The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

After a quick meal at his parents’ house, Asher and I returned to the hospital with food and a change of clothes for his mother. Thankfully, his father’s condition remained stable, but we stayed for the weekend anyway.

We checked into a local luxury hotel, and their VIP services team escorted us directly to our suite without tipping off the other guests that we were there. We were both so exhausted we fell asleep almost immediately.

On Sunday, a disguised Asher took me to the famous Holchester Art Museum and a social-media-famous ice cream parlor, but we stayed at the hotel or hospital for the most part. We weren’t keen on running into any paps or angry Holchester fans.

We didn’t talk about his father, football, or our relationship at all after we left his parents’ house. We both needed a break from the heavy topics, so we focused on TV and books instead.

“What do you mean, dinosaur erotica?” Asher’s palpable shock made me giggle. “Like they have sex with dinosaurs? How is that physically possible?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t actually read one,” I admitted. “But my favorite author recommended a book by someone called…” I squinted at my Notes app. “Wilma Pebbles? It’s called Triceratops and Threesomes—stop laughing! And give me my phone back!”

“I have to write this down,” he gasped, his shoulders shaking. He typed the author and title into his phone before handing my mobile back to me. He was laughing so hard, tears gleamed at the corners of his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start a Blackcastle book club. Dinos only.”

“Good. You guys need more culture anyway,” I huffed, but I failed to hide a smile at the mental image of the Blackcastle team reading Triceratops and Threesomes together.

Now that would be a sight to see.

Despite my weekend stay in Holchester, I never met Asher’s father. It was just as well; I didn’t think I’d be able to hold back some choice words for the man.

He got discharged on Monday. Asher said an obligatory goodbye to him, and we gave his mother a lengthier farewell before we drove back to London.

The ride seemed faster this time—or maybe it was because I didn’t want to leave Asher yet.

Given the situation, I’d called in sick to work and canceled our training today, which meant I wouldn’t see him again until Wednesday.

“I know I said this already, but thank you for coming with me,” Asher said halfway through the drive. “It helped. Truly.”

“Don’t mention it. That DIY sundae bar at the ice cream parlor was worth it.”

His laugh warmed me more than the sunshine filtering through the windows.

We meandered in and out of conversation, letting the radio music take over when necessary until we reached London’s city limits.

“Do you want me to drop you off at home?” Asher asked. His tone was casual—almost too casual.

I slid a sideways glance at him. He stared straight ahead, his pose relaxed, but a splash of tension coated the black leather interior.

Was he indirectly asking whether I wanted to continue hanging out? Would I come off as too needy if I suggested another activity for us instead of going home? Or was I overthinking a completely innocent question?

I wished I could text Carina for advice, but then it would look like I was ignoring him.

“Yes, please,” I finally said. I had to change regardless. I bought a dress at the hotel’s boutique yesterday, but I’d been wearing the same outfit for almost two days.

“Okay.”

There. That carefully neutral tone. Was it my imagination, or was it covering up a touch of disappointment?

“But…I’m pretty hungry,” I ventured. “Maybe we should grab a bite to eat first?”

“That’s a good idea,” he said quickly. “I know a great Indian place. It’s not on the way to your flat, but I can drop you off and pick you up later if you’re interested in checking it out. It’s a bit too early for dinner anyway.”

My heart ricocheted in my chest. That sounded awfully close to a date. “Okay.”

“Okay.” This time, a smile accompanied his reply.

When Asher dropped me off, we agreed to meet again in two hours. It was enough time for me to take a quick bath, indulge in some gentle yoga, and get ready.

After fifteen minutes of staring at my closet and several frantic texts to Carina and Brooklyn, I settled on a cute top-and-skirt combo. I’d just finished my makeup when Asher returned, freshly showered and smelling like a delicious mix of soap and aftershave.

His appreciative gaze carved a trail up my legs and neck before settling on my face. Little fireflies danced over my skin, lighting me up.

