The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

I spent the morning of the Holchester match prepping my go-to match day meal—a high-carb, high-protein mix of whole grain pasta, grilled chicken, and salad with a hard-boiled egg on the side—and listening to my pregame playlist.

I never worked out the day of a match, but mental preparation was as important as physical conditioning. Over the years, I’d curated my playlist to include only the songs that motivated and calmed me in equal measure.

It looped back to the first song as I tossed my lucky boots into my playing kit. I hadn’t played in them since the halfway line goal that put me on the map, but I carried them with me to every match. Call me superstitious, but I credited many of the impossible goals I’d made to their help.

They were the boots that started it all, and they were going to take me all the way to a World Cup championship.

A thrill of anticipation streaked through my blood. It wasn’t match time yet, but I couldn’t wait to wipe the smirks off Bocci’s and Lyle’s faces when we crushed them today. Our team was stronger and more cohesive than ever, and if we played our cards right, we’d be hoisting the Premier League trophy at the end of the season.

Holchester may be the reigning champions, but that would only make the taste of victory that much sweeter.

I glanced at my watch. Fuck. I needed to leave soon if I wanted to avoid traffic and get to the stadium in time.

I grabbed my playing kit and headed to the entryway. I’d just locked the door behind me when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it roll to voicemail.

Bloody telemarketers. How did they get my unlisted number?

I made a mental note to ask Sloane to double check if my private contact information was leaked anywhere. Stalkers were real, and I didn’t want random people blowing up my phone with weird calls.

I made it to my car when my phone rang again. And again. And again. All from the same number.

A slice of worry wedged into my chest. Telemarketers didn’t usually call this many times in a row from the same number, did they?

It could be an emergency, and someone I knew was calling from a stranger’s phone. Was it my mother? Did my father have a heart attack again? I hadn’t talked to him in the past two months. My mother said he was doing fine during our calls, but anything could happen.

I was in a time crunch, but I answered the call anyway.

“Hello?” I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder as I tossed my duffel into the passenger seat.

I climbed into the driver’s side, my chest tightening with worry.

“Asher, it’s Brooklyn.” The strain in her voice had me straightening immediately. The worry compounded, spreading from my chest to my throat. “I tried calling Vincent, but his phone’s off, and I⁠—”

“What happened?” I demanded. I didn’t have time for a detailed breakdown of what she did before she called me.

Brooklyn wouldn’t reach out this close to match time unless something was terribly wrong.

My mind spun gruesome images of Scarlett lying somewhere, injured or…

Bile climbed up my throat.

When Brooklyn didn’t answer immediately, I clutched the steering wheel with impatient white knuckles. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Scarlett.” Her voice sounded tiny and far-off beneath the sudden thunder of my pulse. “She’s in the hospital.”

The drive from my house to the hospital should’ve taken forty minutes.

I made it there in twenty flat.

I might’ve followed the traffic rules or I might’ve broken them. I had no bloody clue. The entire drive was a blur, propelled by panic and the echo of Brooklyn’s words.

She’s in the hospital.

She didn’t give me details other than Scarlett collapsed at home. Luckily, she’d been with her at the time and called 999.

She said Scarlett wasn’t in life-threatening danger, but that didn’t ease the knots in my chest. I barely breathed until I reached the hospital, but I still had the presence of mind to alert Sloane about the situation.

For once, she didn’t warn me about “staying out of trouble.” She simply said she would take care of everything on her end, including calling Coach and the hospital, and that she was on standby for new developments.

When I arrived, a waiting staff member ushered me in through a side exit and up to Scarlett’s floor. I wasn’t family, but apparently she was conscious and gave them permission to let me see her.

She’s conscious, which means she’s okay.

She’s okay.

She’s okay.

The mantra thudded in rhythm with my pulse.

Conscious wasn’t dead. It didn’t mean she was doing bloody cartwheels, but at least she was alive.

After a seeming eternity, the lift doors pinged open. I sprinted into the hall, leaving my escort behind. I didn’t need them to tell me which room Scarlett was in; I could see Carina and Brooklyn standing outside, their faces pale with worry.

Carina opened her mouth, but I didn’t wait to hear what she had to say before I barreled into the hospital room.

I didn’t care if that was rude. I needed to see Scarlett with my own eyes, or I would fucking combust.

The door shut behind me. I came to an abrupt halt, my chest heaving as I stared at her.

She lay half propped up in the bed, her body swaddled in a loose white hospital gown that was almost the same shade as her pale, waxen complexion. She was hooked up to several machines, and gauze dressing covered half her forehead.

She blinked in visible shock when she saw me. “Asher?” Her voice was barely audible.

My lungs twisted, cutting off the free flow of oxygen.

“Hi, darling.” I swallowed as I approached her bedside. “Next time you want to get a hold of me, a call would suffice, yeah?”

