The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Asher’s childhood home. A giant football-shaped halo, maybe, or some other sign that it once housed a future superstar.

Instead, I was greeted with a normal house that looked like every other on the block. White window frames, brick walls, a little black gate separating the front garden from the pavement.

“I’m sorry. This probably wasn’t how you imagined spending your Saturday,” Asher said ruefully as he unlocked the front door.

“I didn’t have anything special planned, and I’ve never been to Holchester, so I actually have to thank you for the free trip,” I said, earning myself a quick smile. I hesitated, then asked more softly, “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t tell me what happened in his father’s hospital room, and I didn’t ask. However, the argument had clearly taken a toll on him. His eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and exhaustion darkened the grooves of his face.

I wasn’t used to seeing him so subdued. The sight sent an unexpected pang through my chest.

“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” he said with a short laugh. “Coming home is always an experience. I hope my mother didn’t scare you off too badly with her interrogation.”

“No, she was lovely.” Pippa had startled me with her initial barrage of questions, but we had a nice chat while Asher was with his father. I could tell she truly loved her son and wanted what was best for him, even if she was a bit…intense about the grandchildren thing. “But she kept mentioning something about me and Hedy Lamarr?”

“Famous movie star from the forties,” Asher said. “My mum’s a big fan of classic Hollywood, and you look a lot like Hedy.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.” Looking like a movie star could only be a good thing, right?

“You should.” His mouth quirked. “She’s probably imagining little Lamarr clones running around her back garden right now.”

I huffed out a laugh even as my heart tripped at the thought of having babies with him. It was way too early to think about that considering we hadn’t even clarified our relationship status yet, but for the briefest of moments, I allowed myself to indulge in the fantasy.

The prospect of marriage and children with Asher wasn’t as scary as I thought it’d be, which was worrisome in and of itself.

We’d had sex once. I was not going to be the person who started planning her wedding in a state of orgasm-fueled delusion, so I shoved the image of little green-eyed babies to the back of my mind as he showed me the house.

It was cozy and charmingly lived-in, with family photos strewn across various surfaces and an array of tchotchkes from France, Italy, Australia, and other holiday destinations. However, the overwhelming decor theme was football, especially in the den and front hall. I felt like I was walking through a Holchester FC gift shop.

“You weren’t kidding when you said your dad’s a Holchester fan,” I said, equal parts impressed and alarmed.

Posters of the team decorated the walls, the edges curled and yellowing from age and wear. A shirt signed by the entire 2018 team was framed and displayed like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. Photos of Asher in his Holchester kit lined the mantel along with a miniature gold football.

I noticed there were no photos of him in Blackcastle colors on display.

“Fan? More like fanatic.” Asher didn’t look at the mantel on our way past.

“I suppose. Either way, it seems like today’s the day for home tours,” I said lightly, hoping to soften the broodiness shadowing his face.

It didn’t work.

“I guess so.” We stopped in front of a plain wooden door toward the back of the house. “This is my childhood room. Don’t make fun of it, or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

Something inside me loosened at the hint of his usual humor. “Oh my God. Did your parents keep it the same all these years?”

Asher’s wince confirmed my suspicions.

I walked in, taking in every detail—the blue quilted duvet; the single bed pushed up against the wall beneath the window; the posters of Armstrong, Beckham, and other football greats decorating the walls.

“It’s like a museum,” I said, fascinated by the peek into Asher’s childhood.

I could almost see him sitting on his bed, watching football on the telly and dreaming of the day when he was the one on the screen.

“Yeah.” Asher looked around. “You know, I haven’t been in here in ages. I usually stay at a hotel when I’m in town, and I never had a reason to come in when I visited my parents.” A touch of nostalgia flitted through his eyes. “Ten years, and it feels like I never left.”

“It must feel surreal.”

“A bit.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to change. Feel free to look around or sit anywhere.”

I didn’t feel comfortable snooping through his room while he was gone, so I waited on the edge of his bed until he returned. He’d ditched his earlier outfit in favor of a T-shirt and jeans, and he looked mildly more relaxed as he sat next to me.

Silence descended. It was a comfortable, companionable quiet, the kind I’d gotten used to during our drive to Holchester, but something simmered beneath the surface, waiting to break free.

“Do you remember the day of the storm?” Asher asked. “You asked why I transferred to Blackcastle. You said it couldn’t have been only the money.”

“Of course.” I couldn’t forget anything about that day if I tried. It was, in many ways, the day that’d led us to where we were now.

“You were right. I mean, the money was a factor, as was working with Armstrong. But the real reason was I…” He swallowed. “I needed to escape my father.”

I fought a knee-jerk response and waited for him to continue at his own pace.

