The Striker (Gods of the Game, #1)

by Ana Huang

The twenty-minute drive to Scarlett’s flat seemed both far too long and far too short, and when she finally climbed out of the car with a murmured thanks, I couldn’t muster more than a nod. I waited until she made it safely inside before I drove away, but the scent of her lingered. Scarlett is off limits. Vincent’s warning echoed in my head. I was inclined to heed it—not because I was afraid of him, but because I was afraid of what getting close to Scarlett might do to me if I didn’t.

For someone whose mere presence put me on edge, he had a way of also easing my anxiety—namely by distracting me so much I didn’t have time to think about anything else. A twist of unease tightened inside me. I didn’t like my contradictory reactions to Asher. I preferred to sort my emotions into separate boxes—black and white, good and bad, alphabetized and color-coded. But when I looked at him, I was a muddled canvas of gray. I hated gray.

Asher Donovan is not on my romantic radar, and he never will be.” Attraction didn’t count as romance. That was an involuntary, hormonal thing. My body may not agree, but my brain was firmly on board and my heart was safely locked away.

“If the Boss okays my leave, which he basically has to, he’s not going to make Donovan stay with you. It would be stupid.” I hoped that was the case. Otherwise, it meant Asher and I would be forced into one-on-one lessons. Three times a week, every week for the remainder of the summer. An errant flutter disrupted my stomach. Disappointment or anticipation? I couldn’t tell, which was alarming.

“That means you’ll be working with Asher one-on-one.” Lavinia peered at me over the rim of her glasses. “Will that be a problem?” “I—no. Of course not.” Personal sessions with Asher. That was fine. Totally. Fine.

Asher leaned against the doorframe, the picture of effortless devastation in jeans and a gray shirt. Ugh. How was it possible for someone to look that good in such a basic outfit? I frowned, irrationally annoyed. God definitely had favorites, and Asher was one of them.

“You’re telling me the Asher Donovan has nothing better to do with his time than drop by a ballet academy?” A shadow flickered in those crystalline green eyes. “I have other things I could do,” he said. “I wouldn’t say they’re better.” Warm air breezed through the open windows and brushed the nape of my neck. It traveled the length of my spine all the way down to my toes, making my skin tingle from the inside out. Then Asher blinked, and the moment dissolved like honey in a sun-kissed ocean.

Asher didn’t move from his spot in the doorway. His response was cooler than I’d expected, which was a good thing. I was the one who’d established our no-flirting rule; I couldn’t get mad at him for following it.

he scanned me with the brisk thoroughness of someone who needed to confirm the other was all right without making a big production out of it. There was nothing remotely sexual about it, but my skin prickled with awareness anyway.

“Tell me how you got us here.” My studio was on the first floor, the infirmary was on the fourth, and the lift was currently under maintenance. “I carried you.” He answered so matter-of-factly it took a minute for his words to sink in. “You carried me up three flights of stairs?” Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It was my strength training for the day.” A vague recollection of strong arms and pounding footsteps floated through my brain but vanished as quickly as it surfaced. I couldn’t tell if it was an actual memory or a fantasy brought about by his words. Either way, it made the room feel just a little bit less cold.

I also didn’t make a habit of trusting anyone outside my family and Carina, but in that moment, it was hard to remember why I should keep Asher at arm’s length.

I developed a new mantra over the next two weeks: Keep it professional and stop thinking about her. It was a bit long for a mantra, but it was smart, clear, and actionable. I was quite proud of it. Unfortunately, it also proved that mantras were bullshit because fourteen days later, Scarlett still haunted my thoughts like a smart-mouthed, entirely-too-beautiful ghost.

Football did define me. It was the only thing I’d ever excelled at. What would I be without it? Nothing.

I placed a birthday card on my best friend’s grave and sat there until sunset beckoned. Besides my mother, Teddy was the only person who remembered me as Asher before I became Asher Donovan. Sometimes, I needed that reminder too.

Our relationship the past three weeks had been perfectly cordial. He showed up to the studio, we trained, he left. Still charming but absent the flirtatiousness of our early encounters. It was easy. Simple. Professional. Exactly what I’d asked for.

A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw before his expression smoothed. “Good.” Good. The terseness of his response ran the length of my spine, followed by a strange thrill. He’d uttered one word, and my mind was tearing it apart, searching for hidden meanings that didn’t exist—like whether that was jealousy behind his good or sincerity.