Scarlett’s smile was a shadow of its usual self.

The vise in my chest constricted further. I’d seen her tired, I’d seen her in pain after a flare-up, but I’d never seen her look this fragile and exhausted. She was always so vibrant and full of life, and the evidence of her mortality instilled a bone-deep terror in me.

“You know me. I like a little drama.” She coughed. “How did you find out I was here?”

“Brooklyn called me. She tried calling your brother too, but his phone was off.”

Did they get through to him? Did he know his sister was in the hospital, or was Coach holding off on telling him until after the match? He should be at the stadium by now, but if he did know what happened, he’d be here. Vincent’s care for Scarlett was one of the things I’d never questioned about him.

“He always turns his phone off before a match. Said it’s too distracting,” Scarlett murmured.

I smoothed her hair back from her forehead, careful not to exert too much pressure lest I aggravate her injury. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I got dizzy and hit my head.”

“That’s not nothing.” My hand lingered over the gauze. “How much does it hurt?” I asked quietly.

Not just the injury, but everything.

Her silence said more than words could.

Jagged shards raked through my insides. My heart felt like cracked glass, its pieces held together only by the sound of Scarlett’s breaths.

I hated this. I hated the asshole whose car rammed into hers, I hated that medical technology wasn’t advanced enough to take away her pain, and most of all, I hated how helpless I was.

Despite all my money and all my fame, I couldn’t do a thing.

“It’s not too bad.” Her voice grew fainter. “I pushed a little too hard during rehearsals, that’s all. I’ll be fine after some rest.”

My shoulders stiffened.

Her feelings toward the showcase ran deeper than the mere act of performance, and I had to tread carefully with what I said next.

“The showcase is in December,” I reminded her gently. “You have two months of rehearsals left.”

Based on the stubborn jut of her chin, I knew it was a lost cause before she even responded. “I’ll be more careful in the future. I can make it to December.”

Frustration swelled. She was already killing herself to prove she could make it through rehearsals like everyone else. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her go through two more months of this.

Her collapse wasn’t the result of one bad day; it had to be an accumulation of them. I wasn’t sure what hurt more—the fact that she hid it from me or the fact that I hadn’t been there to notice.

My schedule was always packed during the season, and we’d been prepared to spend more time apart than over the summer, but dammit, I should’ve been there.

“I’ll always take care of you.” I cupped her cheek, my chest aching. “But promise me you’ll also take care of yourself.”

Scarlett’s eyes gleamed with emotion, and she responded with the tiniest of nods.

“I’ll leave so you can get some rest.” I leaned down and brushed her lips with mine. If I had the choice, I’d stay by her side until she was discharged, but that would only distract her. She needed to sleep. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

I stood and turned to leave.

“Wait. I just saw the time.” Scarlett’s voice gained a modicum of strength along with panic. “Your match. You have to go. It’s starting in⁠—”

“I’m not going.” I’d already instructed Sloane to call Coach and tell him what happened. He would give me absolute hell for it later, but I’d deal with that when the time came.

“What?” Her eyes widened. “But it’s against Holchester. It’s…Asher. You have to go. I’m fine.” She coughed again, her breathing growing labored. “There’s no point in you staying here when I’m sleeping.”

“There is a point.” My jaw tightened. “When Brooklyn called and told me you were in the hospital…there are no words to describe how I felt. It was like the world had collapsed and buried me beneath its rubble. And even though she told me you were alive and that you weren’t in serious danger, I couldn’t think, couldn’t even fucking breathe until I saw it with my own two eyes.” I shook my head, my throat taut with emotion. “If I left now and went to the match, it wouldn’t matter. I’d spend the entire time thinking about you. I’d be a liability more than anything else.”

Prior to Scarlett, I would’ve crawled through a sea of broken glass before I missed a match. Football was the most important thing in my life. It always had been, and I thought it always would be.

But I’d finally found something—someone—that I cared about more.

It didn’t matter that I’d spent weeks anticipating today’s match against Holchester or that my pride was on the line. It didn’t matter that Coach was probably furious with me and that the fans would be too.

Scarlett was more important than all of that, and I couldn’t, wouldn’t leave her side as long as she was here.

A tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small.

My heart squeezed for the millionth time that day. “Don’t be sorry, darling.” I rubbed the tear away with my thumb. “It’s not your fault.”

“But—”

“No. I chose to come here, and I chose to stay here. Do not feel guilty about me missing the match. That’s my problem to deal with. You just focus on resting so we can get you out of here as soon as possible. I’d hate to subject you to hospital food for longer than necessary.”

Scarlett’s laugh came out as a wisp of a sound, but it was enough for me.

Our conversation must’ve spent her energy because she didn’t protest further. Her eyes fluttered closed, and I waited until her breathing settled into a steady rhythm before I stepped into the hall.