“I couldn’t stay in the same city as him anymore,” he said. “He’d pushed me to excel at the game my entire life, and I am grateful for it. It played a huge part in getting me to where I am now, but the further I got in my career, the more I felt like I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it for him. Football is my life, but I was slowly losing my love for it. It terrified me. And as much as I liked my team at Holchester, I felt like I was trapped in this bubble where I couldn’t breathe.”

The sound of a car passing outside muffled his last word, but there was no mistaking the bleakness in his expression.

“When Frank Armstrong joined as Blackcastle’s manager, I used it as an excuse to transfer,” Asher said. “Still, it took me months to put in the request. If my dad wasn’t so fanatic about Holchester, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But when it comes to football, he’s not my father. He’s a second coach, and it was too much.”

A humorless smile touched his mouth. “Before you say anything, I know what it sounds like. Rich footballer complaining about his father being too hard on him. Boo-fucking-hoo. Let me wipe my tears with my money.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.” I shook my head. “Just because you’re privileged in one way doesn’t mean you can’t struggle in other ways.”

Yes, he was more fortunate than the majority of people in the world, but I saw where he was coming from. I’d tasted it as a dancer, but I’d never dealt with the level of scrutiny he faced every day.

The public only saw the money and glamour; they didn’t see the pressures, politics, and power plays behind the scenes. They didn’t see the toll those things took on someone’s mental health. Rich or not, famous or not, we were all human.

“You said it took you months to put in the request. What made you bite the bullet?” I asked.

“It was the match against Chelsea last year.” Asher’s mouth flattened. “I scored three out of the four goals. We won. It should’ve been a great night, but afterward, all my father talked about was the corner I ‘screwed up’ and the free kick I missed. I should’ve been celebrating. Instead, I just wanted to scream.”

A raw ache took root in my chest.

If his father wasn’t recovering from a heart attack right now, I’d storm over and give him a piece of my mind.

“It wasn’t anything I hadn’t experienced before, but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak,” Asher said. “The whole country, maybe even the whole world, has certain expectations of Asher Donovan—how I should play, who I should date, where I should fucking holiday. I can deal with that. It’s what I signed up for. But I’d like a place, just one, where I don’t have to be on guard. I thought family would be that place. But it isn’t.”

The ache intensified. It slid behind my rib cage and wound around my heart, squeezing and squeezing until it was hard to breathe.

My parents had encouraged me and Vincent to pursue our talents from a young age. They were competitive, so they constantly tried to outdo each other when I was growing up—our mother with my ballet lessons, our father with Vincent’s football matches. We were the proxies in their long-distance cold war.

But at the end of the day, when I took off my pointe shoes and Vincent hung up his football boots, we were their children again. Asher didn’t have that.

“If it makes you feel better,” I said. “I prefer Asher to Asher Donovan.”

The former was a person; the latter was a brand. I was indifferent about the brand, but I liked the person. A lot. More than I should.

He didn’t respond, but his throat flexed with a visible swallow.

“You can’t control what the world thinks of you,” I said gently. “But you can control your actions, and I understand why you transferred. If I were in your shoes, I’d have done the same.”

“Yeah?” His knee brushed mine when he finally shifted to face me. “I thought you liked structure.”

“I do but only on my terms. I’m a hypocrite that way.”

Asher’s laugh scattered the cloud of melancholy, bringing a small sparkle back to his eyes and a smile to my lips. “Self-aware hypocrites are the best kind.”

“Exactly. Also, anyone who gives you shit for transferring wasn’t a real fan in the first place, so screw them. You don’t need that negativity in your life.”

His second laugh was richer and deeper than the first. “If you ever want to switch professions, you should think about being a therapist. You’d be great at it.”

“No, thanks. I have enough neuroses of my own without dealing with other people’s. That being said, I occasionally dole out advice when I’m feeling generous.”

“So I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“You are.”

“Good. I’m glad.” His knee brushed mine again, more purposefully this time, and butterflies erupted in my stomach. “I would hate to lose you.”

The air turned thick and syrupy, so sweet I could taste it on the back of my tongue.

“As your trainer,” I said.

“As my trainer,” he confirmed, his knee still touching mine.

Awareness dripped into the space around us. A low buzz filled my ears, and his innocent childhood bedroom suddenly didn’t seem so innocent—not when his gaze burned like a lit match against my skin and my entire body tingled from his proximity.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

We still hadn’t discussed last night. It took a back seat to his family emergency, but⁠—

“That’s enough maudlin talk for the day.” Asher finally pulled away, severing the spell. The butterflies drooped in disappointment. “Otherwise, this will be the most depressing first trip to Holchester ever.”

“It’s not so bad.” I rubbed a discreet hand over my thigh and tried to adjust to the new mood. Our conversation vacillated so fast it gave me whiplash. “Your father is okay, and I got to visit the Asher Donovan Childhood Bedroom Museum, guided by Asher Donovan himself. Talk about VIP treatment.”

