The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

“A hundred quid says you or DuBois will punch the other before the month is over,” Adil declared. “Wilson, you taking that bet?”

“Absolutely not,” Noah said, his tone dry. “Leave me out of your bets. They never end well.”

“I have no idea what you mean, and I’m offended that’s how you’re sending me off for the summer.” Adil clutched his chest. “When I’m on the flight home, I’ll remember your words. They’ll hurt.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll stop stirring up shit next season.”

“Is that any way to talk to your teammate? What type of example are you setting for your daughter?”

“Yes, it is, and my daughter’s not here,” Noah said.

I shook my head.

Noah, Adil, and I were at the Angry Boar, our favorite pub, for a last get-together before they flew home to the US and Morocco, respectively. It was the day after our disastrous loss against Holchester, but they’d already heard all about Coach forcing Vincent and me to train together for the summer.

I’d invited them out hoping for sympathy and distraction, but I should’ve known better. Adil thought my situation was hilarious, and Noah was stoic as a rock.

Wankers.

“I’m going to order us another round,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

Adil had moved on to needling Noah about his nonexistent love life, and Noah was too busy ignoring him to do more than nod at my words.

I made my way toward the bar. I got a few glares and snide mutters, but no one openly pushed for a confrontation.

There was a reason why footballers loved the Angry Boar, which served strong drinks, cheap food, and no bullshit. It had a strict no-cameras, no-autographs, and no-brawls policy, enforced by triplet bouncers the size of mountains and the meanest owner this side of the Thames.

The last person who’d violated its rules had gotten tossed out on his ass (literally) and banned for life.

I ordered at the bar and glanced around the pub. A group of women blatantly stared at me from the corner and giggled to each other behind their hands while a passing couple did a double take. The girl opened her mouth, but she didn’t get a chance to speak before her boyfriend dragged her off and shot me a dirty look over his shoulder.

I took it all in stride. Stares and whispers came with the territory, and at least there were no paparazzi here hoping to trip me up.

“Here ya go.” Mac, the owner, shoved two pints (for me and Noah) and one Coke (for Adil) across the counter. “Don’t fucking spill it this time.”

“C’mon, Mac, you still mad about the other week? We didn’t actually break the jukebox.”

The Angry Boar was one of the few pubs with a jukebox, and Mac took great pride in it.

He glared at me, his grizzled face wreathed with a scowl. He didn’t give a shit about celebrities and was as likely to chew out a film star as he was the average Joe. It was why we loved him.

I grinned. “No spilling. Got it.”

I balanced the three glasses with both hands, turned—and promptly spilled one of them all over the person behind me.

In my defense, she hadn’t been there a second earlier, and she was standing so close, I couldn’t have avoided her in time unless I had eyes in the back of my head.

“Jesus Christ!” Mac exploded behind me while the girl let out a string of curses colorful enough to make a sailor blush.

I never would’ve thought someone so delicate-looking could string together those particular words in those particular ways. It was impressive.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” I set the glasses down, grabbed a handful of napkins, and attempted to help her clean her shirt. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I figured. I—” She glanced up, and the expression that crossed her face would’ve been comical had it not been aimed at me. “You.”

My eyebrows popped up. I was used to eliciting various reactions from the opposite sex, but horror typically wasn’t one of them.

“Have we met before?” I asked. The you sounded a little personal.

I was almost positive we hadn’t. If we’d crossed paths, I would’ve remembered her.

She was objectively, unequivocally stunning. Glossy black hair, creamy skin, light gray eyes fringed with thick lashes—she looked like a classic Hollywood star in the mold of Ava Gardner and Hedy Lamarr.

However, it was more than her looks. I met a lot of beautiful women in my line of work, but there was something about this girl…even in a beer-stained shirt and jeans, she exuded an elegance that couldn’t be bought or learned. You had to be born with it.

“No, we haven’t,” she said. “But I know who you are.” Her tone indicated that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Interesting. Maybe she was a Holchester fan.

I hope not.

“Well, then, it seems a bit unfair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” I teased.

I didn’t date. If I wanted to be the greatest footballer in the world, I couldn’t waste time or energy on a serious relationship. Many would argue I was already the greatest footballer, but I hadn’t won a World Cup yet, and until I did, I couldn’t assume that title.

That being said, there was nothing wrong with a little flirting—or a lot of flirting, if it involved this mystery girl.

“Life isn’t always fair,” she said, looking amused.

The woman standing beside her muttered something under her breath. It sounded suspiciously like “He’ll figure it out soon,” but I couldn’t be certain.

Honestly, I’d been so captivated I hadn’t realized she was with a friend until that moment.

“In that case, I’ll settle for your number.” I nodded at her shirt. “I owe you a new top.”

“Oh, you’ll settle for my number?” The glint of amusement in her eyes brightened.

