The Striker (Gods of the Game, #1)

by Ana Huang

“Applause”—Lady Gaga

“Who Do You Think You Are”—Spice Girls

“Into You”—Ariana Grande

“Let Me Down Slowly”—Alec Benjamin “Sweet Caroline”—Neil Diamond

I didn’t get performance anxiety, but there was nothing like seventy thousand people watching you get fucked that really put a guy on edge.

Moments like this meant I’d made it and proved my critics wrong—which I had, many times over. After all, I was Asher Fucking Donovan.

I didn’t know much about Scarlett DuBois, but given she was related to Vincent, I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to like her. At all.

I didn’t wish for much outside the realm of football, but I’d give up one of my cars to see her again. Maybe. Possibly. Definitely.

“However, I have to commend you on achieving something that I thought was impossible.” “What’s that?” “Making me like someone with the last name DuBois.” I rolled my eyes even as I fought an exasperated laugh. “You are an incorrigible flirt.” “Flirt? Yes. Incorrigible? That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Before you say anything else, this…” I gestured between us. “Ends now.” Amusement slid across his infuriatingly perfect face. “What’s this?” “The flirting. It’s unprofessional.” “I’m afraid flirting is part of my nature, darling.”

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

“I’m just that type of student.” “You mean a teacher’s pet?” “Darling, if you want to call me pet, I won’t stop you.”

“I’m a ballerina. I live by rules.” “That’s too bad.” The light finally turned green, and I broke eye contact to focus on the road. “You’d have more fun without them.”

“I have other things I could do,” he said. “I wouldn’t say they’re better.”

I was convinced we were the subjects of some universal conspiracy at this point. I just couldn’t prove it.

“It’s a horror movie,” she said. “I don’t watch horror.” “Too scared?” “As a matter of fact, yes. Horror movies give me nightmares, and unless you want me screaming the house down at three in the morning, I recommend we switch to literally any other genre.”

If her smile was a burglar, her laugh was a fucking thief because I was pretty sure she just stole a piece of my heart from right out under me.

“I think you’re capable of more than you give yourself credit for,” I said. “But at the end of the day, you have to ask yourself what you’d regret more—trying and failing, or not trying at all?”

“I can’t believe they used to date,” she said. “What a plot twist.” “Maybe it’s a sign.” “Of what?” “That we’re on dates with the wrong people.”

Look at Eldorra’s royal couple. They overcame a centuries-old law to be together.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. Sometimes, actions were enough.