The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

This was a nightmare.

The Met Office had warned of possible severe thunderstorms today, but the morning and afternoon had been so beautiful, I’d dismissed their concerns.

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.

I glanced at Scarlett, who’d finally changed out of her bathrobe and into her freshly dried clothes.

Thank God. The robe had been distracting, to say the least, which was irritating because it’d been my bloody guest robe.

Note to self: Buy more full-coverage robes in case of similar future occurrences. Preferably full-length with a turtleneck and so many layers you can’t tell if it’s a human body or a concrete block under there.

Certainly nothing that revealed endless dancer’s legs or a shadow of cleavage. Nothing that exposed miles of smooth skin or tempted the imagination.

“Absolutely not. I refuse,” she said, crossing her arms. “Anything but that.”

My pulse leapt before I realized she was talking about my movie choice and not the traitorous thoughts she’d somehow divined from my face.

“It’s a movie. It’s not real.” I tossed out a teasing smile to mask the balloon of relief in my chest.

It’d been hours since we received the emergency weather alert, and the storm showed no signs of abating. For lack of anything better to do, we’d settled in the theatre with popcorn and an agreement to alternate movie choices.

Scarlett chose the first film, a heist comedy about sorority sisters who had to steal a rare diamond necklace after getting caught up with a Vegas mob boss. It wasn’t to my usual taste, but I hadn’t complained, and the movie had turned out to be pretty good.

It seemed a bit unfair, then, for her to renege on her part of the deal.

“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.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. This isn’t even the original Japanese version.”

Japanese versions were always ten times scarier than their American counterparts. It was a universal fact.

“I couldn’t even handle Scream, and that was satire.” Scarlett grimaced. “No, thank you. Pick another movie, please.”

“That’s not part of our deal.”

“Pretty please?”

“Don’t bat your lashes at me. It’s not going to work.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Come on. What happened to facing your fears and overcoming them?”

“I never said I would do that. I’m perfectly happy locking my fears in the closet and pretending they don’t exist.”

“Ah, denial. The best way to go through life.”

“Slap it on a T-shirt and call me Egypt.”

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.

Her knee grazed mine as she shifted in her seat. My smile vanished, and it took all my willpower not to jerk my leg away.

I’d done a decent job of keeping things professional the past few weeks (minus my unplanned detour to her place on Sunday). The occasional flirtatious remark slipped out here or there, but they were harmless.

However, it was easier to stay professional when we were in the studio. It was a hell of a lot harder when we were sitting next to each other in a dark, private theatre.

Every time we moved, we risked brushing against each other. The anticipation of those light touches was more stressful than the jump scares in a horror film. Plus, the faint coconut scent of her shampoo—my guest shampoo—lingered hours later. It made me want to bury my face and hands in her hair, which would be deeply unprofessional.

Second note to self: Restock guest toiletries with unscented products. Or better yet, with Lynx. My father had worn Lynx exclusively since I was born, and it was the ultimate attraction killer.

Who wanted to kiss someone that smelled like their dad? No one.

“Let’s make a deal,” I said. “You watch this with me, and I’ll forfeit the rest of my choices for the night. We can watch as many heist comedies as you want.”

“Nice try. By the time it’s over, it’ll be time for bed.” Scarlett shook her head. “No deal.”

Dammit. I was hoping she’d overlook that.

“Fine. I’ll fetch you pistachio ice cream from the kitchen.”

“You don’t have pistachio ice cream. I checked.”

“When did you…? Never mind.” I mentally flipped through my other options. “Okay. If you watch the entire movie with me tonight, I’ll give you a pass for a future favor. Any favor you want.” I held out my hand. “Pinky promise.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes. “What are we, eight?”

But 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.

“Any favor?”

I held back a triumphant grin. “Any favor as long as it’s not illegal.” I paused. “Well, depending on the activity, I could be persuaded even if it is illegal.”

“Good to know your morals, Donovan.” Scarlett tapped her fingers against the armrest before she hooked her pinky around mine. “You have a deal.”

Whatever favor I’d have to grant in the future was worth it for the sheer entertainment value of seeing her overreact to every tiny thing for the next ninety-five minutes.

“Oh my God.” Scarlett peeked out from between her fingers, her eyes huge. Onscreen, the scared-but-determined-looking housewife inched upstairs, the wood creaking menacingly beneath her feet. “Why is she going to the attic? It makes no sense! If I heard strange noises coming from my house, the last thing I’d do is investigate alone.”

“Maybe she’s braver than you.”

“You mean stupider.”

“Every brave act is stupid until it succeeds.”

“You—aaah!”

The scene’s ominous soundtrack crescendoed. Scarlett screamed and dove for me, burying her face in my shoulder and clutching my arm so hard I swore my circulation cut off.

“What happened? Did she die? What’s going on?”

Her muffled panic was drowned out by my laughter. I couldn’t help it. Scarlett was usually so reserved and put together that seeing her lose it over a cheesy horror film was almost better than winning a match.

Almost.

