. Their father is my best friend and basically my brother at this stage.

Which wasn't always the case.

Thulani Sibisi was the person I hated most in the world growing up. We were both raised in Mpumalanga, playing for two different club sides in the same provincial youth league. He was the golden boy who got everything he ever wanted and it annoyed the shit out of me. His life was perfect. His family was perfect, and mine was anything but. He came up inside a proper set-up, with people around him who knew exactly where to send a boy who could play. Nobody was driving me to fixtures on a Saturday, and I was nobody's project.

Then he was taken into one academy and I was taken into another, and a childhood rivalry turned into years of it in the Diski Challenge, the reserve league where everybody's next first-team player gets made. I had family stuff going on at the time and I took every bit of it out on the pitch. Sibisi ended up on the receiving end of my problems when I went through him with a two-footed lunge over the ball in a derby and snapped his leg. It ended his season and, with it, his promotion to the first team that year.

Ironically enough, I sat out a stretch of my own not long after — dropped from the academy squad for a term over two matric subjects I was failing.

He hated me for it, and I hated myself for a whole lot of other reasons. Then I started going to therapy. Religiously. I worked on my shit, and by our last year in the reserves, Sibisi and I were best friends. We still played for different clubs, but we respected each other and we found common ground through our mental health. He dealt with anxiety and panic attacks. I dealt with so much bitter anger that it would bring on panic attacks all by itself, because it would swallow me whole and blind me to what was actually in front of me.

And as fate would have it, Thulani Sibisi and I ended up at the same club here in Johannesburg, playing for Alexandra Comets. This is the start of my seventh season here, and I couldn't imagine playing anywhere else.

Which is exactly why I need to get a new contract before the thirtieth of June, when this one runs out.

"Lucky, did we get a new plane?" I ask one of our team managers, walking a few metres ahead of us.

"We did," he calls over his shoulder. "The chairman signed it. Our own plane, our own crew, the whole season. Block hours with Highveld Air, out of here. Sharp sharp."

"New plane. New seats. New crew," I add, suggestively.

"We always had new crew," Sibisi chimes in. "And they all tried to sleep with you."

I shrug my shoulders, smug about it. He isn't wrong and I'm not ashamed. But I don't sleep with women who work for me. It gets messy, and I don't do messy.

"That's the other new thing," our team manager shouts back. "Same crew for the whole season. Same flight deck, same cabin crew. No more strangers coming on and off our aircraft asking for your autographs."

"Or asking to get into your pants." Sibisi shoots me a look.

"I didn't mind."

My phone goes in my suit pocket. Pulling it out, I find two new messages sitting in my Instagram DMs.

Nqobile: Saw the fixture list. You're in town tonight, I see. I'm free and you better be too!

Asanda: You're in my city tonight. I want to see you! I'll make it worth your while.

I go into my Notes app and find the note titled BLOEM, trying to remember which of them is which.

Apparently Nqobile was an unbelievable lay with a fantastic rack, and Asanda gave one hell of a blowjob.

It's going to be difficult to pick. Then there's the third option, which is to go out and widen my Bloem roster with some new recruits.

"We going out tonight?" I ask my best friend as we come up the airstairs.

"I'm having dinner with an old teammate from the academy. He's based in Bloem now."

"Ah, that's right. Well — after. Let's grab a drink."

"I'm having an early night."

"You always have an early night," I remind him. "All you want to do is sit in your hotel room and phone your wife. The only time you come out with me is when Naledi makes you."

"Eish, I've got a one-week-old son. I can promise you I'm not going out tonight. I need sleep."

"How's little TJ?" Lucky asks at the top of the steps.

"Cutest little thing." Sibisi pulls out his phone to show off the hundred pictures he's sent me this week. "Already ten times calmer than LJ ever was."

Stepping past the two of them, I walk into our new aircraft and it stops me for a second, because it is properly beautiful. Brand new. Custom carpet, custom seats, the badge stitched into every headrest.

Past the front half, where the technical team sit, I make my way to the exit row, where Sibisi and I have sat for years now, ever since he became skipper and I became vice. We run every part of this squad, including who sits where on the plane.

Senior players sit at the overwing exits, and the further down the pecking order you are, the further back you go, with the youngsters right at the last row.

"Also-fucking-lutely not," I say, finding our second-year defender, Elton Davids, sitting in my seat. "Get up."

"I was thinking," Davids begins, that silly grin taking over his whole face. "New plane, maybe new seats? Maybe you and Sibisi want to sit at the back with the youngsters this season?"

"Get up. I don't care that you're not a first-year any more. I'll still treat you like one."

His curls fall over his warm brown eyes, but I can still see them shining with amusement while he tests me. Little bastard.

He's a Cape Town boy. A mama's boy off the Flats who likes to see how far he can push me. But almost every time he opens his mouth I end up laughing. He is genuinely funny. I'll give him that.

"Davids. Out of our seats," Sibisi says from behind me.

"Aweh, I was only keeping it warm for you, my broe." He's up in a second, grabbing his JBL off the next seat, and heads to the back of the plane where he belongs.

"Why does he listen to you and not to me? I'm ten times more intimidating than you are."

"Maybe because you take him out with you every away trip and treat him like your little wingman, whereas I'm his captain and I keep the line clear."

Maybe if my closest friend would come out with me once, I wouldn't have to recruit a twenty-two-year-old as backup. I throw my bag into the overhead locker and take the window seat.

"Fuck no." Sibisi stands over me, staring down. "You had the window last season. You're in the aisle this year."

I look at the seat next to mine, then back up at him. "I get motion sickness."

Sibisi breaks into laughter. "No, you don't. Stop being a little bitch and move."

I move across unwillingly, each row on this thing only having two seats either side of the aisle. A couple of the other long-serving players take the row opposite ours.

