The Striker (Gods of the Game, #1)

by Ana Huang

To loving every version of yourself, even the ones you want to leave behind.

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.

Flashes of news headlines and TV snippets blared in my head. Traitor. Judas. Sellout. Was I worth the record 250-million-pound transfer, or was I the most expensive mistake in Premier League history?

My first season with Blackcastle—the one where everyone expected me to bring home a championship—was over, and we’d lost. My surroundings blurred into a muffled stream of noise and movement, and I barely felt the soreness of my muscles or a teammate’s consoling slap on my back. I barely felt anything at all.

Team dynamics had been fucked since I joined. Part of that was the natural consequence of incorporating a new member into a tight-knit club; a larger part boiled down to the fact that I, the league’s top scorer, and Vincent, the club’s star defender and captain, despised each other.

I’d had plenty of naysayers growing up—teachers who thought I’d never amount to anything, football fans who thought I was a flash in the pan, press who dug for dirt in every aspect of my life—and I couldn’t stand proving my critics right.

Coach’s disappointment was almost as unbearable as not winning the league. I’d idolized him growing up, and the opportunity to work with him had been a major factor behind me handing in my transfer request. This had not been how I’d envisioned ending our first season together.

Vincent’s mouth tightened. He couldn’t say what we all knew: he hadn’t passed the ball immediately because he hadn’t wanted me to score the winning goal. The press would’ve replayed that kick over and over, and I would’ve received all the glory that came with it. Vincent wouldn’t have been able to stand it. Selfish prick. I didn’t dwell on whether I would’ve done the same had I been in his place.

I didn’t want to be in any fucking hands except my own. I had nothing against ballet. Though I’d never cross-trained using its techniques, I knew players who had, and they sang its praises for improving their strength, flexibility, and footwork techniques. However, I’d already created my training plan. I didn’t need a stranger jumping in and telling me what to do.

“Your instructor will be Scarlett DuBois.” Coach offered a mirthless smile. “You’re welcome.” DuBois? As in… “Vincent’s sister?” I sputtered. “You’re joking. That’s a conflict of interest!” I’d never seen or met Vincent’s sister, though I’d heard him talk about her. The two were close, which was just my luck. I didn’t need the DuBois siblings conspiring against me together.

“When you return, you’d better convince me you’re goddamn capable of working together instead of against each other, or you’ll be riding the bench. I don’t give a shit if you’re the captain or the top scorer on the team. Understand?” “Yes, sir,” we muttered. Coach’s mind was made up. There was nothing we could do or say to get out of it, which meant I was stuck with the DuBois siblings for an entire fucking summer. My jaw tightened. 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.

Coach’s mind was made up. There was nothing we could do or say to get out of it, which meant I was stuck with the DuBois siblings for an entire fucking summer. My jaw tightened. 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.

famous last words 🤭

I hated lying to her, but it was better than saying I would rather stab myself in the leg than step foot in Westbury. There were too many memories there. Too many ghosts of what I’d loved and lost.

I’d lost a lot of “friends” after the accident, but I’d met Carina three years ago, when she joined RAB as Lavinia’s executive assistant. We’d bonded her first day over our mutual love for trashy reality TV and jigsaw puzzles, and we’d been best friends since.

I knew exactly what she meant when she said I was “familiar with football.” After all, my brother was the captain of Blackcastle. However, as much as I loved him and the club, I did not want to train him or his teammates. Most footballers were arrogant, insufferable, and selfish. I should know—I used to date one. Vincent was the only exception to my anti-footballer sentiments, and that was because he was family.

Asher Donovan. Of all the people in the world, the other player had to be him. He was most women’s celebrity crush, and he might’ve been mine too had it not been for my loyalty to Vincent, my strict No Footballers rule, and his questionable reputation.

for all his talent on the pitch, he was mired in controversy off it. The car crashes, the parties, the revolving door of women—all tabloid fodder that the public ate up like sweets at a children’s party. I’d never met the man, but if other players had a god complex, I could only imagine how massive his was.

She glanced up, and the expression that crossed her face would’ve been comical had it not been aimed at me. “You.” My eyebrows popped up. I was used to eliciting various reactions from the opposite sex, but horror typically wasn’t one of them.

I met a lot of beautiful women in my line of work, but there was something about this girl…even in a beer-stained shirt and jeans, she exuded an elegance that couldn’t be bought or learned. You had to be born with it.

