The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

In my defense, I hadn’t planned on changing my mind.

After Carina and I left the Angry Boar, we parted ways—her to meet her parents for a West End show, me to my flat and my comforting Saturday night routine of tea, reading, and pajamas.

However, I couldn’t focus on Isabella Valencia’s latest thriller for the life of me. I usually loved her books, but I found myself zoning out every other paragraph.

Instead of following the sociopathic detective’s adventures in hunting down another sociopath, my concentration kept scattering into images of a trendy nightclub and green eyes.

After I reread the same line four times without comprehending a single word, I gave up and closed the book with a frustrated sigh.

I was a single twenty-six-year-old living in London, and this was how I spent my weekends: alone with fictional sociopaths.

It’d never bothered me before, so why did I feel so restless now?

After all, there was nothing wrong with staying in. A book and tea were far superior to battling drunken strangers for breathing room in a sweaty nightclub. Right?

It’s not about the club. It’s about who’s there.

I groaned and sank deeper into my armchair, covering my face with my book as I did so. I was too ashamed to look at my reflection in the dark telly screen.

The smart thing to do would be to stay home and unravel the mystery of the mountain town murders.

The stupid thing to do would be to brave a taxi ride and London nightlife simply because Asher invited me to a party hosted by someone I didn’t even know.

Silence pressed in from all sides.

The clock ticked, counting down the minutes to eleven.

And my mind continued conjuring flashes of neon lights and sweaty bodies.

“Scarlett DuBois, you are an idiot,” I said.

My self-condemnation lingered before dissolving into air.

Then I got up, walked to my room, and riffled through my closet for an appropriate outfit to wear to the city’s most exclusive nightclub.

What am I doing here?

I stared at the scene before me, my heels cutting into my feet, my skin sticky with summer heat and regrets.

I’d forgotten how chaotic London clubs were. Neon’s deceptively simple exterior, fronted by a brick wall and a black metal door, didn’t deter everyone under the age of thirty from wanting that magic entry stamp on their hand.

I was tempted to take the next taxi home and crawl back into bed, but I’d spent an hour getting ready and shelled out an exorbitant sum for taxi fare. I didn’t want that to go to waste.

Asher said he’d put my and Carina’s names on the list, but did he mean the list for the club or the list for the party inside the club? Or both?

I eyed the queue snaking down the pavement and around the corner. The thought of waiting an hour or more in heels made me want to die, but how humiliating would it be if I walked up to the bouncer and my name wasn’t on the list? I’d get banished to the back of the queue while dozens of strangers judged me during my walk of shame.

If Carina were here, she’d charge up to the door and check for us. Since she wasn’t, I was forced to text Asher for clarification. I should’ve done so on my way here, but I hadn’t been thinking.

Me: Hi! I changed my mind about the party after all! Can you confirm whether I’m on the list for the club or the party inside? Ty!

I winced at the overly peppy tone (so many exclamation marks!), but I hit send anyway. The sooner he responded, the sooner I could move from my awkward spot by the curb.

I felt like everyone at the front of the queue was staring at me—what is that loser doing standing there by herself?—so I scrolled through my phone in an attempt to look busy.

My regrets compounded by the second. I really should’ve stayed home. This was what I got for trying to pretend I had a “normal” social life instead of one wonderful but currently busy best friend and an overreliance on fictional worlds.

Five minutes later, my inbox remained empty. Perhaps I should join the queue while⁠—

“You bitch!”

My head snapped up and to the left. A guy was doubled over, his face red and his hands clutching his groin, while a petite blond stared down at him with satisfaction.

They were in the alley around the corner from the club, so security couldn’t see them.

“Next time, don’t grab a woman’s ass without their consent,” she said. “Be glad I kneed you instead of kicking you with my heel. That would’ve hurt.”

I would’ve smiled at her gumption—the guy was at least double her size—had it not been for the second interloper sneaking up behind her.

The areas around nightclubs were always hotspots for pickpocketing and petty crime. Distracted crowds, heavy alcohol, and lowered inhibitions meant big paydays for those looking to score some extra cash, like the skinny teenager reaching for the blond’s clutch.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Look out behind you!”

The blond had the fastest reflexes I’d ever seen because the words had barely left my mouth before she whirled and smacked the wannabe thief right in the face with her bag.

He cursed and scampered off, obviously not looking for a real fight, but the man she’d kneed had recovered enough to lurch toward her.

