The Striker (Gods of the Game, #1)

by Ana Huang

I was all for people making a living how they could, but I firmly believed paparazzi deserved a special place in hell next to the telemarketers and corrupt politicians.

Yet. Funny how one three-letter word contained a world of possibilities.

Because smart, funny, thoughtful men were my weakness,

Those were absolutely not butterflies winging through my chest. They were something far less appealing, like…flying cockroaches. Or angry wasps.

“Well, I hope his beer is always warm, his food is always cold, and he stubs his toe every time he gets out of bed for the rest of his trip,”

I burned everywhere he touched, my skin nothing more than a map of little fires that consumed whatever oxygen was left in my lungs.

There was only us, our cars, and the road—just the way I liked it.

I drove because it calmed me; I raced because it exhilarated me in a way no drug could touch. Racing made me feel in control. Alive.

No matter where we were or how many people surrounded us, she commanded my attention like a lighthouse in a storm. Bright. Beautiful. Unwavering.