The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)

Everything hurt.

My bones, my joints, the simple act of breathing. Every drag of air resembled a steel claw raking through my lungs, making me wish for oblivion again.

I was dimly aware that I should open my eyes and take stock of my surroundings. It didn’t smell right. Instead of lemony cleaner or lavender diffuser, I detected antiseptic and…aftershave? Something spicy with a hint of citrus.

So. I wasn’t in the studio or my bedroom.

Where the hell am I? Hopefully not some random one-night stand’s house. One-night stands were never a good idea, even if they smelled delicious.

“Need anything else…”

“When she comes around…”

The faint murmur of voices dragged my mind off the mysterious aftershave and onto my current predicament again.

Strange room. Pain. Right.

At least my joints didn’t hurt quite as much as when I first regained consciousness. I still wanted to curl into a ball and pray for sleep, but I could push through it.

I always did.

I cracked my eyes open, half-afraid I’d find myself in some dingy man cave with weeks-old takeaway and topless posters plastered all over the walls.

Instead, a pair of green eyes stared down at me beneath furrowed brows.

Chiseled cheekbones. Sculpted mouth. An annoyingly attractive flop of dark hair.

Asher.

“You’re awake.” The furrow smoothed, though his eyes remained worried. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck that reversed and ran me over again.” My response scratched its way up my throat. “So I feel great.”

Asher snorted. “Your sarcasm is intact, so it can’t be that bad.”

Nevertheless, he scanned me with the brisk thoroughness of someone who needed to confirm the other was all right without making a big production out of it.

There was nothing remotely sexual about it, but my skin prickled with awareness anyway.

To distract myself from his scrutiny, I glanced around the room. Whoever he’d been talking to was gone, leaving us alone in the school’s infirmary. No wonder I hadn’t recognized it by scent alone; I rarely came here, preferring to deal with my flare-ups alone.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Asher’s gaze met mine again. “You took quite the fall back there.”

He sounded both concerned and commanding, a rare combo that made warmth curl low inside me.

Still, I defaulted to an excuse instead of the truth. “I forgot to eat lunch and got dizzy.”

I didn’t like talking about my chronic pain. It often made people uncomfortable, which made me uncomfortable. They were sympathetic, of course, but there was always a beat of pity, an unspoken poor you that had me biting my tongue.

“That wasn’t dizziness. You were in pain.” Asher’s eyes darkened. “Are you still in pain?”

A rough edge ran beneath his voice, and I had to swallow to ease my suddenly dry throat.

“A little.” A lot. Not enough to pass out again, but enough that the prospect of getting up seemed more daunting than climbing Mount Everest.

He cursed under his breath. “Let me get the nurse⁠—”

“No!” I grabbed his arm before he could leave. “There’s nothing she can do. I just have to wait for it to pass.”

Anything that required asking other people for help made me squirrelly, which was why I’d had such a difficult time coping after my accident. The transition from fully self-sufficient to reliant on others was a difficult one to endure.

Asher’s features sharpened. “Wait for what to pass?”

“My flare-up. I don’t get them often anymore, but when I do, they can be…debilitating.”

Resignation pulled the truth out of me. If we were going to spend the summer together, I might as well tell him, especially since my flare-ups were growing in frequency.

It was one thing to hide it from my other, younger students; it was another trying to conceal it from a professional athlete who understood the body’s tells as much as I did.

“I got into a car accident five years ago,” I said. Asher went deathly still, his intake of breath the only sign of life as I continued my story. “I was on my way to a performance when the other person ran a red light and collided with the taxi I was in. I woke up in the hospital with a punctured lung, dislocated hip, and a dozen other issues. That was the end of my career, and the start of this.” I gestured at myself. “The doctors said my chronic pain is a result of nerve damage.”

The piercing pain had dulled into a general tenderness, but my recounting of that night caused a different kind of ache to blossom.

I hadn’t told anyone about the accident since Carina. It’d made waves when it happened, but that was long enough ago that no one outside the ballet world would remember. Car accidents happened every day; they weren’t memorable unless you knew someone personally involved.

It was funny how a life-changing moment for one person was nothing more than a blip on the news for someone else.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Asher didn’t tell me how sorry he was or pry for more details. He simply focused on me with those steady, sympathetic eyes, and the ache behind my rib cage thickened into an unidentifiable emotion.

“Sure.” I managed a wan smile. “Tell me how you got us here.”

My studio was on the first floor, the infirmary was on the fourth, and the lift was currently under maintenance.

“I carried you.” He answered so matter-of-factly it took a minute for his words to sink in.

“You carried me up three flights of stairs?”

Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It was my strength training for the day.”

A vague recollection of strong arms and pounding footsteps floated through my brain but vanished as quickly as it surfaced. I couldn’t tell if it was an actual memory or a fantasy brought about by his words.

Either way, it made the room feel just a little bit less cold.

“Wow, I’m good at my job,” I said with small laugh. “Unconscious and I still made you work.”

“You’re a tough taskmaster.” Asher’s mouth tipped up before softening again. “If it still hurts, I can ask the nurse for a heating pad or pain meds.”

The curl of warmth returned, spreading from my stomach and down my legs to my toes.

I shook my head. “I just want to go home.” Pilates, sleep, and a warm bath were my go-tos for managing flare-ups, and the infirmary’s cot wasn’t a great place for any of those things.

Normally, I would’ve never confessed something so vulnerable out loud. I followed a chin-up, suck-it-up philosophy, but fatigue had set in, loosening my inhibitions, and Asher’s presence was oddly comforting.

“We can make that happen.” Asher’s gaze dipped, and to my horror, I realized I’d been holding onto him this entire time.

I dropped his arm immediately, fire crawling up the back of my neck. Why didn’t he say anything earlier?

My palm tingled in the absence of his warmth, and I wiped it against the side of my leg, hoping that would help.

It didn’t. It only succeeded in aggravating the tenderness of my muscles.

I winced. Smart move, Scarlett. Truly Mensa-worthy.

A brief frown touched Asher’s face before he looked away. “A warning, though,” he said. “The press is back. The guy I was chasing earlier? He was a young pap disguised as a prospective student. That was how he got in.”

My chest swam with disbelief. “Seriously?” That was unhinged. What story could they sell with photos of Asher at RAB anyway? Him cross-training at a dance studio wasn’t scandalous in any way.

I was all for people making a living how they could, but I firmly believed paparazzi deserved a special place in hell next to the telemarketers and corrupt politicians.

“That’s going to be a problem,” I said.

I didn’t want to worry about candid pictures of me ending up in some sleazy tabloid every time I came to work. Asher was their target, but as his trainer, I had a high likelihood of getting caught in the crossfire.

“I agree, but I’ve been thinking about it since our first run-in with them, and I might have a solution,” Asher said. “Can you send me a list of everything we need for training? Equipment, supplies, room dimensions. Everything.”

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

I must’ve looked skeptical because a small smile quirked at the corner of his lips.

“It’ll be a surprise. The paps will continue to be an issue because they know where I’ll be every other day. We have to throw them off our scent. Trust me,” he repeated. “I know what I’m doing.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue.

I also didn’t make a habit of trusting anyone outside my family and Carina, but in that moment, it was hard to remember why I should keep Asher at arm’s length.

He wasn’t my brother’s nemesis or my trainee—he was the person who’d carried me up three flights of stairs, stayed with me until I regained consciousness, and didn’t make me feel like an object of pity when I told him about my accident.

And that’s exactly why he’s dangerous.