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Page 127 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“Well…” I caught Asher’s eye when he scanned the crowd, his gaze skimming over the different sections until it found me. A thousand fluttering wings filled my chest. “He’s different.”

My friends let out good-natured groans, but I didn’t care. The world narrowed to pools of intense green and the heat of Asher’s stare. Electricity buzzed to life between us, slipping beneath my skin and setting every nerve ending on fire.

We couldn’t do much with my brother and a thousand other people present, but we didn’t need to. It wasn’t about what we said or did; it was about what we felt.

Then, right before the teams finished their warm-ups, Asher grinned and winked. It happened so fast I would’ve missed it had I not already been looking at him, but it was enough. The thousand wings multiplied into a million, and I couldn’t keep an answering grin off my face as the players took their places for kickoff.

When I finally looked away, my friends were staring at me with amusement.

“It’s so sweet it’s disgusting,” Brooklyn said. “I want it.”

“I don’t,” Carina said. “I’d never get any work done.”

“So real.”

I pointedly stayed out of their conversation, which petered out as the match started.

We screamed and cheered for the Reds and groaned when the Greens scored a goal. The players were a mix of top-level professionals and hobbyists. It made for an uneven match at times, but the crowd’s enthusiasm and the buzzy atmosphere was so much fun that no one seemed to mind.

It was also the first match where we saw what Asher and Vincent were capable of when they weren’t at each other’s throats. Maybe it was the relatively low stakes or the fact they were playing for charity. Whatever it was, they played so well together that the Reds dominated the first half. The combination of Asher’s offense and Vincent’s defense resulted in two goals that roused the stadium into a fit of pandemonium.

Then disaster struck.

Less than a minute into the second half, one of the Reds fouled one of the Greens. The Green player crumpled to the ground, and the cheers cut off so abruptly it was like someone had pressed mute on a thousand people.

The two sides swarmed the ref, their hands gesticulating wildly as they argued with the stern-faced man. I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but no one looked happy.

Asher and Vincent wore matching scowls, and after maybe a minute of heated discussion, the ref shook his head. He’d made his decision.

Greens got a penalty kick.

Someone helped the injured player off the pitch, and there was another small commotion when the Greens indicated they were subbing in a new player.

I squinted, trying to make out the new player’s face.

When I did, my heart plummeted to my toes. A cold sensation crawled down my throat and filled my lungs.

“No fucking way.” Carina verbalized my sentiments exactly. She grabbed my arm, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

I hadn’t seen the sub during warm-ups. I didn’t know why he was at the match or why he was in London, period, but there was no mistaking that dark hair or cocky smile.

My stomach curdled with disbelief as he jogged onto the pitch.

Of all the people who could’ve subbed in for the injured Green player, it had to behim. Rafael Pessoa. My ex-boyfriend.

Asher and Vincent’s heads snapped toward him like lions sensing prey. Their bodies went rigid, and identical shadows darkened their faces.

Oh, no. Oh nononono.

“This is not good,” Carina said. “This is not good at all.”

Brooklyn’s brow puckered. She didn’t know about Rafael, so she had no clue why we were freaking out. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well.” My mouth tasted like pennies. “I think you’re going to get that fight you were hoping for.”

ASHER

“What ishedoing here?” Vincent spat from his spot beside me.




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