“You ready?” The deep timbre of his voice ghosted down my spine.

“Yes.” I tamped down the flutters and followed him to his car, where he pulled out a baseball cap and black-rimmed glasses.

“Disguise,” he explained.

“Does that actually work?” It was so simple. It felt like Superman disguising himself as Clark Kent with similar glasses.

“You’d be surprised. Most people don’t expect to run into anyone famous on the street, so if you’re low-key enough, you can slip right by.”

“I hate to tell you this, but have you looked in a mirror?” I asked archly. “Your face is not slipping by anyone.”

Even if he weren’t famous, Asher was gorgeous enough to turn heads everywhere he went.

“Is that your way of calling me good-looking?” He sounded entirely too pleased about that.

“You know you are. Also, you get one compliment per day. Don’t try to fish for more.”

“Noted.” Laughter glimmered beneath his voice. “I’ll wait until midnight to fish again.”

Despite my skepticism, he was right. Most people didn’t spare us a second glance when we parked and walked to the restaurant. A group of female uni students did a double take as we passed, but I couldn’t tell whether that was because they recognized him or simply thought he was fit. Either way, they didn’t approach us.

The restaurant was packed for dinner, but we were able to snag a corner table near the kitchen. Since Asher was the expert here, I let him order for the both of us.

“Noah told me about this place,” he said. “Kind of embarrassing for a Londoner to get food recs from an American, but the food is so good, I can’t be mad.”

“Noah?”

“Wilson. Our goalkeeper.”

An image surfaced of a tall, scowly man with dirty blond hair and blue eyes. Noah. Of course. There weren’t many Americans in the Premier League, so his signing with Blackcastle had been a big deal a few years ago.

“Are you guys close?” I ripped off a piece of naan and dipped it in chutney.

Vincent constantly partied with the team, but Asher obviously wasn’t part of those nights out.

“I wouldn’t say we’re best friends, but I talk to him and Adil the most out of anyone at the club. Adil’s one of our midfielders,” he added. “They’re the only ones who don’t act weird around me when Vincent’s there.”

I could only imagine. The team’s loyalties must’ve been split between their captain and their lead scorer.

“So who do you talk to when you need advice or have big news to share?” I asked. “Besides your family.”

Asher shrugged. “Depends on the issue. If it’s PR related, I talk to Sloane, my publicist. If it’s football related, I talk to Coach. Noah and Adil, too. They give good advice when they’re not being idiots.”

“I’m not talking about business stuff,” I said gently. “For example, if I hadn’t been with you on Saturday, who would you have told about your father’s heart attack?”

He stared at me.

The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness until he averted his gaze. “I don’t know,” he said. “No one, I guess.”

An iron fist squeezed my heart.

His old team hated him, his new team was wary of him, and everyone else probably either sucked up to him or wanted to use him.

I couldn’t imagine how lonely that must feel. Asher was surrounded by fans and hangers-on every day, but sometimes, people felt the loneliest in a crowd.

“Well, if you ever need a sounding board, I’m here,” I said. “Therapist in another life and all that.”

A faint smile wisped around his mouth. “Thank you.” Our server returned with our food, and Asher waited until he was gone before continuing. “If I gave you a pound every time I said those words to you, you’d drain my bank account.”

“I mean, if that’s what you feel called to do, I won’t stop you. London rent is expensive.”

His smile blossomed into a low laugh.

Pride unfolded in my chest as we dug into the food. Asher was right. It was delicious, and our silence as we ate was a testament to that.

I went in for seconds as my phone buzzed against my leg. It was probably Carina digging for updates or Brooklyn confirming our upcoming coffee date, but I’d text them back later.

I had something else to discuss, and we’d put it off for too long.

“So…” I snuck a peek around us to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Should we talk about what happened on Friday?”

The look Asher gave me could’ve melted a glacier. “Which part?” he drawled. Velvet braided his voice.

