The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

Asher refused to tell me what our date would entail. He only gave me a dress code (nice but casual), so I spent the next four days trying to guess the activity.

My friends helped. Our new group chat was growing increasingly active, and I was relieved to see them hitting it off, virtually at least. They’d been a little hesitant with each other at first, but the texts were now flying fast and furious.

CARINA

Nice but casual is THE most generic description ever. He didn’t give you more than that?

Nope. He won’t even tell me which part of London it’s in

BROOKLYN

Maybe it’s not London

BROOKLYN

Maybe he’s taking you on a weekend trip to the Cotswolds or something

Hmmm…I don’t think we’re traveling anywhere, or he would’ve told me to pack

CARINA

Babe, he’s a multimillionaire. You don’t have to pack. He can buy whatever you need once you get there

BROOKLYN

Exactly!

You guys, please. I really don’t think it’s travel.

I don’t want to go anywhere right now anyway. I’d prefer something more low-key

BROOKLYN

Booooo

CARINA

No souvenirs for us

Spoiler: He did not take me to the Cotswolds. Instead, he took me to…someone’s house?

“Is this a private residence?” I craned my head to take in all four stories of the redbrick behemoth before us. It was large enough to double as a hotel.

“Most days, yes. Today, it’s…something else,” Asher said.

“That’s not vague at all.”

“Sometimes, life is more fun when there’s a little mystery.” He laughed at my pout. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll explain everything soon enough.”

He knocked on the door. It opened two seconds later, revealing a tall, reedy man with silver hair and a perfectly pressed black suit. He looked like a butler straight out of central casting.

“Mr. Donovan, Ms. DuBois. Welcome.” He greeted us with a small bow. “I’m Mr. Harris, the head butler. Please, follow me.”

Head butler? Was there more than one?

The house’s mystery deepened the further we walked. Asher said it was a private residence most days, but I didn’t see any personal effects. There were only miles of gleaming marble and original oil paintings hanging in gilded frames.

Our footsteps echoed in the massive halls. Otherwise, it was silent as a mausoleum. If it weren’t for Asher’s reassuring presence, I would’ve been thoroughly creeped out.

I thought Mr. Harris might lead us to the gardens or an indoor cinema, but we stopped at the kitchen instead.

“Enjoy.” He gave us another bow. “If you need anything, anything at all, please feel free to give me a ring on the intercom.”

With that, he retreated, leaving us in what might have been the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. I wasn’t a culinary enthusiast, but even I was impressed by the setup. A massive kitchen island, professional-grade cookware, three stainless steel Sub-Zero fridges and acres of storage space…it was every chef’s dream.

An inordinately handsome man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes stood in the middle of the room. He wore black pants and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he oozed enough natural charm to make most women fall at his feet.

If I weren’t dating Asher, I probably would’ve succumbed at the sight of his forearms alone.

“Seb! I didn’t know you were in London.” Asher sounded surprised. “I thought Gerard was going to be our instructor.”

“He was, but ironically, he got food poisoning yesterday. Not from one of our restaurants, of course,” the man added. He clapped a hand on Asher’s shoulder in greeting before he turned to me. His smile dazzled as he held out his hand. “Sebastian Laurent.” His voice contained a smooth, light trace of France, evoking images of sun-dappled vineyards and walks along the Seine.

“Scarlett. DuBois,” I added as an afterthought. Were we introducing ourselves by our full names now?

“DuBois.” His brows rose an inch. “Any relation to Yves DuBois?”

I smiled. “He’s my great-uncle.”

My grandfather’s brother was a famous couturier. We didn’t talk much, but he occasionally sent me a dress sample out of the blue, which was enough to earn him a spot in my good graces forever. Yves DuBois gowns weren’t cheap.

“Sebastian is the chief marketing officer of the Laurent Restaurant Group,” Asher said. “This is his house.”

“Part-time house. I’m based in New York,” Sebastian explained. “When I’m not here, I change the residence to a venue for VIP brand events and activities such as what we’re doing today.”

I had an inkling, but I asked anyway. “Which is…?”

“A cooking class.” Asher’s eyes sparkled. “You love structure, and there’s nothing more structured than cooking. Look at any recipe. It’s literally a step-by-step guide.”

His reasoning was so unexpected yet so perfect that I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

“Step by step with room for interpretation.” Sebastian smiled. “However, we’ll stick to the rules today since it’s your first time.”

He handed us aprons and gave us a brief spiel about the guidelines and agenda. We were learning how to cook a three-course meal consisting of a salad, main course, and dessert.

“Like Asher mentioned earlier, Gerard Brazier was supposed to be your instructor today, but alas.” Sebastian gave a quintessentially French shrug. “I hope you don’t mind if I take over. I’m not a Michelin-starred chef, but I did attend culinary school before business school. Family tradition,” he said when my eyebrows shot up. “Our business is food. If we want to sell it, we should know everything that goes into making it.”

“I don’t mind at all.” I tied the apron behind me. “Though this seems like something a CMO shouldn’t have to do on a Saturday afternoon.”