“Yep. It’ll be anonymous if you want. No name, just a number—so I can buy you a new shirt or pay for dry cleaning, of course.”

“Of course. I’m sure that’s all you’ll use the number for.”

I shrugged, a smile playing around the corners of my mouth. I hadn’t felt this lighthearted since yesterday’s match. Coming out to the pub had been a good idea after all.

“I can’t guarantee things won’t change in the future, but for now, my intentions are pure.” I held up a hand. “I promise.”

I really did intend on buying her a new top, so I wasn’t lying. Technically.

“As much faith as I have in promises made by players…” Her emphasis on the last word made it clear she wasn’t talking about my job title. “I have to respectfully decline. I can afford my own dry cleaning, and I don’t like handing out private information to strangers.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Try not to spill any more beer on unsuspecting passersby. It’s a waste of good ale.”

I stared, stunned, as she walked away. Her friend followed, half laughing and half sneaking peeks at me on her way to the exit.

What the hell just happened?

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been rejected. Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset about it; I was…intrigued.

Jesus. The guy who could get any girl he wanted was fascinated by the one girl who wasn’t impressed. I was a walking cliché.

“Oof. Shut down hard.” Adil’s voice shook me out of my stupor. I hadn’t even noticed his and Noah’s approach. He grabbed his soda from the counter and smirked at me. “She must’ve watched yesterday’s match and thought you played like shit too.”

“Shut up.” But I wasn’t paying attention to him.

I was too focused on the flash of dark hair and blue jeans as she disappeared through the door.

I’d never seen Mystery Girl before, but for some reason, I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time we ran into each other.

I spent the next week enjoying relative freedom. I hung out with friends, watched reruns of old shows, and took my favorite sports cars out for a spin or three. Football fired me up, but driving calmed me, and I’d amassed an enviable collection of luxury vehicles that I used for everyday errands or racing.

However, I chose a nondescript car for my first session at the Royal Academy of Ballet. Paparazzi were a problem, and I didn’t need a bright red Ferrari announcing my every move.

When I arrived at RAB, I felt a pinch of satisfaction at the absence of Vincent’s Lamborghini. He didn’t drive decoy cars, so I knew he wasn’t here yet.

I parked close to the entrance, my thoughts split between the dreaded cross-training session and the girl I’d bumped into last week.

I didn’t know why I was still thinking about her. We’d exchanged only a handful of words, and I didn’t know a single thing about her other than the fact she could pay for her own dry cleaning and that she didn’t like “handing out private information to strangers.”

My mouth curved at the memory.

I didn’t wish for much outside the realm of football, but I’d give up one of my cars to see her again.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Definitely.

Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t given me her name and number. I didn’t need that big a distraction in my life.

I entered RAB, checked in with the starry-eyed receptionist at the front desk, and followed her instructions to the training studio.

Housed in a mansion that looked like something straight off a Regency movie set, the Royal Academy of Ballet was worlds away from the sweaty, utilitarian grounds of Blackcastle’s training facility. There were paintings of ballerinas, photos of ballerinas, bronze statues of ballerinas…basically, ballerinas everywhere.

I guess subtlety wasn’t their strong point.

Then again, Blackcastle’s facilities had our team logo stamped on every possible surface so I shouldn’t throw stones.

I arrived at the studio just in time to see students from the previous class trickling out.

I was early, so I hung back, waiting for the last person to turn the corner before I slipped inside. Thankfully, neither of the DuBois siblings was here yet, and I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings.

I’d never attended a ballet performance before, much less been inside a studio, but it looked exactly as I’d imagined.

A wall of mirrors reflected a row of giant arched windows, which overlooked the academy’s manicured grounds. A wooden barre stretched the length of the room, and the floors gleamed so brightly I could almost see my reflection in them.

The only out-of-place object was the giant tote wobbling on the edge of the corner table. It was stuffed with what looked like a jumper, a book, and…whatever else people stashed in their totes.

The weight of its contents must’ve been too much for the overworked bag because, after a valiant effort to stay upright, it tipped over and spilled half its items across the floor with a raucous clatter.

The book thudded to the ground. Pens rolled this way and that while a scarf drifted dreamily on top of a small box.

I half-expected someone to run in and check on the disruption, but no one did.

Should I pick up the stray items or wait for their owner to return? Would it be an invasion of privacy if I chose the former?

Screw it. It would be weirder if she walked in to find me staring at her scattered belongings without doing a thing about it.

I walked over and started scooping the contents back in their bag.

Jumper, book, pens, makeup, keys, water bottle, tights, hairspray, canvas slippers, medication, sweat towel, heat pack, sewing kit, another book…Jesus, it was like Mary Poppins’s magic bag. How the hell did she fit all of that inside one tote?