Just like that, my mind hurtled into the past—past the hospital, past our drive to Holchester and my speech about Pluto, all the way back to when we were tangled in my bed, our bodies slick and hot against the sheets.

“You know which part,” I hissed, my cheeks flaming. “I’m talking about when we, um…”

“Gave each other mind-blowing orgasms for the first time?”

“Shhh.” My face was hot enough to reheat any leftovers from dinner. “Do you want to end up in the tabloids?”

The speech I gave him for why we wouldn’t work after our first kiss was rooted in truth. I didn’t want the press digging into my life for dirt. I didn’t want to relive the accident again, nor did I want them nitpicking everything I did and wore. The scrutiny wouldn’t be as intense as if I were, say, a member of the royal family, but it would still exist, and it made my anxiety want to run screaming.

“No. I don’t.” Asher’s expression sobered. “But you’re right. We should talk about what a relationship would mean.”

The clatter of plates and glasses around us filled the empty pockets of our conversation.

What, exactly, was our relationship? Were we dating now, or had Friday night been a one-time thing?

Both options twisted me with unease.

I didn’t want a one-night stand, but an official relationship sounded so, well, official. I liked Asher more than I’d ever liked anyone, but my last relationship had ended in disaster, and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

He wasn’t my ex. But I couldn’t discount the little voice telling me that, no matter how well things were going in the present, they could always go wrong in the future.

“Do you want a relationship?” It was like Asher read my mind. “Or do you want something else?”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes were sharp and cautious in the face of my silence.

“I…” I hesitated, trying to organize my thoughts into a coherent response. “I don’t want to see anyone else, and I don’t want you to see anyone else. But I’m also not ready for a serious relationship until we’ve figured out our issues with my brother, the paps, everything. I just…everything’s happening so fast, and I’m…” Scared.

I didn’t say it, but Asher must’ve heard it somehow anyway.

The tension that’d crawled into his shoulders when I said I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship relaxed. “Fair enough. So it’ll be an exclusive nonrelationship with dates. And sex. And many shared memes.”

A soft puff of laughter escaped my lips. “Yes.”

It was basically a real relationship in everything but name, but that was enough for now. I’d never dated someone with Asher’s public profile before. I needed to know what I was getting myself into before I inadvertently got burned again.

However, I was glad it was exclusive. The thought of Asher with someone else made me squirm with jealousy.

“I can’t control the paps,” he said, bringing the conversation back to one of our main issues. “But Sloane has her ways of keeping them in line. They’re more scared of her than they are of most publicists.”

True. A sliver of hope entered my heart.

“And people make it work,” I added optimistically. “There are lots of celebrities with non-famous partners, and they’re not in the news every day.”

“Exactly. After the initial spike, interest will wane, especially if we don’t give them anything to write about.”

We. That one word alleviated my worries more than anything else he could’ve said. We meant we were in this together.

I wasn’t alone.

Warmth rushed to fill one of the tiny, fear-hollowed crevices in my chest.

“That being said, you’ll never have full anonymity again.” Asher’s tone gentled. “Like you said, there are always people watching. It can be a reporter. It can be a fan. It can be a random passerby. The average person usually has enough decency not to invade our privacy, but you never know for sure. There’ll be comments on online forums, social media posts, tips to the tabloids. People might make up rumors, and others will believe them even if they’re blatantly false. Old friends and acquaintances will come out of the woodwork with stories, real or fake, for their fifteen minutes of fame. These are all possibilities.”

The warmth dissipated, and my dinner hardened into cement sludge in my stomach. “It’s like you’re trying to scare me away,” I quipped, but anxiety pitched my voice higher than normal.

I’d been in the spotlight as a prima ballerina, but that was different. I was recognized mostly by my peers and ballet enthusiasts. The general population wouldn’t recognize a dancer on the street even if she was the most famous ballerina in the world.

Footballers, on the other hand? They were mainstream, especially in the UK. Especially when they played for a top club like Blackcastle. And especially when their name was Asher Donovan.

