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Page 117 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

Asher’s lips pressed together. “He’s the reason for your no-footballers rule.”

I nodded. “I was so heartbroken, and football was such a big part of who he was that I conflated his shortcomings with the sport as a whole. Besides my brother, every footballer I met reminded me of him, so I swore them off altogether.”

“I don’t blame you. Most of us are absolute wankers,” Asher admitted with a trace of a smile.

“Most are,” I agreed. “But you’re not.”

I used to think he was. Before we were forced to spend time together in training, I’d already formed an opinion about who he was based on what Vincent told me, what I read in the press, and the mere fact that he was Asher fucking Donovan. How could someone so famous and good-lookingnotbe an arrogant playboy?

But over the past few months, I’d discovered that he was so much more than the words other people used to pigeonhole him. It wasn’t about what he did so much as how he made me feel—like I was safe, worthy, and cherished. Like I could share my deepest secrets and ugliest thoughts without diminishing myself in his eyes.

I expected a flippant response, but Asher’s mouth sobered as he regarded me across the table.

“I try not to be,” he said. “I don’t always succeed, but I try.”

I drew in a shallow breath. We’d barely touched our food, but my stomach was full of butterflies.

The silence stretched just long enough to end in a perfect, pinpoint period.

“Thank you for letting me ramble,” I said. “I know it’s probably bad etiquette to talk about an ex during a date.”

“You can talk to me about anything, anytime.” Asher rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You said he used to play with Vincent. Do you mind if I ask who it was?”

I hesitated for only a beat. “Rafael Pessoa.”

The Brazilian striker had been Vincent’s teammate at Chelsea before they both transferred. Luckily, Rafael left the Premier League for La Liga soon after our breakup, so I didn’t have to worry about running into him in London.

“Pessoa?” Asher snorted. “I always knew he was an arsehole. He dives more than an Olympic swimmer.”

I laughed. Rafaeldidhave a penchant for feigning injuries. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He hates when people call him out on it.”

“I bet he does. You’re better off without him. He doesn’t deserve you.”

Emotions jumbled in my throat. Luckily, Asher saved me from the humiliation of crying in front of him again when he reached for the intercom again.

“I do have one more surprise for you,” he said. “I hope you’re in the mood for a double dessert.”

My brows knitted together when our servers returned and placed two cakes on the table. One was a raspberry cheesecake similar to what we’d baked during class. The second was…

I blinked, certain I was seeing wrong.

I wasn’t.

“Asher.” I covered my mouth with one hand. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t askSebastian Laurentto make that cake.”

“No. His pastry chef made it.” Asher grinned. “I wanted something memorable to cap off our evening. I hope you like it.”

“Like it? Iloveit.” I dragged the second plate closer so I could examine it in detail. My voice bubbled with laughter. “I’m just not sure I can eat it. It’s too beautiful.”

The buttercream-frosted cake was large enough for six people. A golden yellow fondant figurine of a certain cartoon dog adorned the top, next to a picture of a tiny planet. And beneath that picture, written in neat, blue frosting cursive, were three words.

Justice for Pluto.

CHAPTER 30

ASHER

I hated to admit it, but my father was right. Iwasdistracted.




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