Sebastian’s mouth tilted into a smile. “I’ve followed Asher’s career since he was with Man U, so I’ve known him for a while. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make him suffer a little.”

I laughed while Asher rolled his eyes.

“Don’t listen to him,” he said. “I may not have attended culinary school, but I know my way around the kitchen.”

He was right. He did—much more than me. As the class got underway, it became painfully clear that my talents did not include tossing salads or searing filet mignon.

Nevertheless, I had a blast. Sebastian kept us entertained with stories about previous events while Asher tried to convince me my filet mignon wasn’t that overcooked (it was) and I tried to steal one of the raspberries for his cheesecake without him noticing (he did, but he let me have it anyway).

It was different and interactive and fun. I didn’t feel any pressure to be “witty enough” or “charming enough”—not that I ever felt that pressure with Asher, but it was nice to spend time with him in an intimate yet casual environment.

Physical attraction and romantic feelings aside, I just liked hanging out with him. Some people drained my energy if I was around them too long, but he lit me up.

After our class, we brought our food into the dining room, which looked way too fancy for my blackened steak.

“This is where I leave you. Scarlett, it was a pleasure.” Sebastian gave me a cordial cheek kiss. “Asher, I’m looking forward to next season. Here’s hoping Blackcastle wins the league.” He clapped Asher on the back again and flicked a glance at my plate. He barely suppressed a wince. “Please, ah, enjoy your meal. Mr. Harris will bring out the wine.”

You’ll need it. He was too polite to say it, but I knew what he meant. My food was a disaster.

“Here,” Asher said when Sebastian left. He gestured for me to swap seats with him. “You take my meal, I’ll take yours.”

“No way.” I didn’t budge. “I’m not making you eat this.”

“So you’re going to eat it instead?”

“It’s not that bad. The salad is edible…I think.”

Asher’s mouth twitched. “Okay. I’m going to say something, and I don’t want you to be offended.”

“Let me guess. I’m a terrible cook?”

“Well, yes. But that’s not what I was going to say, although it is related to that.” He pressed the intercom button next to the table. “Mr. Harris, can you bring in our food, please?”

My lips parted when our servers returned, this time with fresh dishes that we absolutely did not make.

“Wait. You had a backup meal this entire time?” I shot him an accusing glare. “You made us go through the class for nothing?”

“Not for nothing. I had hope.” Asher’s eyes gleamed with laughter at my outraged gasp. “I’m sorry, darling. You’re beautiful, talented, and wonderful in so many ways, but ever since you told me you thought it was impossible to overcook shrimp…I figured it was better to be safe than sorry.”

“That wasn’t my fault! I told you the internet lied,” I grumbled, but I couldn’t hang onto my indignation for much longer. The meal I made was awful, so I was happy to have an alternative.

“I hope you had fun anyway, even if your steak didn’t turn out as planned.” The corner of Asher’s mouth twitched again. “I figured we’d take the class for the experience and not the, ah, outcome.”

My face softened. How could I stay mad when he was so bloody thoughtful all the time? “I did have fun. This was one of the best dates I’ve ever had.”

“I’m glad.” Asher paused. Swirled his wine. Then said, “One of? What dates have been better than this one?”

“Oh, you know.” I flattened my mouth into a line, sealing the laugh that threatened to spill out at his obvious fishing. “There was that helicopter ride in Hawaii, and the eight-course meal on a beach in St. Lucia…”

It was total bullshit. I’d never been to Hawaii or St. Lucia, but a disgruntled Asher was too cute not to tease.

His face crumpled into a scowl, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My laughter broke free, bouncing off the walls and rattling the silverware as I tried to rein it in.

Asher’s eyes narrowed with dawning realization. “You were taking the mickey out of me.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.” My cheeks hurt from grinning. “I’ve never seen someone look so annoyed by the mention of Hawaii, but I was joking. This is the best date I’ve ever had.” I gestured around us. “My ex would’ve never thought of something like this. He liked the flashy things. Fancy dinners, over-the-top treatment. I like those things too, in moderation, but sometimes I felt like he was doing them for the image instead of the sentiment. So this…” My mirth faded into something softer. “This was perfect.”

It was probably frowned upon to talk about an ex during a date, but Asher picked up the thread and kept pulling.

“When did you two break up?” he asked.

“Five years ago.” Asher’s brows furrowed.

“Yeah. It was right after my accident.” I took a fortifying sip of wine and debated how much to tell him. I didn’t want to turn our dinner into a therapy session. I hadn’t talked about Rafe in years. The only people who knew the details of our split were my family and Carina, but wasn’t this what couples did? Share parts of their pasts, both the good and the bad, with each other? He’d trusted me enough to tell me about Teddy; it was only fair I tell him about Rafe.

Besides, even though we weren’t an official couple, I felt more comfortable talking to Asher than anyone else I’d dated.

