The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

I didn’t believe in ghosts. I was superstitious about my pre-match rituals—see: my lucky boots and listening to my playlist in the exact order in which I’d arranged the songs, no skips or replays—but I didn’t believe in the existence of spiritual beings or haunted houses.

I changed my mind after Scarlett broke up with me.

A week had passed since I left her studio, but everywhere I turned, there she was, haunting me. Every little thing reminded me of her—the light strains of classical music piping through a lift, the entire horror movie genre, even the fucking color pink because she’d worn it so much during our trainings.

There were certain rooms I couldn’t even enter, like the screening room and the ballet studio, because she was so present, so there, that stepping into them was akin to reaching inside my chest and tearing my heart in half.

My house had turned into a mausoleum of memories, and I couldn’t stand the sight of it. I couldn’t even use football as an escape because I was benched while I healed from my injuries.

Thankfully, after a week of absolute hell, my doctor gave me the go-ahead to return to training. My exercises had to be modified to account for my sprains and strains, but I was healthy enough to hit the gym while the rest of the team suffered through pain shuttles and alternating box sprints.

It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was better than nothing.

One.

I tried to focus on counting my dumbbell press reps instead of the echo of Scarlett’s voice. I can’t stand by and watch you self-destruct.

My chest clenched, fraying my concentration.

I gritted my teeth and pushed through it.

Two.

Her tear-streaked face swam past my vision, evidence that our breakup devastated her as much as it did me, and that was what killed me the most.

She was out there somewhere hurting, and I couldn’t comfort her because I was the cause of her hurt. Me and my stupid, selfish, short-sighted actions.

I swallowed a lump of regret in my throat, but another sprang up immediately to take its place.

There was no relief from my guilt, not even in the sanctuary of the gym.

Three.

Sweat poured down my face and stung my eyes. I’d worked out for close to an hour already, but I still hadn’t purged the nausea roiling my stomach.

Four.

The sound of my phone ringing snuck past the music playing on low in my ears. It wasn’t Scarlett; I’d set a different ringtone for her so I’d know if she called. She never did.

It was probably my mother again, fretting over the crash and the tabloids. It might even be my father, calling to scream at me about a host of things. They’d visited me while I was in the hospital, but they hadn’t stayed in London long.

My mother wanted to keep me company until I was fully healed, but I convinced her my injuries were minor (half true) and that she couldn’t take extended time off from her job as a teacher (definitely true).

She must’ve said something to my father before they came to the hospital because he’d held his tongue, though I could see the scathing sentiments swimming in his eyes.

It was why I avoided most of their calls these days. I was already falling apart; I didn’t have the additional mental or emotional energy to argue with them. My mother would want me to talk to my father, and my father…well, he was who he was.

I closed my eyes and let the music drown out my phone.

Ten reps.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

I went beyond the planned reps for this set, but I was afraid that if I stopped, I’d be left alone with my thoughts.

So I kept going.

“Donovan.”

Sometime between twenty-five and thirty, a familiar voice interrupted my determined count.

I dropped the dumbbells and paused my music. “Aren’t you supposed to be in training?”

“I’m heading there now. I had to talk to Coach first.” Noah stood in the doorway to the gym, dressed in his practice kit and gloves.

My eyebrows hiked up. Noah always toed the line and never got into trouble. What did he have to talk to Coach about that couldn’t wait until after practice?

His stoic expression didn’t offer any hints, though a touch of sympathy entered his eyes when he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He wants to see you next,” he said. “As soon as possible.”

Dread coiled around my gut. It was my first day back on the training grounds since the crash. I’d spent the morning meeting with the team’s head of rehabilitation and physiotherapy, which meant this would also be my first time talking to Coach in person since I was discharged.

He’d visited me in the hospital, but our conversation had been limited to logistics and my physical well-being.

I had a feeling today’s meeting would be less genial.

“Got it. Thanks.” I stood, pulled my earphones out, and shoved them in my pocket. I took my sweet time placing the dumbbells back on the rack and wiping down the equipment I’d used, but I could only stall so long.

“Good luck.” Noah clapped a hand on my back as I passed him.

I nodded my thanks.

I headed toward Coach’s office, apprehension slowing me down as much as my ankle. It’d healed quite a bit over the past week, but it hadn’t returned to full fighting form yet.

I knocked on the door and entered at his brusque come in. I sank into my usual chair—pretty sad that I had a usual chair, now that I thought about it— and tried to read his expression as I did so.

I’d expected him to be red-faced and raging, but he was silent and impassive—which was almost worse. I’d rather know what he was feeling than have to guess.

“Do you know why I signed you?”

His question caught me so off guard it took several beats for me to answer. “Because you wanted to shore up your attacking frontline and bring home the club’s first Premier League title in a decade.”

Blackcastle hadn’t placed first in the Premier League since legendary forward Jamie Defoe retired ten years ago. It boasted an excellent defense, but historically, its attacks weren’t strong enough to beat the likes of Holchester.

Coach grunted at my response. “That’s part of it, but there are a number of great strikers in the league—and they’re a hell of lot less expensive than you are.”

I stayed quiet, unsure where he was going with this.

“I got a lot of pushback when I first brought your name up to the transfer committee,” he said. “You’re a once-in-a-lifetime player, there’s no doubt about that. In fact, you’re one of the most talented players I’ve coached since I became a club manager. But you’re also hot-headed, reckless, and have a tendency to prioritize your personal grievances over what’s good for the team.”