My instincts kicked into action before reason did. I ran over (even though these heels were not made for running) and pushed him before he made contact. The distraction gave the blond enough time to turn and realize what was happening.

She raised her bag again. Like the thief, the guy was too much of a coward to confront her face-to-face, especially now that she had backup. He ran off, leaving a trail of shouted insults in his wake.

“Ugh.” The blond blew out a sigh and stared at his retreating back. “I wish I’d gotten one good hit in first. How disappointing.”

A surprised laugh bubbled up my throat.

For someone who’d gotten harassed and almost mugged, she appeared remarkably unfazed.

She faced me, her frown melting into a grateful smile. “Thanks for your help. You totally didn’t have to do that.” She stuck out her hand. I shook it, bemused by her formality. “I’m Brooklyn.”

Her accent sounded American, but there was just enough of a British lilt to throw me off.

“Scarlett. And you’re welcome. Both those wankers had it coming.”

Between the Angry Boar and this, I was on a roll. I hardly recognized myself, but I didn’t hate the person I was today (minus my questionable decision to come out in the first place).

“They did, didn’t they?” The blond’s grin widened. She was lean and athletic-looking, with hair the color of a lion’s mane and the healthy tan of someone who spent most of their days outdoors. A faint constellation of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. “Are you here by yourself?”

“I’m meeting a friend inside,” I said.

“Great. Me too.” Brooklyn hooked her arm through mine. “Come on.”

Before I could protest, she pulled me around the corner and straight to the entrance. “Hey, Timmy. How’s it going?”

Timmy? This giant’s name was Timmy?

His scowl broke out into a toothy smile. “Hey, Brookie. Good to see ya. How’s your dad doin’?”

“Great, if you overlook his stress and unwillingness to take his vitamins.”

The boom of Timmy’s laughter sounded like boulders rolling down the side of a mountain. “Sounds like him.” He unhooked the velvet rope and waved us through without checking our IDs. “Have fun.”

We swanned past, eliciting a chorus of grumbles from the queue. Timmy silenced them with another scowl.

“Next!” he barked. “Where’s your ID?”

The door closed behind us, enveloping us in neon-splashed darkness and thumping music.

“Brookie, huh?” I shouted over the noise.

She laughed. “Family friend!” she yelled back. “Speaking of friend, you want me to help you find yours?”

“It’s okay. You go have fun.” I gestured toward the dance floor. “I don’t want to keep you, and you’ve helped enough.”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“Give me your phone anyway.” Brooklyn took my mobile and entered her number. “Here, I texted myself, so I have your number too. You need anything, give me a shout. It was nice meeting you, Scarlett!”

“You too!”

Normally, I would never exchange numbers with a virtual stranger, but Brooklyn gave me good vibes. Plus, I needed more friends. I hadn’t realized how small my social circle really was until tonight, when I couldn’t think of anyone else to invite out besides Carina.

I stared at the undulating crowd, took a deep breath, and plunged in.

Luckily, it didn’t take me long to find the VIP lounge. It was located on the top floor, and the relative quiet here compared to the chaos of the main rooms was almost jarring.

A security guard and a woman in a dazzling silver sequined dress stood at the base of the stairs leading into the lounge. She carried a clipboard and walkie-talkie and arched her eyebrows at my approach.

“Hi. I’m here for the private party.”

Asher still hadn’t responded to my text, but he had to be here. Right?

The hostess flicked her eyes over my outfit. I was wearing my nicest black dress and heels accessorized with a designer clutch Vincent bought for my twenty-fourth birthday. It wasn’t cutting-edge fashion, but judging by her grimace, you’d think I’d shown up in a potato sack and Crocs.

“And who are you?” Her tone indicated she already knew the answer.

No one.

I stiffened, my self-consciousness ceding ground to indignation. “Scarlett DuBois.” I tried my best to project confidence. “I’m on the list.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see your name.” She couldn’t have sounded less sorry if she’d tried.

“You didn’t check!”

“I don’t need to. This is a VIP party.” She tapped her nails against her clipboard. “I’m afraid your hundred-quid dress and two-year-old bag don’t meet our criteria. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She turned to greet a trio of newcomers.

The swanlike models brushed past me, all legs and thousand-dollar minis. They provided their names, the hostess checked them off with a smile, and they disappeared up the stairs in a flurry of giggles and clacking heels. None of them spared me a glance.

The hostess’s smile disappeared when she faced me again. “Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Otherwise, Roscoe will escort you out.”

The security guard next to her glared down at me.