“Only for you.” He tilted his head toward the mattress. “As a bonus, you get to lay your head on the same pillow I slept on when I was a teen.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I hope it’s been washed since then. I don’t need your teenage germs in my hair.”

Nevertheless, I followed his lead in taking off my shoes and squeezing next to him on the mattress. It was surprisingly comfortable.

We both needed the rest after our drive, so we lay side by side on his tiny bed, our legs dangling over the edge, our arms just barely touching.

“You never talk about your childhood,” I said. “Not even in interviews.”

His father was the only topic he brought up from his pre-fame life. I didn’t know what Asher had been like in school or whether he’d had other hobbies besides football.

I wanted to, though. The day had been filled with nuggets of information, and I was starved for more.

“You been following my interviews, darling?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I paused, then admitted grudgingly, “Maybe.”

The bed shook with his soft laughter. “There’s not much to talk about. I was a quiet kid, believe it or not. Life was school, family, and football. I spent most of my free time kicking a ball around in the back garden or at the park with Teddy.”

“Who’s Teddy?”

The ensuing silence stretched so long, I thought he hadn’t heard me. I was about to repeat the question when he answered, all traces of amusement gone.

“He was my childhood best friend. We grew up next to each other. He loved football as much as I did, and he was better at it than I was.”

“Stop.” I found it impossible to believe that any living player could be better than Asher.

Sorry, Vincent. Yet another, albeit silent, betrayal of my brother.

But I’d worry about that later.

“It’s true,” Asher said. “He was better compared to how I played back then, at least. But whereas I couldn’t wait to sign with a club, he refused. Said he wasn’t interested in playing professionally.”

“Why?”

“He was afraid. Football isn’t a steady career, and he didn’t want the pressures that came with it. He hated being in the spotlight. He was worried that if he failed, he’d do so publicly and humiliate himself. So instead of living his dream, he let me live it for him.”

“He must be proud of your success.” Proud or bitter, but I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“We don’t exactly talk anymore.” Asher sounded distant.

I sensed there was more to the story, so I remained quiet.

I was right.

“I signed with Holchester when I was seventeen. I was so damn excited. We went out to celebrate, but I left early because I had a meeting with Holchester’s manager the next morning. Teddy chose to stay, and I remember thinking, good for him. He needed to loosen up a bit, you know?” Asher’s laugh sounded hollow. “We went to a pub in a seedier part of town since it was the only one that didn’t ID us since we were underage. Teddy left maybe an hour after I did. He was on his way to the bus stop when he got mugged.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, already dreading the conclusion to the story.

“It must’ve been the liquid courage, but Teddy refused to give up his wallet. He got into a fight with the mugger, who stabbed him six times and ran away. Teddy didn’t even make it to the hospital.”

I saw it coming, but that didn’t stop my lurch of shock. Stabbed six times. Jesus.

“One minute, he was there. The next, he was gone. And all these years, I can’t help but think…would he be alive if I’d stayed with him? If I’d insisted he leave when I did?” Asher’s voice thickened. “He wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it weren’t for me.”

“Don’t,” I said so fiercely I surprised myself. “It’s not your fault. It’s the mugger’s fault. You didn’t make him a thief, and you didn’t make him commit violence. What happened is on him. Not you.”

Asher released a shaky exhale.

“I know. But that doesn’t change the way I feel.” He turned his head a fraction, just enough to meet my eyes. “There’s a part of me that feels like I owe it to him to win. Like if I don’t succeed, his death would’ve been for nothing. It’s irrational because the two have no direct correlation, but people aren’t always rational, are they?”

“No,” I said softly. “But not everything needs to be rational to be true.”

Long-repressed emotion leaked into Asher’s eyes.

That morning, he said he liked seeing the unguarded version of me. The reverse was also true.

This was the Asher the world didn’t get to see. The raw, vulnerable one who hurt and felt like everyone else.

Part of me was glad they couldn’t access this version of him. If they did, they’d break him the way they’d broken everything else, hammering and hounding until they molded him into who they wanted him to be instead of who he was.

He didn’t deserve that, and they didn’t deserve him.

“There goes my maudlin talk again. You asked about my childhood, and I gave you a sob story.” His warm breath brushed my lips in apology. “I should take you to an ice cream shop or something so your visit isn’t all doom and gloom.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t come for the ice cream.”

I came for you.

Asher swallowed hard again.

Our chests rose and fell in sync, our breaths mingling softly in the universe of unspoken words between us.

The last time we shared a bed, we’d had sex, but this was a different type of intimacy. Gentler, less tangible but no less important, and rooted in fragile, blossoming trust.

Asher tore his eyes away from mine and faced forward again. But when our hands grazed on the bed, I didn’t pull away, and when I curled my pinky around his, he squeezed mine in return.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.

Sometimes, actions were enough.