I wasn’t prone to emotion-led decisions. I kept my thoughts as rational as possible. But sometimes, when I was around Asher, I found it hard to think much at all.

sometimes, I’m in the mood for something sweet.” A faint roughness ran beneath his words, turning what should’ve been an innocent response into anything but. Heat warmed the back of my neck. A brief image of Asher enjoying something sweet flashed through my mind before I crushed it with a determined fist.

He opened the door with a flourish. “Welcome to our new training center.” I didn’t know what I’d expected. A standard room with mirrors, maybe, or gray concrete and a barre. I should’ve known better; Asher Donovan didn’t do things halfway. Instead of a basic workout area, I walked into a full-blown professional ballet studio. Correction: it wasn’t a ballet studio; it was the ballet studio. As in, the ballet studio of my dreams, only even better.

A knot of emotion formed in my throat. The most unexpected thing I’d encountered today wasn’t our impromptu trip to Asher’s house or the contents of the new studio; it was his thoughtfulness.

NOAH I’m blocking you ADIL That’s very un-Nice Single Dad of you. You have an image to protect, you know ADIL Noah ADIL Hello? ADIL You didn’t actually block me, did you? ADIL Wilson!!

Besides football, driving was the only thing that truly made me feel alive. In the dead of night, when the streets were quieter and the music was blasting, I could clear my head and think.

Why did everything route back to her? We met a month ago, and I still couldn’t pinpoint why she had such a hold on me. Was it because she was beautiful? I’d met plenty of beautiful women, including movie stars, supermodels, and two Miss Universes. I hadn’t given them more than a passing thought. Because she was witty and talented? They were great qualities to have, but they weren’t enough to explain why she haunted me the way she did. Because she was off limits and seemingly uninterested in me? I liked a challenge, but her connection to Vincent was a detractor more than anything else. So if it wasn’t any of those things that drew me to her, what the hell was it?

If Vincent and I had issues now, they were nothing compared to the war that’d break out if I got involved with Scarlett. Coach would lose his shit, and I could kiss my championship and possibly my spot on the team goodbye. No girl was worth giving up my career for.

Asher was incredible onscreen, but up close, in person? He was magic.

Despite his braced position, his body pressed against mine enough for me to feel every ridge and plane. All that muscle pinning me to the ground should’ve been uncomfortable. Instead, it was oddly comforting, like a shield against the outside world. An extremely well-toned, sculpted shield.

Asher’s eyes dipped to my mouth, and the remaining oxygen in the air snuffed out with a near audible puff. Move. Breathe. Push him off. Do something. My brain fired commands at me, and I didn’t heed a single one. I couldn’t. I was stuck, trapped by the heat of his body and the soft rise and fall of his chest against mine.

I was tingling all over. Either my muscles were shutting down from overexertion or it was an involuntary reaction to Asher’s proximity. Or both. Either way, the stutter in my chest when his gaze drifted up and met mine again couldn’t be healthy. Did he always have those golden flecks in his eyes? They were absurdly beautiful, like splashes of sunlight on a verdant hill.

“Being in the public eye like that must be awful.” Vincent dealt with the same thing to a certain degree, but no athlete sold headlines like Asher. The scrutiny and invasions of privacy he faced were on another level. “I could handle it if they were just coming after me. I know what I signed up for,” Asher said. “But you’re getting caught up in this mess, and that’s not fucking okay.” His words pulsed in my veins, filling them with uncomfortable warmth.

“You looked up chronic pain?” A wash of dull red colored Asher’s cheekbones. “Out of curiosity, that’s all,” he said. “I didn’t know much about it, so I figured I should learn the basics. Obviously.” “Obviously.” Was it normal for a human heart to beat this fast? I had my annual checkup a few weeks ago. The doctor said everything looked normal, but maybe I needed a second opinion because something strange was going on inside my chest.

“A DuBois saying something nice about my character? Someone check the temperature in hell.” “I’m not my brother.” I’d been biased against Asher for reasons that had nothing to do with Vincent, but the more time we spent together, the harder it was to hold on to that initial animosity. “No.” Asher’s gaze held mine for a fraction longer than was customary. “You’re definitely not.” His words floated softly between us. My skin buzzed to life, and I was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that we’d been naked in the same house—his house—less than an hour ago. Me in my bath, him in his shower. That shouldn’t feel so intimate. But it did.

Now, all of a sudden, I was trapped with the one person I didn’t want—or shouldn’t want—to spend the night with.

Laughter burst from my chest at her unexpected pun. I’d heard it before, but it was better coming from her. Everything was better coming from her.

she was thinking about it. I could tell by the furrow between her brows as she looked up to the left. Left meant she was pondering something. Right meant she was lying. It was alarming how well I could read her after only a month.