He’d never dated anyone for more than a few weeks at a time. The sheer novelty of our relationship (if we lasted longer than that) would drive incredible amounts of interest.

It would die down eventually, but I had to make it through the storm first.

“I’m not trying to scare you, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t warn you.” Asher watched me carefully, like he was afraid I’d run off and never look back.

“I know. I appreciate the warning.” I inhaled a deep breath. The idea of being perceived so publicly terrified me, but I couldn’t let my fears hold me back from what I wanted anymore. “We’ll figure out the pap situation. However, there’s a bigger issue. My brother.”

Asher’s entire face shuttered.

“You two have to sort out your issues for the sake of the team and your careers,” I said. “Do you remember why we started training together in the first place? The Boss will be livid if your animosity carries over into the next season.”

“The Boss?”

“Your coach. Armstrong. Vincent and I call him the Boss because, well, he’s the boss. I guess it’s not very original.” I drew my bottom lip between my teeth. “Why do you hate each other so much anyway? It has to be more than the sponsorships or the title of greatest footballer.”

If I knew why, then maybe I could help them mend their relationship. I didn’t want my brother and exclusive non-boyfriend to hate each other.

“I don’t hate him,” Asher said. “I just can’t stand him.”

“Same thing.”

“Perhaps.” He leaned back, his face angled away from the rest of the diners. Luckily, the din was loud enough to muffle our conversation from potential eavesdroppers. “This career is weird. So much of it is played out in the public eye, and we’re constantly pitted against each other on and off the pitch. Competitiveness is in our blood. So yes, part of our rivalry stems from the eternal battle over who’s the better footballer. I can overlook that. It’s par for the course.” His eyes darkened. “Then the World Cup happened.”

Concrete blocks settled at the pit of my stomach.

That damn World Cup. I should’ve known. The answer was so obvious, but it’d happened years ago. I hadn’t realized how long of a shadow it cast.

Even though Vincent had been born in London, he moved to Paris and became a French citizen when he was six, after our parents’ divorce. As a result, he played for France in international tournaments.

During the last World Cup, England and France had been tied during the semifinals. A quarter of the way into the match, Vincent and Asher got into an altercation that resulted in Vincent feigning an injury and Asher getting red carded.

The loss of their star striker turned the tide against England, who’d been favored to win the cup. Instead, they lost two to four while France went on to take the tournament.

The ref got raked over the coals for his call, but it didn’t matter. Side-by-side images of a triumphant Vincent hoisting the trophy and a devastated Asher walking off the pitch had dominated the news for weeks afterward.

“He faked his damn injury, and the ref didn’t see it.” A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw. “If it weren’t for him, I’d probably have a World Cup.”

I winced, unsure how to respond.

For footballers, the World Cup was the holy grail. Vincent had celebrated for months after France’s victory. He got a lot of hate from England fans after the tournament, but as Blackcastle’s captain and top defender, he also had a sizable fanbase that shielded him from the worst of the criticism. Eventually, people got over it and moved on.

Asher didn’t.

“There’ll be another World Cup,” I said softly. “That wasn’t your last chance.”

“I only have so many chances.” Asher’s eyes flickered in the dim lighting. “It takes place every four years, and a lot can change in that time. I have maybe two more tournaments left in me, and that’s not accounting for any injuries or accidents that might take me out early.”

There was nothing I could say to that because it was true. Most players will never win the World Cup. It didn’t matter how good an individual was; it was a team effort.

However, while this explained why Asher disliked Vincent, it didn’t explain why Vincent disliked Asher so much beyond basic rivalry.

“Long story short, your brother’s a dick,” Asher said. “That being said, I’m not the one you have to worry about if and when he finds out about us. You know him better than I do. How do you think he’ll react?”

“Um…” I gulped at scenarios playing out in my mind. None of them were ideal, to say the least. “Not well. But he’ll listen to reason.” I think. “He cares about his career as much as you do.” Fingers crossed he cares about it more than he dislikes you. “He’ll be angry at first, but he’ll get over it.” I hope.