Once the music calmed and it turned out there was nothing in the attic except for a creepy old chest, Scarlett lifted her head to glare at me.

“Stop laughing.”

“Your scream,” I choked out, my shoulders shaking. “I should’ve recorded it. Priceless.”

She shoved my arm in retaliation, but I barely felt it. Apparently, amusement was the greatest insulator against pain.

“You’re a terrible host,” she huffed. “Polite hosts don’t—aaahhhhhh!”

This time, there was a jump scare onscreen. Scarlett shoved her face into my shoulder again, and my laughter escalated into full-blown guffaws.

She spent the remainder of the movie attached to my side, peeking out occasionally when the sounds were calm and using my torso as a shield when they weren’t.

“This does not count as watching the movie,” I said. “You might as well be listening to an audiobook instead.”

Despite my words, I didn’t mind. Her hands were warm against my skin, and I liked the way she curled into me.

“Is it over?” she asked when the closing credits started rolling.

“Yes, you coward. You can come out from your hiding spot now. And by hiding spot, I mean the area between the seat and my back.”

Scarlett detached herself from me with great dignity, or as much dignity as one could muster with tousled hair and red cheeks.

“Great.” She straightened her top, the picture of prim elegance once more. “Tell anyone about this, and I will…”

“Scream some more?” I grinned. At this point, I was immune to her glares. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were a wuss when it comes to horror. I assume you’ve never performed in any spooky ballets.”

“Actually, I performed in The Cage for a season, but that’s different.”

I had no clue what The Cage was, but it sounded appropriately unsettling.

“What was your favorite ballet?” I asked.

It was late, the movie was over, and we should be heading to bed—separately. That would be the smart thing to do.

Unfortunately, my decisions and smart didn’t belong in the same sentence where Scarlett was concerned. My brain screamed at me to leave before I did something stupid, but I wasn’t ready to say good night yet.

Besides, it wasn’t like I was grabbing her and kissing her. I was engaging her in friendly conversation. What could it hurt?

“Favorite ballet.” A furrow dug between her brows again. “That’s hard. For choreography, probably Petite Mort. For a classic, Giselle. That was the first show my mother took me to, so I guess there’s sentimental value.”

“Did you know you wanted to dance professionally since you were young?”

“Yeah.” Scarlett’s face softened. “My mother put me in pre-ballet classes when I was four. Some of my classmates were only there because they were forced to be there, but I looked forward to the lessons every week. It was…I don’t know. It was nice being part of something so structured. I get anxious when there’s too much uncertainty. Also…” A small smile peeked out. “The costumes were pretty.”

That smile shouldn’t have snuck through me the way it did, like a burglar breaking into a vault at night.

Dangerous, a voice whispered. Stay away.

“I was good at it too, which helped. I think I have too much pride to love something that doesn’t love me back.” Scarlett let out a small laugh.

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.

“What about you?” she asked. “When did you know you wanted to be a footballer?”

“Probably around the same time you knew you wanted to be a ballerina.” I settled deeper into my seat. “I told you earlier my father bought me my first Holchester kit when I was five, but he’d been prepping me since I was in the womb. My mother said that instead of music, he’d play his favorite post-match analyses for me. I think he hoped Fetus Me would soak up all that strategy and pop out ready for the Premier League.”

Scarlett laughed again. “Your mother must’ve loved that.”

“Oh, she let him get away with it for a week before she threatened to toss all his Holchester memorabilia if he so much as uttered the word ‘football’ near her again during the pregnancy.” I smiled, imagining my mother’s ire and my father’s protests. “He wasn’t stupid enough to call her bluff, but the minute I was old enough to kick a ball, that was it. My future was set.”

That was hyperbole, to an extent. No one could guarantee a career in professional football. There’d been aspiring players who’d worked equally as hard but never made it close to the big leagues. Luck and timing mattered.

I’d benefited from both. Teddy hadn’t.

A rock lodged in my throat. I forced myself to swallow past it. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past.

“What would you want to be if you hadn’t gone into football?” Scarlett asked, unknowingly throwing me a lifeline before I drowned in a sea of what-ifs.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Football is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

I’d hated school. I’d spent my classes daydreaming about football, which was probably why my grades had been abysmal. My teachers hadn’t known what to do with me. Most eventually gave up, and some had outright laughed when I said I’d be the next Beckham or Armstrong.

I’d proved them wrong, but a small part of me had held on to their words. Their dismissals had etched deep into my psyche, fueling me with spite but also agonizing me with fears that they’d been telling the truth.

That I was where I was merely because I’d gotten lucky, and that the luck could be snatched from me at any second.

“Maybe I’d be a race car driver,” I said as an afterthought. “Or another sport.”

It was a lie. There was no other sport. There was only football. However, that was too sad to admit, so I made something up.

“Barring that, I’d go off the rails with something wild, like a dog surfing instructor or professional cuddler or something.”

“Professional cuddler is not a thing.”

“It most definitely is. Google it.” I waved my phone in the air. “Not to brag, but I’m great at cuddling. I can demonstrate.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, but a small smile peeked through. “No, thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”

We lapsed into a comfortable silence. It seemed Scarlett wanted to stay as much as I did, despite the yawns she tried to hide.