My teeth clenched, but I had no choice other than to turn and exit with as much dignity as I could scrape together.

I’d made enough scenes for today. Besides, what was I going to do? Snatch the clipboard from her and search the list myself? Roscoe would tackle me before I got past the A’s.

Exhaustion burned behind my eyes. I turned the corner and jabbed the button for the lift.

I couldn’t wait to go home. This entire night was a⁠—

The doors opened with a ping and a whiff of familiar aftershave.

“Scarlett?”

There was a treacherous quickening in my chest.

“You made it.” The shadows fell away, revealing the slant of Asher’s cheekbones and chiseled jawline. His gaze trailed the length of my dress and legs. “You look…” A small pause allowed the muffled beats from the lounge to creep between us. Thud. Thud. Thud. “Good.”

A brief sizzle of electricity sang through my arms and legs.

“Thank you.” I forced a smile, my encounter with the hostess too fresh to forget despite the relief of running into Asher. “But apparently not good enough.”

“What do you mean?”

I told him what happened.

Asher’s eyes darkened with each word until they resembled storm clouds on the horizon.

“Come with me.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He placed a hand on the small of my back and guided me firmly toward the lounge’s entrance, where the hostess was chatting with security.

The guard tipped his chin toward us. She turned, her face lighting up at the sight of Asher.

“Mr. Donovan!” She straightened and smoothed a hand over her hair. “How lovely…” Her voice trailed off when she noticed me walking with him.

I wasn’t a petty person (most of the time), but I would be lying if I said her shock didn’t give me immense satisfaction.

“Asher Donovan and Scarlett DuBois,” he said smoothly, his hand still on my back. “My date.”

A second ticked past.

The hostess looked like she’d just swallowed a bucket of live maggots, but she eventually forced a smile and stepped aside.

“Of course.” She unhooked the rope, her shoulders stiff. “Please enjoy the party.”

“Thank you. Oh, one more thing.” Asher paused and looked her straight in the eye. “Disrespect her again, and I’ll make sure this is the last event you’ll ever work in London.”

The hostess’s face flushed crimson.

Surprise flashed through me, quick as lightning, followed by an irrepressible warmth as we entered the lounge and left her sputters behind.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “The door people can go on a power trip sometimes.”

“It’s okay.” I slid a sideways glance at him. “Your date, huh?”

“It sounded better than friend in the moment. Besides, it was worth it to see the look on her face.”

“Oh, I agree.” My grin matched his. “I thought she was going to go into cardiac arrest right then and there.”

“So are we?” Asher guided me through the crowded room. His palm burned through the fabric of my dress, leaving me slightly flushed.

“Are we what?”

“Friends.”

“I extracted an apology for you from a police officer and you put the hostess in her place for me, so I suppose we are.” We passed by a familiar-looking beauty with long legs and high cheekbones. I did a double take when I realized it was the supermodel Ayana. I loved her latest Vogue cover; Carina was going to die. “Whose party did you say this was?”

“Poppy Hart.”

I came to an abrupt halt. “Wait. This is a Poppy Hart party?”

Asher’s mouth tipped up. “You’ve heard of her?”

“I’m going to pretend that’s a rhetorical question,” I said, earning myself a deep laugh.

Everyone knew who Poppy Hart was. The model, socialite, and style icon sat in the front row of every major fashion show, headlined the VIP list of every major event, and chaired the board of every major charity. She was London’s latest It Girl and the ultimate arbiter of what was cool and what was not.

She was also famous for her ultra-exclusive parties, one of which I was attending right now.

Surreal.

“Fair enough.” Humor transformed Asher’s face into a softer version of itself. “I should tell you she has strict rules for her parties. No cameras, no harassment, and no fights—exactly like the Angry Boar, except fancier.”

That was an understatement. In the past five minutes, I’d spotted fire-eaters, dancers dressed as the seven deadly sins, and a world-famous DJ from Iceland in the sound booth.

Velvet banquettes lined the perimeter of the walls; crystals formed hanging sculptures in the shapes of stars and flowers and waterfalls. Haloes of LED light drenched the seating alcoves in futuristic purple while a bar stocked with only top-shelf spirits took up an entire wall.

I hadn’t seen Poppy yet, but the room was bursting with celebrities, socialites, and other varieties of young, rich, beautiful, and famous.

Asher and I stopped at the bar. He ordered us two house specials, whatever those were, and handed me one.

“So.” He examined me over his glass. “You changed your mind about coming.”

