Page 11 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
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 oldrealfast.”
“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…andshe 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 afterall. 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 factoranywhereinto 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.