I wedged a protein bar between her sunglasses and resistance bands. I didn’t know how I’d get the⁠—

“What are you doing?”

I glanced up, and my reply died an instant death.

No. It can’t be.

She’d tied her hair up instead of leaving it down, and she wore a leotard, leg warmers over tights, and a wrap skirt instead of a shirt and jeans, but it was unmistakably her.

The girl from the pub.

She had the same midnight hair, the same red lips, the same piercing gray eyes that were currently boring a hole through my face.

If it weren’t for the tangible heat of her stare, I would’ve thought I’d conjured her through the mere force of my thoughts.

“I’m not snooping.” I recovered from my shock and raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “The bag fell, and I was simply picking up the items.”

She responded with a wary stare as she walked toward me—or rather, toward her bag.

I should’ve known she was a dancer. Even at the pub, she’d moved with the grace of one, her posture perfect, her movements smooth and fluid. But whereas I’d picked up on a touch of apprehension at the Angry Boar, here, she carried herself with the ease of someone who was completely in her element.

“Do you go here?” I asked.

I guessed she was in her mid-twenties, which seemed outside RAB’s target age range, but maybe she was here for professional training.

A small smirk crossed her mouth. “You could say that.”

“Then this is a sign. What are the chances we’d run into each other twice?” I hoped our schedules overlapped this summer. Seeing her might make my forced training sessions a bit more bearable. “Now you have to tell me your name. It’s only polite.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” she said dryly.

She bent to retrieve her scarf while I picked up the remaining book on the floor. The worn yellow-and-green cover sparked a flare of recognition.

“Leo Agnelli,” I said appreciatively. “Good taste.”

Our hands brushed when she reached for the outstretched book, and a frisson of electricity shot up my arm. It was so sharp, so unexpected, that I almost dropped the paperback.

What the hell?

She stiffened, making me wonder if she’d felt it too, but her expression was unreadable. “You read Leo Agnelli.” Her tone contained a heavy dose of skepticism.

“Occasionally.” The little jolt must’ve been static from our clothing. That was the only feasible explanation. “Try not to act so surprised, Chloe. I promise I’ll live up to your ‘dumb athlete’ preconception of me in other ways.”

A small laugh escaped. She quickly covered it up, but it was too late. I’d heard it, she knew I’d heard it, and my ability to draw that smile out of her might just be the highlight of my shitty week.

“My name isn’t Chloe,” she said.

“I didn’t think so, but since you refuse to tell me what it actually is, I’ll have to keep guessing until I get it right, Alice.”

“That’s going to get old real fast.”

“Luckily, there’s an easy solution to the problem.”

I was being pushier than normal, but I would’ve backed off if I’d picked up on any signs of discomfort from her.

However, the gleam of laughter in her eyes told me she wasn’t as annoyed as she pretended to be…and she hadn’t pulled her hand away yet.

We must’ve come to the same realization because our gazes dropped to our hands at the same time.

The air crackled with sudden tension, and another electric spark streaked through me.

The first had been bright and brief, like lightning in a cloudless sky. This one was slower, more potent, and the heat from it made me feel like I was running laps in Markovic Stadium instead of standing frozen in an air-conditioned dance studio.

Mystery Girl swallowed, and even the steady hum of the AC wasn’t enough to drown out my roaring pulse.

I tried to think of something else to say, but I couldn’t remember what we were talking about or why I was here.

I hadn’t been this out of sorts around a girl since my ill-fated childhood crush on Hailey Brompton (she’d moved to Brighton during Year Five and broke my heart).

The thrill of seeing Mystery Girl again faded into trepidation.

How did she have such a strong effect on me when I barely knew her? Maybe our close proximity wasn’t a good thing after all. If I were smart, I’d stay away and focus on my goals: a league championship with Blackcastle, followed by the Euro Cup and the World Cup.

My inexplicable fascination with this girl did not factor anywhere into the equation.

Flirting was one thing; losing focus was another.

“Let’s get this over with.” A familiar, unwelcome voice cut through the tension.

Vincent strode in, wearing sunglasses inside like a douche.

The girl finally yanked her hand away and shoved her book into her bag.

I dropped my arm as well, though the shadow of a tingle remained.

“It’s about time you showed up,” she said, her cheeks noticeably redder than before. “I thought I’d have to call and remind you about today’s session.”

“There was traffic, and I’m technically right on time. It’s not my fault you show up early everywhere.” Vincent ignored me to focus on her. “You ready to get started?”

Despite my misgivings about the girl and losing focus, a twinge of jealousy snaked through my gut at their easy banter.

“Do you know each other?” I asked as casually as possible.

She didn’t seem like the type who’d go for Vincent, but stranger things have happened. In hell.

She opened her mouth, but Vincent beat her to it.

“Of course.” He looked at me like I was stupid. “She’s my sister.”