“Only because I didn’t have anything better to do.” I took a tentative sip. Whiskey mixed with something rich and sweet. It burned smoother than any drink I’d had before. “Don’t read too much into it. My appearance tonight is strictly platonic.”

“Good, because my invitation was strictly platonic.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Our seemingly banal exchange didn’t curb the wild current charging around us, drawing our eyes together like magnets and forming a bubble against the noise and movement from the rest of the club.

My earlier insecurities, exhaustion, frustration…they all fell away as my body came alive with anticipation.

This was why I’d changed my mind. This heady sense of possibility. The exhilaration of dipping my toe into something forbidden.

Whatever happened tonight, the rush of this moment was worth it.

The combination of alcohol and the heat in Asher’s gaze scorched through my veins. Either the drink was stronger than it seemed, or I was treading into dangerous territory.

Not treading into. You’re already there.

“Asher!”

The bubble popped. Noise swept in on a deluge, and I almost stumbled from the force of it.

Poppy Hart swanned up to us, a vision in green and gold. She greeted Asher with a cheek kiss before turning her attention to me. “Who’s this?” Unlike the hostess, her question contained only friendly curiosity,

“Scarlett. She’s a…friend.” The timbre of Asher’s voice dipped on the word friend, and my toes instinctively curled.

“Not that kind of friend,” I added quickly.

His amusement warmed my cheeks while Poppy laughed. With her cinnamon-colored hair and alabaster skin, she gave every woman here a run for her money.

“I like you already. It’s nice to meet you, Scarlett.” She didn’t introduce herself; she didn’t need to. If it were anyone else, it would come off arrogant, but since it was Poppy, it simply came off natural.

After a few minutes of friendly small talk, she made an apologetic face. “Do you mind if I steal Asher away for a minute? I have a friend visiting from New York and she’s a huge fan. She’ll absolutely murder me if I don’t introduce her.” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “I told her Asher isn’t all he’s cracked up to be in real life, but she refused to listen.”

“I don’t mind. It’s something they have to learn for themselves,” I agreed with mock solemnity.

“Thank you both. I appreciate you talking shit about me while I’m standing right here,” Asher said dryly.

“Any time.” Poppy patted his arm. “Scarlett, don’t worry. I’ll have him back in a jiffy.” Her plummy voice somehow made jiffy sound cool.

“I won’t be long.” Asher’s arm brushed mine on his way past, leaving a trail of tingles in its wake. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

“I’ll try my best, but no guarantees.”

The way his answering smile made my stomach flip should be illegal.

I stuck by the bar and finished my drink while I took in my surroundings. I felt self-conscious about being the only solo person here, but it soon became apparent that everyone was too wrapped up in their own world to notice me standing awkwardly by myself.

If it weren’t a private party, I’d ask Brooklyn to come up. She seemed like the type who would appreciate the fire-eaters’ performances.

Was that allowed in a nightclub? Didn’t it violate some sort of fire code?

If it did, no one seemed concerned.

“Bit intimidating, innit?” A boyishly good-looking blond came up beside me. He had shoulders the width of a football pitch and a tiny, endearing mole above his lip that shifted with his smile.

“A bit,” I admitted. “I’m here with a friend, but they got called away.”

Asher used the term. I might as well too.

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

I smiled at the obvious fishing. “Platonic friend.”

Besides friend, platonic was in the running for the word of the night.

“Good for me, then,” the blond said. “Though if I were your friend, I wouldn’t leave you alone with the wolves.” He nodded at the crowd around us. “Don’t let their expensive clothes and champagne fool you. They’re a vicious bunch. If they smell weakness, they’ll pounce.”

I laughed. “I’m glad I have you then. Safety in numbers, right?”

“Right.” His grin widened. He extended his hand. “I’m Clive.”

“Scarlett.” I’d introduced myself more in the past hour than I had in months, but surprisingly, I didn’t mind.

I guess it was easier to make friends when I actually left the house. Imagine that.

Clive ordered us another round of drinks, and we fell into an easy conversation. I learned that he was a rugby player and Poppy’s cousin, hence his appearance tonight.

“I don’t like these parties either, but I’ve skipped out on her past three soirees. If I missed this one, she’d clobber me with one of her hideously expensive handbags,” he said with a sheepish smile.

I laughed again. Clive wasn’t my type, but it was nice to flirt harmlessly with a cute guy at a club. It’d been far too long.

I was telling him about my job at RAB when the temperature suddenly plunged to subarctic levels.

