The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

Five till five.

Scarlett was due to arrive at any minute.

I ran a hand through my hair. Fiddled with the volume controls on the sound system. Straightened the dumbbells on the rack.

None of it dislodged the phantom touch of her lips against mine.

It’d haunted me since Saturday night, when I finally gave in to the damn need inside me and kissed her.

That fucking kiss. If Scarlett had plagued my thoughts before, the kiss had built her a permanent home there and invited her in for tea. She was the only thing I could think about before sleeping, after waking up, while showering, and basically during any activity I used to try and forget her.

It drove me up the wall. And yet, I didn’t regret what happened.

That alone terrified me more than any consequences. My career had always been my number one. It anchored my world, and the fact that I was willing to risk it, no matter how indirectly, for a woman…

I rubbed a hand over my face, but I didn’t get a chance to pursue that train of thought before soft footsteps scattered my concentration.

I looked up. My heartbeat slowed when Scarlett entered, her black hair scraped back into a dancer’s bun and her lithe frame clad in a leotard, jumper, and ballet skirt.

I hadn’t chased after her on Saturday because we’d both needed space to think, but seeing her again after two days proved that space didn’t do shit.

I was as twisted up about her now as I’d been at Neon.

“Hey.” I aimed for casual and landed somewhere north of cautious.

“Hi.” She shrugged off her jumper and hung it on a hook by the door. “So we’re focusing on agility today. I suggest moving outside so we⁠—”

“Scarlett.”

“Yes?” The rigid set of her shoulders belied her cool tone.

“We should talk about Saturday night.” I wasn’t going to let her pretend nothing happened. We were beyond those games.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Or maybe we’re not. Irritation simmered low in my blood.

“I disagree,” I said silkily. If she wanted to play that game, we’d play on my terms. “We have plenty to talk about. For example, the way you taste or the way you sighed when I pressed you against the wall. Or maybe we should talk about how your hair feels wrapped around my⁠—”

“Stop.” Flags of color scorched the crests of her cheekbones. “It was a kiss. We were drunk, and we got caught up in the moment. It didn’t mean anything.”

The ember of irritation ignited into anger.

“Bullshit.” I closed the distance between us. She lifted her chin, her expression stubborn, but I detected a faint quickening in the rise and fall of her chest. “I knew you were a coward when it came to movies. I didn’t expect that from you in real life too.”

Scarlett’s nostrils flared with a sharp inhale.

I tamped down a swell of regret. I’d said what needed to be said. She couldn’t run from the hard stuff forever.

This was the same girl who’d reamed out a police officer for bumping into me, who’d survived a horrible accident and came out stronger on the other side. She was so bold and resilient in so many ways that it killed me to see her fears win.

“Fine. Let’s say the kiss did mean something,” she said. “What then? Do we date? Have a summer fling? Call things off when the season starts? There are always people watching you, Asher. It’d be impossible to keep a relationship secret.” Her jaw hardened. “You lost the league last season because you and Vincent didn’t work together! Imagine how much worse it’ll get if he finds out something happened between us. Imagine how your coach will react. You’ll both ruin your careers, and I will not allow that to happen, nor will I play a part in it.”

My bubble of anger deflated.

Of course I’d considered the obstacles she’d laid out. Hell, they were the reason I’d fought my attraction for so long. But the more time we spent together, the hazier those obstacles seemed.

Her clinical breakdown of the situation threw them right back into focus.

I wasn’t surprised by the Vincent and career angle, but the issue with the paps…I hadn’t paid as much attention to that as I should’ve. Most of the women I’d dated in the past were public figures themselves, so they were used to the attention. Scarlett wasn’t.

If anything happened between us, they’d harass her to the ends of the earth. They’d follow her, dig through her trash, talk to her old friends and classmates. Anything and everything to make a buck.

There were ways around it. I knew players who made things work with their “civilian” partners, but at the risk of sounding arrogant, they didn’t have as visible a profile as I did. The tabloids would eat Scarlett alive.

I’d let the privacy of our studio and the respite of summer lull me into a false sense of security. It didn’t matter how much I wanted her or how much I wished things between us could work; if she didn’t want it, and she wasn’t prepared for it, then that was it. Case closed.

The post-kiss fantasies that’d consumed me all weekend cleared, leaving a tang of bitterness in their wake.

“You’re right.” The words sounded hollow despite the thickness in my throat. “I don’t know what I was thinking. We’ll pretend the kiss never happened and never discuss it again.”

“Great.” Scarlett swallowed. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“Me too.”

We didn’t speak about anything non-workout-related for the rest of the session.

She’d given us both the wake-up call we needed, so I ignored the cramp in my chest and carried on with my training.