“We started dating when I was eighteen,” I said. “He and Vincent were teammates at the time, which was how we met. We were together for three years. It was my first serious relationship, and I thought he hung the moon and stars. We even talked about getting married one day.” I toyed with my wineglass, lost in recollection. “I should’ve known better. We were so young, and we were caught up in the fame and money. Especially him. It blinded me to things that should’ve been red flags. But I loved him, or at least I loved the idea of him, and I truly believed we would be together forever.”

Sometimes, I remembered the girl I used to be, and I couldn’t believe she existed in the same lifetime as me. She’d been so bright and shiny, filled with hope and stars in her eyes. Rigid when it came to her career but romantic in every other way.

Look where that’d gotten her.

“Things were going so well, I thought he was going to propose. Then…” I swallowed hard. “Then the accident happened. I was in the hospital for weeks afterward. My recovery was brutal, both physically and emotionally. Rafe couldn’t handle it. He’d signed up to date the beautiful prima ballerina, not the…not that shattered version of me who was depressed and angry all the time. I had good reason to feel that way, but like I said, we were young. We weren’t equipped to deal with the strain it put on our relationship. He broke up with me a month after I was discharged from the hospital, and he started dating someone else two weeks after that.”

Say what you will about Rafe, but he didn’t waste time.

Asher’s expression hardened. His anger didn’t surface often, but when it did, it transformed the entire landscape of his face, sharpening the angles and carving dark hollows beneath his cheekbones. “That fucker.”

“It’s okay.” I shook my head. “Don’t get me wrong. I hated him at the time, but in hindsight, it was the best thing for both of us.”

Time and therapy had blunted the serrated edges of my anger. We would never be friends, but I didn’t curse him every time I thought about him either.

However, his abandonment had left me with deep-seated trust issues. It also stripped the shine from our relationship, and I saw the faults that infatuation had glossed over—the arrogance, the desperation for status, the desire for me as a trophy instead of a person.

They were things I’d overlooked because I loved him, but like the saying goes, a person’s true nature is revealed in the face of adversity.

Asher’s lips pressed together. “He’s the reason for your no-footballers rule.”

I nodded. “I was so heartbroken, and football was such a big part of who he was that I conflated his shortcomings with the sport as a whole. Besides my brother, every footballer I met reminded me of him, so I swore them off altogether.”

“I don’t blame you. Most of us are absolute wankers,” Asher admitted with a trace of a smile.

“Most are,” I agreed. “But you’re not.”

I used to think he was. Before we were forced to spend time together in training, I’d already formed an opinion about who he was based on what Vincent told me, what I read in the press, and the mere fact that he was Asher fucking Donovan. How could someone so famous and good-looking not be an arrogant playboy?

But over the past few months, I’d discovered that he was so much more than the words other people used to pigeonhole him. It wasn’t about what he did so much as how he made me feel—like I was safe, worthy, and cherished. Like I could share my deepest secrets and ugliest thoughts without diminishing myself in his eyes.

I expected a flippant response, but Asher’s mouth sobered as he regarded me across the table.

“I try not to be,” he said. “I don’t always succeed, but I try.”

I drew in a shallow breath. We’d barely touched our food, but my stomach was full of butterflies.

The silence stretched just long enough to end in a perfect, pinpoint period.

“Thank you for letting me ramble,” I said. “I know it’s probably bad etiquette to talk about an ex during a date.”

“You can talk to me about anything, anytime.” Asher rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You said he used to play with Vincent. Do you mind if I ask who it was?”

I hesitated for only a beat. “Rafael Pessoa.”

The Brazilian striker had been Vincent’s teammate at Chelsea before they both transferred. Luckily, Rafael left the Premier League for La Liga soon after our breakup, so I didn’t have to worry about running into him in London.

“Pessoa?” Asher snorted. “I always knew he was an arsehole. He dives more than an Olympic swimmer.”

I laughed. Rafael did have a penchant for feigning injuries. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He hates when people call him out on it.”

“I bet he does. You’re better off without him. He doesn’t deserve you.”

Emotions jumbled in my throat. Luckily, Asher saved me from the humiliation of crying in front of him again when he reached for the intercom again.

“I do have one more surprise for you,” he said. “I hope you’re in the mood for a double dessert.”

My brows knitted together when our servers returned and placed two cakes on the table. One was a raspberry cheesecake similar to what we’d baked during class. The second was…

I blinked, certain I was seeing wrong.

I wasn’t.

“Asher.” I covered my mouth with one hand. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t ask Sebastian Laurent to make that cake.”

“No. His pastry chef made it.” Asher grinned. “I wanted something memorable to cap off our evening. I hope you like it.”

“Like it? I love it.” I dragged the second plate closer so I could examine it in detail. My voice bubbled with laughter. “I’m just not sure I can eat it. It’s too beautiful.”

The buttercream-frosted cake was large enough for six people. A golden yellow fondant figurine of a certain cartoon dog adorned the top, next to a picture of a tiny planet. And beneath that picture, written in neat, blue frosting cursive, were three words.

Justice for Pluto.