Guilt pressed on my shoulders. I shouldn’t have pushed her to play earlier. I’d read that intense exercise could aggravate chronic pain symptoms, but the weather had been so beautiful, and I hadn’t been thinking. I’d enjoyed seeing her let loose too much, and she moved with a dancer’s grace that was apparent even to an untrained eye.

“Would you want to dance again?” I asked. “If you had the opportunity.”

Scarlett stilled for a second before she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” she said, her face devoid of emotion. “I can’t. I’ve had surgeries, physical therapy, you name it. I’m much better now, but I lost a lot of mobility and flexibility because of my hip injuries. I’ll never perform at the level I used to.”

“But you miss dancing,” I said gently.

There was a long pause before she answered. “Yeah.” The word contained a world of wistfulness. “I do.”

An answering ball of emotion knotted in my chest. I couldn’t imagine waking up one day and losing the ability to play football. The end of her career was all the more devastating because it’d been so unexpected. I’d looked up the accident after she told me about it. She’d been on her way to a performance when the other car hit them.

The universe could be fucking cruel, and I hated seeing the sadness in her eyes.

“Not all dances have to be at the Royal Opera House or Westbury.” I thought I saw her flinch at the mention of Westbury, but I might’ve imagined it. “Can you do it for fun instead? Maybe there are roles that are less physically taxing.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” Scarlett’s curt response suggested she wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible.

I didn’t want to push her too far, nor did I want to judge, but I couldn’t stop a jolt of shock at the fact that she hadn’t tried to dance since her accident.

I would’ve understood if she’d left that world behind, but she was still teaching ballet and she said herself that she missed it.

“The RAB staff showcase seems like a good opportunity to try.” I broached the subject with caution. “Low stakes, familiar audience.”

“No.”

One word. That was all it took for the gates to slam down.

Scarlett’s face closed, her eyes shuttering and her mouth flattening into a stubborn line. The openness that had brightened our conversation earlier dimmed, leaving an awkward tension in its wake.

Her reasons for not participating were none of my business (even though I hadn’t bought the “I’m too busy” excuse she gave me when I’d first asked her about it. Everyone at RAB was busy). 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.

I’d known someone who’d let his fears control him. I couldn’t get through to him, and he took those fears to his grave.

There were nights when I’d lie awake and wonder what would’ve happened had I pushed him more. Tried harder instead of being caught up in the dreams of my own success. Would it have made a difference? Would he still be alive?

Those regrets kept me from backing down even as Scarlett turned rigid.

I didn’t care if she was livid with me. I’d let someone I cared about down once; I wasn’t going to do it again.

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’d expected her to lash out after my question. Instead, the stoniness slowly fizzled from her face, and her shoulders sagged with a resigned sigh.

“The last time I performed, I was in my prime,” she said. “The next great prima ballerina. That was what the press called me. I opened Swan Lake at the Westbury and killed it. Standing ovation, rave reviews. But I’m not that dancer anymore, and I want people to remember me as I was. Healthy. Talented.” Her voice cracked on the next word. “Whole.”

“Bullshit.” My response cracked like a whip through the air.

Scarlett startled, her face creasing with equal parts shock and affront.

“You’re not broken, so don’t give me that ‘whole’ BS,” I said. “And I bet you can still run circles around the majority of the general population when it comes to ballet, so don’t try to feed me that untalented line either.” I paused, replaying my words. “Okay, maybe ‘run’ wasn’t the right verb to use, but you know what I mean.”

The faintest curve touched her lips.

“The point is, your injuries don’t define who you are. Maybe you’re not the same dancer anymore, but who says you have to be? Growth isn’t always linear, and I’ve seen you in the studio. I think you’re still pretty damn incredible.”

Scarlett’s mouth parted. She stared at me, her eyes wide, as my mini motivational speech settled between us.

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.

“Where the hell did that come from?” she asked. There was an odd note in her voice, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“It’s the truth. I didn’t have to look too hard for it.”

Scarlett closed her mouth, opened it, then closed it again. A full minute passed before she spoke. “What if I flop? It’s been five years. I’m out of practice, and I’ve never performed Lorena before. I know a staff showcase isn’t the same as a Royal Opera ballet, but those are my colleagues. My students. If I screw up, I’ll have to face them every day afterward, and I don’t know if I can do it.”

By the time she finished, her words were nearly inaudible.

A raw, unfamiliar ache settled in my chest. I hated how despondent she looked, but I understood how she felt.

Ballet, football. Both careers that came with preset expiration dates.

We weren’t like writers or lawyers who could theoretically keep their job until they died. We entered our fields knowing that one day, no matter how hard we tried, our bodies would simply be incapable of performing at the level necessary to sustain our dreams.

Our careers burned brief yet bright, and they were subject to the whims of the universe—one accident, one stroke of bad luck could end everything earlier than we’d expected.

I recognized it; Scarlett had lived it.

So 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?”