Later that night, I drove my Bugatti to a borough in north London. Its seclusion, wide-open roads, and indifferent law enforcement made it a hotspot for local high rollers who liked to indulge in a bit of street racing without the complications of other car scenes—namely: leaks, paps, and drugs.

There wasn’t a race scheduled this week, but people usually showed up anyway to brag about their latest vehicle or indulge in friendly competition.

Tonight was no exception.

A half dozen cars were already parked in the meetup lot when I arrived. My headlights sliced a bright swath through the group before I cut the engine and joined them.

I recognized everyone there. A footballer from Chelsea, a B-list actor with a supporting role in a major fantasy series, several rugby players…including Clive.

A wave of something unpleasant burned through my veins.

“Donovan.” Simon, the footballer, greeted me first. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been busy. You know how it is.” I returned his one-armed hug and slapped him on the back before saying hi to the others.

I stopped at Clive and gave him a cool nod.

The image of him and Scarlett flirting at Neon rose, unbidden, in my mind, and a wave of something unpleasant hurtled through my veins.

Clive leaned against his car, his self-deprecating demeanor stripped in the absence of potential bed partners. He was a regular at these meetups. I hadn’t lied when I said I’d met him through Poppy, but we saw each other here more often than at her parties.

“Surprised you’re not with your girl,” he drawled. I wasn’t the only one thinking of Scarlett. The mere evidence that she existed somewhere in his filthy mind made my muscles coil. “Never seen the great Asher Donovan that possessive over someone. Must be serious.”

The others’ ears visibly perked up. Society painted women as gossips, but truthfully, no one talked more shit than a group of blokes.

“I don’t know what you’re on about.” If I displayed an ounce of genuine interest in Scarlett, Clive would swoop in like a fucking bird of prey. He liked stealing others’ partners just to prove he could.

“No?” His smile told me he didn’t believe a word I said. “Damn. You’re even more into her than I thought. Since you want to play dumb, I’ll refresh your memory. Black hair, great ass, looks like a young Liz Taylor? I was about to close the deal with her before you interrupted.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t about to close anything.” My pleasant tone belied the dangerous thrum in my chest. “She actually has good taste.”

“Yeah, and she was eating my shit up. All the girls do.”

“Yeah? Has she contacted that number you gave her?”

That wiped the grin off his face. “I liked her, you know,” he said, his narrow gaze assessing. “She’s fit, she’s funny, she can carry a conversation. I get why you’re so twisted up about her.”

Prior to Saturday, I didn’t have a problem with Clive. Like I told Scarlett, he was a fuckboy and a bit of a tool, but those things were par for the course when it came to professional athletes.

After Saturday, I’d die happily if I could smash his face in before I croaked.

His acute observation about my feelings toward Scarlett raised several alarms—he’d only seen us interact once, so the fact he’d hit the nail on the head didn’t bode well for me—but I ignored the warning bells for now.

It wasn’t like the three of us would ever inhabit the same space again.

“So, is she a good shag?” he asked. “If she is, I might take her for a ride once you’re done with⁠—”

I moved before he had a chance to blink.

His sentence cut off with a surprised grunt and the slam of muscle against metal. The rest of the group, who’d been following our exchange like avid spectators watching a tennis rally, broke out into a chorus of oohs.

Anger muffled their jeers and narrowed my focus on Clive. The air sparked against my skin like a live wire; my blood pumped with the ferocity of a charging bull.

I imagined slamming him against the car again.

Imagined my fist in his face.

My knee in his groin.

I wasn’t a violent person, but when it came to Scarlett being hurt, my values unraveled.

I get why you’re so twisted up about her.

If he only knew.

“Don’t talk about her like that again,” I said, soft enough for Clive’s ears only, steely enough for him to hear the implicit threat.

He raised his hands in surrender. “I guess I have my answer.” His tone contained equal hints of triumph and unease.

With one reckless move, I’d shredded my neutrality. He knew exactly how I felt about Scarlett—but wiping that smug look off his face had been worth it.

Yet it still wasn’t enough.

A physical fight would provide short-term satisfaction, but I wanted to hit Clive where it would really hurt.

“How about a friendly wager?” My smile didn’t match my words. “Fifty grand says my Bugatti beats your McLaren.”

Clive’s eyes narrowed. I loved my cars, but he had an unhealthy obsession with his McLaren. It was his pride and joy, and if he could marry it, he probably would.

He also had an ego the size of Jupiter and a reputation for being a sore loser. Rugby, racing, it didn’t matter. He needed to be number one.

“Double it and make it a hundred,” he said.

So predictable. “Done.”