I pull my phone out and read the two messages again, working out how I want the night to go. "Would you go for a brilliant lay, a mind-blowing blowjob, or take your chances with somebody new?"

Sibisi ignores me completely.

"All three?" I answer for him. "I might be able to swing that."

Another message comes through. This one's a group message from our agent, Given.

Given: Soccer Laduma sit-down before the match tomorrow. Play it up. Make us that money.

"Given messaged," I tell my captain. "Interview tomorrow before the game. Wants us to play up our little act."

"What's new?" Sibisi sighs. "Zee, you know you get the short end of it. Whenever you're ready to let people know you're not the dickhead they all think you are, you tell me and we stop."

This right here is why Sibisi is my best friend. He might be the only person, other than his family and my sister, who knows I'm not the villain the media makes me out to be. But the image has its perks — one of them being that women throw themselves at the self-proclaimed unlovable bad boy, and our opposite personas make us both an enormous amount of money.

"Nah, I'm still enjoying it," I tell him honestly. "I have to get that contract signed before the end of the season, so until then, we keep it going."

Ever since Sibisi came to Alex five years ago, the two of us have built a storyline that the supporters and the press swallow whole. We make an absolute fortune for the club, because the pair of us fill that stadium. The once-hated rivals turned best friends and teammates. Sibisi's been married to his varsity sweetheart for years and they have two kids. I have nights where two different women come to my penthouse. From the outside we could not be more different. He's the league's golden boy and I'm Jozi's troublemaker. He scores the goals; I score with the women.

People eat this up. We play it up for the cameras, but the truth is that I'm not the piece of shit people think I am. I care about a lot more than the women I take home from the ground. I'm also comfortable with who I am. I like having sex with beautiful women, so I'm not going to apologise for it. If that makes me a bad person, fine. I make a hell of a lot of money out of being the bad guy.

While I'm scrolling, I catch a figure in my peripheral vision, but I don't look up to see who's standing over me. From what I can see of her, the curvy frame belongs to a woman, and the only women on board are crew.

"Are you—" she begins.

"Yes, I'm Zondi," I cut her off, keeping my eyes on my phone screen. "And yes, that's Thulani Sibisi," I add, exhausted. "Sorry, no autographs."

This happens on nearly every flight. New crew get starstruck meeting professional footballers. It's mildly irritating, but it comes with the job when you're recognised as much as the two of us are.

"Good for you. And I don't want your autograph." There is not one gram of interest in her tone. "What I was going to ask is whether you're ready for me to give you your exit row briefing."

I finally look up at her. Her eyes are pale honey-brown, ringed darker at the edge, and they're pointed straight at me. Her hair is a mass of loose chestnut curls that clearly refuse to be told anything. Her skin is a warm caramel with soft freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones, and her expression could not be less impressed with me.

Not that I give a fuck.

My eyes travel down her. That charcoal uniform is straining across every single curve she's got.

"You do realise you're in the exit row, right, Mr Zondi?" she asks, like I'm an idiot, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing.

Sibisi snickers next to me, neither of us ever having heard a woman speak to me with that much disdain.

My eyes go to slits. I don't back down, though I'm slightly shocked she just spoke to me like that.

"Yes, we're ready," Sibisi answers for me. "Go for it."

She gives her spiel and I zone out. I've heard it more times than I can count. It's some legal thing they have to say before every flight.

I scroll while she talks, my Instagram feed full of models and actresses, half of whom I've dated. Well — dated is probably the wrong word.

Sibisi elbows me. "Zee."

"What?" I reply absently.

"She asked you a question, mfowethu."

I look up. The crew member is staring down at me, her whole face full of irritation, her eyes drifting to my phone screen, where a half-naked woman is on full display.

"In the event of an emergency, are you willing and able to assist the crew?" she repeats.

"Yes. I'll take a sparkling water, by the way. Extra lime." My attention goes back to my phone.

"There's a cooler box in the back galley. You can help yourself."

My eyes shoot back up. What is with this one? I find her name badge — gold half-wings, and beside them an engraved bar reading VUYI.

"Well, Vuyi, I'd really like it if you brought it to me."

"Well, Big Z, I'd have really liked it if you'd paid attention during my safety demo instead of assuming I wanted your autograph like some groupie." She pats me on the shoulder, condescending as anything. "Which I don't. And I'm not."

"You sure about that, sweetheart?" A smug smile takes over my face as I lean forward, closer to her. "There's people who'd pay good money for that."

"Gross." Her face folds up in disgust. "Thanks for listening," she says to Sibisi, before heading off towards the back of the plane.

I can't help turning around to watch her go, genuinely shocked. Her hips sway, taking up more room than any crew member I've seen on board, but that little pencil skirt still nips in at her waist.

"So, Vuyi is a complete brat."

"No, you're just a complete arsehole, and she called you on it," Sibisi laughs.

"And Vuyi?"

"Yeah, that's her name. It was on her badge."

"You've never known a crew member's name before." His tone is thick with accusation. "But clearly she couldn't care less about you, my friend."

"At least she's off the plane next flight."

"No, she's not," Sibisi reminds me. "Same crew the whole season. Remember what Lucky said?"

Right. That's right. We've never had the same women on board for a whole season.

"I like her already, purely because she doesn't like you. This is going to be fun to watch."

I turn again to look down the back of the plane just as Vuyi's eyes find mine, neither of us backing down, neither of us breaking it. Her eyes are probably the most interesting pair I've ever seen, and her body is perfectly full, with plenty to hold on to. Unfortunately, the pretty outside that I like is spoiled by the attitude I don't.

She might need reminding that she works for me, but I'll make sure she gets there. I'm petty like that. I'll remember that little interaction for as long as she's on my aircraft.