I didn’t date. If I wanted to be the greatest footballer in the world, I couldn’t waste time or energy on a serious relationship. Many would argue I was already the greatest footballer, but I hadn’t won a World Cup yet, and until I did, I couldn’t assume that title. That being said, there was nothing wrong with a little flirting—or a lot of flirting, if it involved this mystery girl.

I stared, stunned, as she walked away. Her friend followed, half laughing and half sneaking peeks at me on her way to the exit. What the hell just happened? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been rejected. Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset about it; I was…intrigued. Jesus. The guy who could get any girl he wanted was fascinated by the one girl who wasn’t impressed. I was a walking cliché.

I wasn’t paying attention to him. I was too focused on the flash of dark hair and blue jeans as she disappeared through the door. I’d never seen Mystery Girl before, but for some reason, I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time we ran into each other.

I didn’t know why I was still thinking about her. We’d exchanged only a handful of words, and I didn’t know a single thing about her other than the fact she could pay for her own dry cleaning and that she didn’t like “handing out private information to strangers.” My mouth curved at the memory. 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.

I glanced up, and my reply died an instant death. No. It can’t be. She’d tied her hair up instead of leaving it down, and she wore a leotard, leg warmers over tights, and a wrap skirt instead of a shirt and jeans, but it was unmistakably her. The girl from the pub. She had the same midnight hair, the same red lips, the same piercing gray eyes that were currently boring a hole through my face. If it weren’t for the tangible heat of her stare, I would’ve thought I’d conjured her through the mere force of my thoughts.

Our hands brushed when she reached for the outstretched book, and a frisson of electricity shot up my arm. It was so sharp, so unexpected, that I almost dropped the paperback. What the hell?

The air crackled with sudden tension, and another electric spark streaked through me. The first had been bright and brief, like lightning in a cloudless sky. This one was slower, more potent, and the heat from it made me feel like I was running laps in Markovic Stadium instead of standing frozen in an air-conditioned dance studio. Mystery Girl swallowed, and even the steady hum of the AC wasn’t enough to drown out my roaring pulse.

The thrill of seeing Mystery Girl again faded into trepidation. How did she have such a strong effect on me when I barely knew her? Maybe our close proximity wasn’t a good thing after all. If I were smart, I’d stay away and focus on my goals: a league title with Blackcastle, followed by the Euro Cup and the World Cup. My inexplicable fascination with this girl did not factor anywhere into the equation. Flirting was one thing; losing focus was another.

Despite my misgivings about the girl and losing focus, a twinge of jealousy snaked through my gut at their easy banter. “Do you know each other?” I asked as casually as possible. She didn’t seem like the type who’d go for Vincent, but stranger things have happened. In hell. She opened her mouth, but Vincent beat her to it. “Of course.” He looked at me like I was stupid. “She’s my sister.”

I wish I could’ve snapped a photo of Asher’s face when Vincent announced I was his sister. If his jaw had dropped any lower, he’d have to reattach it. I shouldn’t have led him on by keeping my name to myself, but part of me had been amused at seeing the Asher Donovan flabbergasted by my refusal to fall at his feet like every other woman in the world.

Asher cut a glance in my direction, and an unsettling spark of electricity danced over my skin. Anti-footballer biases aside, the man was gorgeous. As in, gave-Nate-Reynolds-a-run-for-his-money, movie-star gorgeous. Thick dark hair flopped over his forehead, framing sculpted cheekbones and a sensual mouth. Unfairly long lashes fringed the greenest eyes I’d ever seen, and every inch of his body was chiseled to high-performance perfection.

the attraction wasn’t even really about his looks, though they were objectively flawless. It was the charisma, the utter ease with which he moved in the spotlight that made it impossible to look away. Asher was one of the most famous athletes in the world, yet he possessed the down-to-earth charm of the boy next door. Raw masculinity wrapped in cool confidence. The combination was so magnetic, even my antagonism toward footballers couldn’t dull it. If he weren’t my brother’s teammate and rival, I would be swooning big-time.

I rarely yelled, but between my unwanted reactions to Asher and the prospect of dealing with their bickering for an entire summer, I’d just about had it. “Is that clear?” I repeated. “Crystal.” Asher responded first, his earlier scowl melting into something akin to appreciation as he examined me. I almost preferred the scowl.