Brooklyn and Carina were huddled over the former’s phone, wearing identical masks of apprehension.

They raised their heads when they heard the door open, and my temporary relief from seeing Scarlett morphed into fresh concern.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

They exchanged glances.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news twice in one day, but…” Brooklyn handed me her phone. “You should see this.”

I took it, and my skin immediately went ice-cold.

Someone had captured a video of me arriving at the hospital and sprinting toward the entrance. Going through the side was more private than going through the front, but I guess it still wasn’t private enough.

Whoever took the video had uploaded it to social media seven minutes ago, and it already had over fifty thousand views and hundreds of comments.

Once the paps picked up on this, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out who I was here to see. After that, it’d take an even shorter leap for them to connect the dots of our relationship.

I’d missed a huge match against Holchester for her. There was only one reason why I’d do that.

“I’m sorry,” Carina said. She must’ve come to the same conclusions I had. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“No. It’s…” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “No. We’ll deal with it. It’ll be fine. Thank you.”

It’s not fine. I batted away the voice that told me our secret, the secret Scarlett and I had worked so hard to keep for so long, would soon be out of the bag in the most public way possible.

One thing at a time.

The news hadn’t broken yet. Until then, I needed to call Sloane—a quick scan of my messages revealed she’d already seen the video—then call Coach, then find the doctor and figure out a way to make Scarlett’s recovery more comfortable.

I didn’t know how long she needed to stay at the hospital, but she bloody sure wasn’t staying in that small, sad room for longer than a night.

I made my calls in a quiet corner near Scarlett’s room. Sloane was, as expected, on top of the impending relationship leak. She wasn’t thrilled about the timing or the circumstances, but I think she was just glad I wasn’t making headlines for racing anymore.

My call to Coach went to voicemail. I wasn’t surprised since warm-ups for the match had already started, but I needed to apologize to him in my own words, so I left a short message. He could be livid with me in person later.

Finally, I spoke with the doctor, who said Scarlett could be discharged as soon as tomorrow if her condition remained steady.

That was a relief, but I was already worrying about next week’s rehearsal. And the week after that. And the week after that. Would Lavinia let her remain the lead if she found out about the hospitalization? With Yvette gone, she didn’t have other options for the Lorena role, but I couldn’t see the stern, rule-abiding director letting what happened today slide. She wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but she cared about her staff’s well-being.

My head pounded with a million worries stacked on top of each other.

While Scarlett slept, I kept an eye on both the news and the match. Thankfully, we were up by one, but I was more focused on the brief close-ups of Vincent’s face than the actual gameplay.

I tried to read his expressions and figure out if he knew about Scarlett yet. The video of me at the hospital had been uploaded when the players were already on the pitch, so I doubted he was aware of that. But had he turned on his phone or spoken with Coach before the match?

It was impossible to tell since Vincent always looked like a moody son of a bitch during a match.

Coach, on the other hand, was visibly angry. If he clenched his jaw any harder during the few camera shots of him, he’d shatter a molar. Gallagher, my sub, was doing a damn good job, but it didn’t matter.

There’d be hell to pay for my last-minute decision to skip the match later. It was technically a personal emergency, but since no one was dead or dying, I doubted he’d sympathize much.

“Asher, go get something to eat,” Brooklyn said. “Scarlett’s still asleep. She’s not going to, I don’t know, roll over and fall onto the floor.”

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Carina added.

I nearly protested, but we were all tired and hungry and cranky after hours in the hospital. I didn’t want to get into an argument with Scarlett’s friends, but I would also rather chew off my hand than eat the cafeteria food.

Instead, I ducked into the loo and bought a pack of pretzels and water on my way back. I ate them next to the vending machine, grateful for the energy boost.

When I returned to the hall outside Scarlett’s room, only Brooklyn was there. She jumped up when she saw me.

“Any new developments while I was gone?” I asked.

I didn’t expect her to say yes, but a nervous expression crossed her face at my question.

“Well, Carina’s in the bathroom, and Scarlett’s awake again.”

“Already?” She’d looked so exhausted when I talked to her that I expected her to sleep through the night. Did something happen? Was she in so much pain she couldn’t sleep?

“Yes. But, um, you might not want to go in there,” Brooklyn said when I moved toward the door.

It was too late. I’d already cracked it open.

“Why…” My words died in my throat.

Because Scarlett wasn’t alone. Standing beside her bed, his back to me, was Vincent. I’d recognize that buzz cut and number four kit anywhere. He must’ve come straight from the match.

He turned, his face darkening when he saw me.

Fuck. I hadn’t seen any news about me and Scarlett yet, but considering I’d missed my most anticipated match of the season so far to be by her side, I guess he’d pieced the puzzle together faster than the paps.

I held up my hands as he stormed toward me. “Vincent, I⁠—”

I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence before he hauled his fist back and slammed it into my face.