With my brand sponsorships and transfer money, I made significantly more than Clive did in a year, but he had family money to back up his professional salary. However, the word on the street was that most of his inheritance was locked in a trust, so his doubling of my initial challenge was driven by pure ego.

Our spontaneous race lacked the bells and whistles of a planned competition. There were no cheering crowds, no drinks and music.

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

Simon volunteered to count us down. We drove to the main road, and he took his position in front of us, using his shirt as the starter flag.

Three.

The powerful growl of the engine vibrated through me, sharpening the edges of my anticipation.

Two.

I tightened my grip on the wheel. Almost there.

One.

The flag came down, my foot hit the pedal, and the screech of tires filled the air as we rocketed forward with reckless abandon.

Darkened buildings and empty lots whizzed by in a blur. My heart rate kept pace with the car as we flew through the streets.

This. This was what I’d needed. I’d been in a foul mood since training, and nothing helped me vent like a good race.

The first corner approached. I braced myself, my body tense as I calculated the perfect angle for a clean turn. Beside me, Clive appeared to do the same.

We zoomed toward the bend in near parallel streaks.

Not yet…

The guardrail loomed. Its rusted metal glowed with menace beneath our glaring headlights.

Not yet…

The world narrowed to that one stretch of pavement.

Now!

With a quick flick of the wheel, I punched the car into a sharp turn. The tires squealed, but a controlled switch between the brake and accelerator smoothed the shift.

I was clear—and I’d pulled ahead of Clive.

However, my grin of triumph faded when the glint of his headlights filled my side mirror again. He’d recovered faster than I’d expected.

Motherfucker.

He inched in front of me by a hair.

I caught up a second later.

On and on, we traded leads until the finish line came into view. Simon stood by the roadside, shirt in hand.

Clive and I were still neck and neck. I could take one of two strategies. Either I pushed now, or…

Fuck it.

I went with my gut and eased my foot off the throttle a centimeter, just enough to let Clive speed past.

I ignored his gloating stare even as my blood drummed to the beats of competition and adrenaline.

Are you going to throw his number away?

No. Why would I?

It was a kiss…It didn’t mean anything.

I get why you’re so twisted up about her.

Is she a good shag? If she is, I might take her for a ride…

I slammed my foot on the pedal in the home stretch. It was my first time going full speed, no holds barred in this car, and the Bugatti shot forward like a bullet tearing through the night.

My body hurtled forward while my organs remained behind. The amount of g-force I’d unleashed proved exactly what several million pounds’ worth of vehicular optimization could do, so I held on and didn’t fucking breathe as the scenery outside morphed into an indistinguishable blur.

I imagined this was what astronauts experienced during a rocket launch—acceleration so powerful, it pressed them into their seats through sheer force.

Thank God I hadn’t eaten before I left the house.

But my temporary light-headedness soon gave way to relief and the sweet, sweet taste of victory as I flew past the finish line half a second before Clive.

Gravel sprayed as we skidded to a stop.

“Fuck!”

I heard his shout of frustration loud and clear through the glass, and I didn’t bother hiding my smirk as I exited my car.

Clive slammed his door shut and spat on the ground. One of his rugby buddies tried to console him with a pat on the back, but he shrugged him off with a scowl.

I walked over and held out my hand. Part common courtesy, part acknowledgment that I’d won.

After a moment of audible teeth grinding, he took it.

I squeezed. Dark satisfaction coasted through my chest when discomfort shaped the contours of his grimace.

“I trust the hundred grand will be in my account tomorrow?” I drawled.

Clive’s eye twitched. “I’m good for it.”

I believed him. He wouldn’t go back on his word, not when we had witnesses. He’d lose too much street cred.

“Good.” I released his hand and pretended not to notice as he discreetly shook it out. Simon and the rest of the guys watched us, their faces rapt with fascination. “And Clive? Don’t ever talk about Scarlett again, or losing a hundred grand will be the least of your problems.”

I walked away, his glare of resentment scorching my back. He was probably plotting how to get back at me, but I didn’t care. He could plot and sulk all he wanted. I’d made my point, and I’d taken the edge off my frustration, which was what I came here to do.

Two birds with one stone.

However, the high from winning faded quicker than I would’ve liked. I only made it halfway home before a swarm of unwanted thoughts buzzed through my head again.

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.

Tonight, I’d needed that more than most nights. Yes, I’d wanted to teach Clive a lesson, but I’d also wanted to forget about my kiss with Scarlett.

For fifteen glorious minutes, I had.

But now that Clive was gone and the race was behind me, my thoughts returned to where they always went.

Back to her.

And there was nothing I could do to stop it.