Asher didn’t look convinced. “He warned me away from you during one of our training sessions.”

“What?”

“You were in the toilet.” The corner of his mouth tugged up at my indignation. “He said you were off limits but I wouldn’t have a shot anyway because you’d never date another footballer.”

I heard the implicit question in the second half of his statement, but I ignored it.

I wasn’t ready to talk about my ex yet.

“That’s just like Vincent,” I fumed. “He’s always butting in where I don’t want him to.” Sure, I’d wanted nothing to do with Asher at the time, but still. Couldn’t a girl make her own decisions about her love life? “He told me to stay away from Clive too.”

That reminded me, I needed to follow up with him after our date. Given the way it ended, I doubted he was looking for a second date, but I liked to close all my loops.

Asher’s smile morphed into a scowl. “He was right about Clive. That guy is bad news.”

“Because he’s a fuckboy? Vincent said the same thing. You know, you two are a lot alike,” I said. “You’d probably be best friends if you didn’t despise each other.”

I laughed at Asher’s grimace. I wasn’t kidding. They would make good friends, but they were too hardheaded to set aside their differences and see that.

Hopefully, that’ll change in the future. Until then, I could only pray and hope Vincent wouldn’t lose his shit when we broke the news to him. How we’d do that was a problem for another day.

“So now that we’ve cleared the air…” I gestured around us. “Is this our first official date as an exclusive noncouple couple?”

“This is a pre-date.” Asher’s darkly amused stare crept under my skin, flustering me. “When I take you on our first date, you’ll know.”

Something hot and languid spread through my veins.

For the first time since we sat down, I wished we were eating at home instead of in a restaurant. I wanted⁠—

“Hi. I’m terribly sorry for interrupting, but—but are you Asher Donovan?”

Our heads turned in unison toward the breathless teenage boy standing next to our table. I hadn’t even heard him come up.

I witnessed Asher’s transformation in real time.

His relaxed posture straightened, and his mouth stretched into a polite, camera-ready smile. Shutters rolled down over his open expression.

It was still him, but it was a shiny, guarded version of him.

“Yes,” he said easily, his smile intact.

“Wow.” The boy’s eyes shone with star-struck wonder. “I can’t believe you’re here. Can I get your autograph?” He shoved a napkin and pen at Asher. “I’m a huge fan.”

“Of course.” Asher signed the napkin, and the one after that, and the one after that.

After the boy approached us, the rest of the diners realized who was eating in their midst and clamored for their turn.

The mood shifted so quickly and drastically that neither of us was ready for the onslaught. An overly enthusiastic fan nearly knocked me out of my chair in their eagerness to get to him, and I had to shield my face with a menu to avoid getting caught in the background of their pictures.

After ten minutes of chaos, the restaurant owner finally pushed through the crowd and forced everyone back to their seats. He apologized to us profusely, and then asked for a picture with Asher to hang on their wall.

Dinner was officially over.

We quickly paid and left, but the anxiety I’d pushed aside earlier resurfaced even after we made it safely to Asher’s car. It wound tight in my chest, cutting off my supply of oxygen.

“I’m sorry about that.” Worry passed over his face. “I honestly didn’t think anyone would recognize me. But once one person does…”

“It’s okay,” I said with a shaky smile. “He was a teenager. They have sharklike instincts when it comes to their idols.”

We didn’t say what we were both thinking, which was that the restaurant had only been a taste of what was to come if the press found out about us. Fortunately, the diners had been too busy fawning over Asher to ask who I was, but it was only a matter of time.

Still, it could’ve been worse. I wasn’t hurt (minus a few accidental elbow jabs and handbag swings), and no one caught me on camera. Even if they did, I’d live in their phone’s camera roll instead of the tabloids.

In the grand scheme of things, our obstacles weren’t insurmountable.

We’d talked it out, and everything would be fine.

I was sure of it.