Goose bumps coated my arms, and I trailed off mid-sentence when Asher reappeared. He looked decidedly less pleased than when he’d left.

“Finished with your fan club already?” I quipped.

He stared back at me, unsmiling. Poppy was nowhere in sight.

Okay. What crawled up his ass and died?

Across from me, Clive’s expression turned amused. “Donovan. I take it you know Scarlett.”

“Hart.” The curt reply served as both greeting and affirmation. “Do you mind if I steal Scarlett away? We need to discuss something.”

My eyebrows winged up. We do? That was news to me.

“Sure. Before you leave…” Clive borrowed a pen from the bartender and scribbled his number on a cocktail napkin. He handed it to me with a wink. “In case you ever need safety in numbers again.”

A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw, but he didn’t say a word until the rugby player disappeared into the crowd—nor did he say anything as he led us to an alcove near the back of the lounge.

Floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes separated it from the main floor. One tug on the tasseled ties, and we were ensconced in our own world.

I crossed my arms, unsure whether to be nervous, annoyed, or intrigued. I settled for a combination of all three.

“What’s so important that you had to drag me away from my conversation?”

“I leave you alone for five minutes and you pick up the captain of England’s national rugby team,” he said. “Impressive.”

Seriously? That was what he wanted to talk about?

Men. Everything was a dick-measuring contest to them.

“I didn’t ‘pick up’ Clive,” I said. “He approached me. What was I supposed to do? Twiddle my thumbs while I wait for you to return from your meet-and-greet?”

“You could’ve talked to anyone except Clive bloody Hart,” Asher growled. “Don’t you know his reputation?”

“Not really.” I didn’t follow rugby, so England’s entire national team could walk in, and I wouldn’t know a thing.

“Right.” Asher’s jaw flexed again. “Don’t be fooled by his nice-guy act. He’s a notorious fuckboy.”

I stared at him for a stunned beat before I burst into laughter. “Did you just use the word fuckboy unironically?”

He didn’t seem to share an ounce of my amusement. “It’s the right term for him. He’s slept with half the women at this party.”

“Good thing I wasn’t planning on sleeping with him. We were just talking.” I crossed my arms. “Also, hypocritical much? You’re not exactly celibate, if the tabloids are to be believed.”

“The tabloids are never to be believed.”

“So you didn’t have a threesome in Ibiza last year?”

Asher didn’t dignify me with a response. “Are you going to throw his number away?”

Yes. “No. Why would I? It could come in handy one day.”

I was playing with fire. I knew that. But instead of deterring me, the heat beckoned, urging me closer and closer until I eventually got burned.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Asher snapped. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get ‘handy’ with him. It usually ends with tears and tissues.”

“So what if it does? That’s my problem, not yours.” I cocked an eyebrow, drunk off potent whiskey and the danger swirling in the air. “Why are you so interested in what I do with Clive, Asher? Are you jealous?” I threw his question from Monday back at him.

“What if I am?”

The air stilled. Asher’s quiet response cut through the music like a knife through silk. It lodged somewhere between my heart and throat, where my pulse beat with the frantic rhythm of a hummingbird’s wings.

“What happened to platonic?” I asked. Equally quiet. Equally dangerous.

It was a last-ditch attempt to cling to normal, though my definition of the word had warped since I met Asher.

None of this was normal. Not us standing here. Not the way he was looking at me. Not the way my heart thrummed in reply.

It was enough to make me believe that normal was overrated.

Asher closed the distance between us with two deliberate steps.

My back pressed against the wall. I had nowhere to run; even if I had, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere.

I’d known, from the minute I left my house, that this might happen. Part of me had expected it.

The back and forth, the give and take, the denial and attraction—every piece of choreography had led us to this moment.

“Platonic.” The warmth of Asher’s breath brushed against my skin. “Does this feel platonic to you?”

I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as his hand trailed up my arm and over the bare curve of my shoulder. I burned everywhere he touched, my skin nothing more than a map of little fires that consumed whatever oxygen was left in my lungs.

Every muscle was strung tighter than a bowstring. When his palm reached the nape of my neck, my body instinctively arched, just enough to make his eyes flare with heat.

His hand curled, anchoring me in place. “I asked you a question, Scarlett.”

A breathless shiver ran from my head to the tips of my toes.

Does this feel platonic to you?

“No,” I whispered. “It doesn’t.”

Another breath shuddered from his chest.

That was the last warning I got before he pulled me toward him and slanted his mouth over mine.