Page 106 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
I wasn’t alone.
Warmth rushed to fill one of the tiny, fear-hollowed crevices in my chest.
“That being said, you’ll never have full anonymity again.” Asher’s tone gentled. “Like you said, there are always people watching. It can be a reporter. It can be a fan. It can be a random passerby. The average person usually has enough decency not to invade our privacy, but you never know for sure. There’ll be comments on online forums, social media posts, tips to the tabloids. People might make up rumors, and others will believe them even if they’re blatantly false. Old friends and acquaintances will come out of the woodwork with stories, real or fake, for their fifteen minutes of fame. These are all possibilities.”
The warmth dissipated, and my dinner hardened into cement sludge in my stomach. “It’s like you’retryingto scare me away,” I quipped, but anxiety pitched my voice higher than normal.
I’d been in the spotlight as a prima ballerina, but that was different. I was recognized mostly by my peers and ballet enthusiasts. The general population wouldn’t recognize a dancer on the street even if she was the most famous ballerina in the world.
Footballers, on the other hand? They were mainstream, especially in the UK. Especially when they played for a top club like Blackcastle. Andespeciallywhen their name was Asher Donovan.
He’d never dated anyone for more than a few weeks at a time. The sheer novelty of our relationship (if we lasted longer than that) would drive incredible amounts of interest.
It would die down eventually, but I had to make it through the storm first.
“I’m not trying to scare you, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t warn you.” Asher watched me carefully, like he was afraid I’d run off and never look back.
“I know. I appreciate the warning.” I inhaled a deep breath. The idea of being perceived so publicly terrified me, but I couldn’t let my fears hold me back from what I wanted anymore. “We’ll figure out the pap situation. However, there’s a bigger issue. My brother.”
Asher’s entire face shuttered.
“You two have to sort out your issues for the sake of the teamandyour careers,” I said. “Do you remember why we started training together in the first place? The Boss will be livid if your animosity carries over into the next season.”
“The Boss?”
“Your coach. Armstrong. Vincent and I call him the Boss because, well, he’s the boss. I guess it’s not very original.” I drew my bottom lip between my teeth. “Why do you hate each other so much anyway? It has to be more than the sponsorships or the title of greatest footballer.”
If I knewwhy, then maybe I could help them mend their relationship. I didn’t want my brother and exclusive non-boyfriend to hate each other.
“I don’t hate him,” Asher said. “I just can’t stand him.”
“Same thing.”
“Perhaps.” He leaned back, his face angled away from the rest of the diners. Luckily, the din was loud enough to muffle our conversation from potential eavesdroppers. “This career is weird. So much of it is played out in the public eye, and we’re constantly pitted against each other on and off the pitch. Competitiveness is in our blood. So yes, part of our rivalry stems from the eternal battle over who’s the better footballer. I can overlook that. It’s par for the course.” His eyes darkened. “Then the World Cup happened.”
Concrete blocks settled at the pit of my stomach.
That damn World Cup. I should’ve known. The answer was so obvious, but it’d happened years ago. I hadn’t realized how long of a shadow it cast.
Even though Vincent had been born in London, he moved to Paris and became a French citizen when he was six, after our parents’ divorce. As a result, he played for France in international tournaments.
During the last World Cup, England and France had been tied during the semifinals. A quarter of the way into the match, Vincent and Asher got into an altercation that resulted in Vincent feigning an injury and Asher getting red carded.
The loss of their star striker turned the tide against England, who’d been favored to win the cup. Instead, they lost two to four while France went on to take the tournament.
The ref got raked over the coals for his call, but it didn’t matter. Side-by-side images of a triumphant Vincent hoisting the trophy and a devastated Asher walking off the pitch had dominated the news for weeks afterward.
“He faked his damn injury, and the ref didn’t see it.” A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw. “If it weren’t for him, I’d probably have a World Cup.”
I winced, unsure how to respond.
For footballers, the World Cup was the holy grail. Vincent had celebrated formonthsafter France’s victory. He got a lot of hate from England fans after the tournament, but as Blackcastle’s captain and top defender, he also had a sizable fanbase that shielded him from the worst of the criticism. Eventually, people got over it and moved on.
Asher didn’t.
“There’ll be another World Cup,” I said softly. “That wasn’t your last chance.”
“I only have so many chances.” Asher’s eyes flickered in the dim lighting. “It takes place every four years, and a lot can change in that time. I have maybe two more tournaments left in me, and that’s not accounting for any injuries or accidents that might take me out early.”