Heat seared my face. “Coach⁠—”

“I’m not done.” His mouth pursed. “You think I didn’t know about your racing habit or your rivalry with DuBois before I paid two hundred fifty million bloody pounds to bring you to Markovic Stadium? Everyone knew, and that’s why the rest of the committee resisted so hard. They thought I was mad for even considering you.” He shook his head. “I had to fight for you, Donovan. It doesn’t matter how many hat tricks you’ve pulled off or how many Ballons d’Or you’ve won. A reckless player is a dangerous player, and the committee was adamant that we couldn’t afford to be distracted by your scandals when we’re trying to win the league.”

I swallowed. We’d never discussed the logistics behind my transfer. I had no idea he’d encountered so much resistance on my behalf. “But you didn’t agree with them, sir?”

“Not at the time. Do you want to know why?” Coach’s eyes drilled into me. “Because the fire that fuels your recklessness is the same fire that differentiates the greats from the legends. Like I said, there are a lot of great strikers. But they don’t have the same hunger you have. They want to win; you want to break records. They’re satisfied with maximizing their potential; you’re not because you don’t think there is a cap to your potential. If you could channel all that fire onto the pitch without letting your pride and petty squabbles get in the way, you’d be unstoppable. I convinced the committee that was possible. I told them that, with a little guidance, you’d understand what was at stake and pull it together.” True disappointment colored his words. “You’ve let me down.”

I strangled the edge of my seat with white knuckles. You’ve let me down. I’d heard that sentiment plenty of times in my life, including from my father, but the calm, matter-of-fact manner in which Coach delivered it stung harder than any heated words or shouts.

If my breakup with Scarlett was the worst conversation of my life, this was a strong contender for second place.

The growing weight of guilt pressed in from all sides, making me want to melt into the floor and disappear forever.

“I know you have a complicated relationship with your old team, and Bocci has a reputation for being an instigator,” Coach said. “However, I’d hoped that you would’ve learned to control your impulses better. The authorities don’t have the evidence they need to implicate anyone in a crime, but you and I both know what really happened the night of the crash.”

The specter of my mistake reared its ugly head again, like a beast who kept regenerating no matter how many times I tried to kill it.

“You got lucky, but everyone’s luck runs out some time. The question is, will you have pulled your head out of your ass before it does.” Coach didn’t sound upset, merely exhausted. “The committee said you’re too rash. That you take your youth and talent for granted and that you don’t respect the consequences of your actions as much as you should. So far, you’re proving them right. Being a great footballer is about more than skills and drive. It’s about focus. It’s about teamwork. It’s about the discipline and self-control to stop and think before you act. Emotion is a powerful motivator, but it can also be your greatest enemy.”

My next swallow felt like I was forcing nails down my throat. “I am disciplined. I will be disciplined. I’m done fighting with Holchester off the pitch, and you won’t see me behind the wheel of a car during a race ever again, sir.”

I’d promised Scarlett the same thing, but like Scarlett, Coach didn’t look convinced.

“Are you?” He regarded me with naked skepticism. “Discipline is a mental exercise, Donovan. Physically, you excel at the game, but mindset is as important as any of the conditioning drills that Greely is running out there. And right now, your mind is a mess. No, it’s true.” He cut me off when I opened my mouth in protest. “You may not see it, but I know my players, and I’ve watched you especially closely since you joined my club. Now, I’m no psychologist, but even I can see that something is driving those stupid, impulsive decisions of yours. It’s not Holchester and it’s not DuBois. Until you figure out what it is and deal with it, you’ll never find the discipline you need to achieve your goals—or to work with the team.”

Cold unease crawled under my skin. Coach’s words were both vague and ominous—the worst combination.

“The doctors and our rehab team say you’ll be fully healed and cleared to play in two weeks, but you’ll be off the pitch longer than that.” Coach sighed. “I’m benching you until further notice.”

“What?” I nearly shot out of my chair. “Coach, you can’t—” I stopped when I noticed his tired frown.

He didn’t want this any more than I did. Benching me indefinitely was a huge gamble. Between the price of my transfer and the fact that I was their lead attacker, my absence would cause chaos. Any time Blackcastle lost a match, they would blame him for not putting me in.

Coach was going to get shredded by the public and the club’s executive committee—they hadn’t paid millions of pounds for me to sit on the sidelines—but he felt strongly enough about the situation to risk that outcome.

I sank back into my chair and tamped down my knee-jerk indignation. He had every right to bench me. He’d given me plenty of warnings regarding my behavior, and I’d ignored him.

He would be a terrible coach if he didn’t discipline me.

“Prove to me you can think before acting first and that you have a handle on your impulsiveness. Once you do that, I’ll allow you back on the pitch.” He nodded at the door. “Now get back to training. Just because you’re benched doesn’t mean you can slack off.”

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.

I walked out, my ears ringing with condemnation.

It’s about the pattern. It’s about compulsively choosing to do something that leads to self-harm.

Something is driving those stupid, impulsive decisions of yours.

I can’t stand by and watch you self-destruct.

Do you remember the favor you owe me? Please go.

My head pounded from the tumult of voices swarming my brain. They overlapped and blended together, their collective volume rising to a point where I could no longer hear my steps against the concrete floor or the anxious hammer of my pulse.

Scarlett, football, my control over my own bloody life…everyone and everything I loved was slipping through my fingers.

If I didn’t get my shit together soon, I’d lose everything I’d worked so hard for.

Permanently.