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. Stop being dramatic. No one stole anything. It’s a laugh. Get over it. Except it wasn’t just her laugh. This was the first time she’d opened up to me. Sure, her childhood dance lessons weren’t exactly deep, dark secrets, but they were something. She was letting her guard down, and I’d be damned if I did anything to ruin that.

The aftermath of her accident was a rightfully sensitive subject; if I were in her shoes, I’d be livid at me for prying. Nevertheless, the longing in her eyes when I’d mentioned dancing again had imprinted itself on my consciousness, and I couldn’t let it go. I’m perfectly happy locking my fears in the closet and pretending they don’t exist. “What are you afraid of, Scarlett?” The question slipped out, quiet yet filled with certainty. Her physical limitations weren’t her biggest obstacles; her fears were.

Scarlett wasn’t my best friend, girlfriend, or family, but I didn’t need a label to know that I did care about her.

I wasn’t a big speech person, but I had to get that out there. Sometimes, we needed someone else to point out what was right in front of us.

maybe I was stepping over the line with what I had to say next, but I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t point it out—and I did consider her a friend, even if that sentiment wasn’t reciprocated. “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?”

Thinking Asher Donovan was so attracted to me, he’d lose control if we slept across the hall from each other was the height of arrogance. Still, an ember of heat flickered to life at the mental image of him in bed. Was he awake? If so, what was he thinking about? Did he sleep in boxers or a T-shirt and sweats or nothing at all? I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. Why was I suddenly picturing him naked? What was wrong with me?

“Scarlett.” “Hmm?” “I hate to interrupt your ogling, but can you please get up? As much as I love having you on top of me, this tile wasn’t designed for comfort.” My gaze snapped up to his as realization dawned for the second time that night. I was still straddling him. Asher’s eyes creased with mirth as I shoved off his chest and scrambled to my feet. Forget malicious spirits. If I died tonight, I only had myself to blame. Here lies Scarlett DuBois, a victim of self-inflicted humiliation.

I wasn’t a casual fling person. I’d tried. They didn’t do much for me, so my vibrator and I had developed a close relationship over the years. Usually, it was enough, but right now, it wasn’t the thought of my Maximus 3000 Ultra that made my body sing with heat. It was the thought of what Asher could do with his hands and mouth when his gaze alone turned me on. It was the fantasy of me straddling him again—only this time, we were both naked. It was the simmering attraction that had been building between us since we met, the one I’d done everything in my power to destroy, only to have it revive again and again like a phoenix from the ashes.

I wasn’t saying I wanted to date him or marry him, but I wanted him, and judging by the way his breathing shallowed, he wanted me too.

It wasn’t until I’d safely locked the door and burrowed beneath the duvet that I realized I hadn’t grabbed a single thing to eat. Good news: I was no longer hungry. Bad news: My craving for food had morphed into a craving for something else.

Once you’ve been betrayed by someone you trusted completely, it was hard to let your guard down again.

I wanted to prove I could do it. I wanted to feel the exhilaration of dancing again. I wanted one last show on my terms, not the universe’s. That was one of the hardest things I had to accept—that my career had ended due to something as unpredictable as a car accident. If I’d known, I would’ve better appreciated my last moments onstage. I would’ve had more closure.

Vuk Markovic owned the Blackcastle football club and our home grounds, aptly named Markovic Stadium. The Serbian American billionaire was a notorious recluse, and the idea of him hosting any sort of gala was absurd to the point of laughable.

“Wait. Scarlett, darling…are you jealous?” “You wish.” I’d been half joking, but her answer came too quickly, too aggressively to ring true. My smile vanished beneath an unsteady thump of my heart. “Maybe I do.” The confession drifted between us like confetti in the wind, blowing this way and that, uncertain of where to land. It was the closest either of us had come to acknowledging our attraction—and there was attraction. A quiet, smoldering, mutual one. Of that, I was sure. If she’d stayed in the kitchen a minute longer the other night, I would’ve kissed her, and she would’ve let me.

We didn’t discuss Polina or Friday night again for the rest of our session. They weren’t the real issues at hand. No, the real issue lay dormant, as patient and incendiary as a ticking bomb. It was only a matter of time before it exploded.

Every time I thought about Asher, I felt like I was trapped on a runaway train, the wind whipping through my lungs as we barreled toward the edge of a cliff. I knew how the story would end, but for a few precious moments, the sheer exhilaration overshadowed our inevitable doom.