“I finally know your name.” “Did it live up to your expectations?” I quipped. “Half of it did. You look like a Scarlett.” His gaze briefly touched my mouth, and my skin warmed yet again.

“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.” Asher followed me into the hall, his long legs keeping easy pace with my brisk stride. “Besides, I have to be extra nice to you now that I know you’re Vincent’s sister. You’ve suffered enough.” My laugh finally broke free, and his answering smile soothed my sting of guilt over laughing at Vincent’s expense.

I truly wasn’t prepared for how charismatic Asher was in person. I’d glimpsed it at the pub last week, but the effect had been muted by the beer spill and our crowded surroundings. Being alone with him after seeing him in action during training and bearing the full weight of his attention when there was no one else around…that was a whole other matter. He commanded attention the way no one else did. It was dangerous.

“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.” Ugh. It should be illegal for any word to sound as delicious as darling did in Asher’s deep, silky voice.

“I’ll see you Wednesday for our next session,” I added, glancing back over my shoulder. His mouth tilted up like he knew exactly why I was rushing off. “Looking forward to it, Scarlett.” A breathless shiver slipped down my spine. If the way he said darling was illegal, the velvety intimacy with which he uttered my name was downright sinful. I didn’t look back, but the warmth of his gaze lingered long after we’d turned the corner.

Mystery Girl was Scarlett. Scarlett was Vincent’s sister. Vincent’s sister was our new trainer. I’d had two days to wrap my head around those mindfucks, and I still couldn’t pinpoint how I felt about them.

Scarlett was nothing like how I’d imagined Vincent’s sister would be. She was quieter, wittier, and pricklier in the most charming way. I’d shown up at RAB on Monday, prepared to tolerate her at best, and now I found out the girl I couldn’t stop thinking about was related to my biggest rival. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Scarlett was already in there setting up, but something kept me from entering right away. I’d told myself I would stay away from her before I found out who she was. Obviously, I didn’t have that option anymore. But you do have the option of not showing up extra early in order to spend more alone time with her, an annoying voice poi...

“You’re early.” She didn’t move from her spot near the barre, nor did I move from the doorway. “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.”

She blushed so easily. It was adorable, especially when it contradicted the words coming out of her mouth.

“Two new rules,” she said. “One, no flirting with me. Ever.” “Ah, we’re back to that again. Ever’s a long time.” I finally abandoned my post in the doorway and entered the studio. “Also, I wasn’t flirting. I was telling the truth.” “Two,” she continued, ignoring me. “Don’t call me darling.” “What about honeybun?” “No.” “Madame?” “No.” “Tinkerbell?” “Only if you want me to kick you in the tinkerbell between your legs.”

“Would you rather ride the tube with a bunch of wet, grumpy commuters or enjoy the passenger seat of a brand-new Mercedes?” “The tube. I’ve heard stories about the way you drive, and I want no part in it.” I should let it go. I shouldn’t even be talking to her outside training—no distractions and all that—but she had a way of making me forget reason.

“Thank you for helping me back there,” she said quietly. “You didn’t have to do that. They probably got a money shot of you pushing that guy.” “He deserved it.” My muscles coiled again at the memory of that asshole’s hands on her. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

It was weird. The topic of Vincent usually aggravated me, but I could listen to Scarlett talk all day and not get tired. Then again, it had less to do with the subject and more to do with her. She was so reserved that any glimpses into her personal life fascinated me.

My gaze traced the elegant curve of her profile, searching for something I couldn’t name. Water droplets clung to her lashes and coated the strands of hair slicked back into a dancer’s bun. The elegant slope of her nose gave way to a lush mouth and delicate chin, both of which firmed into a stubborn line.

“How, exactly, am I looking at you?” I asked, amused. “Like you…” Scarlett faltered, and the air suddenly condensed into something thicker, almost tangible. Her eyes didn’t quite meet mine, but the steady drip, drip, drip of water against the windows matched the spike in my pulse. “Like I what?” The question floated between us, soft enough not to disturb the tension coating the interior of the car. Her lips parted for a breath before she lifted her chin, her face hardening. “Like you’re flirting with me. That’s not allowed, remember?

“Do you have many of those?” “What?” “Rules.” “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.”

The tension didn’t dissipate in the resulting silence so much as rearrange itself, charging the air with a steady hum and making me hyperaware of her presence even when I wasn’t looking directly at her. The subtle shift of her leg. The dip of her chin. The shallow rise and fall of her chest.