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Page 135 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“It’s about time,” Brooklyn said as we took our seats on either side of the circular booth—me next to Scarlett, Vincent next to Brooklyn. Carina sat smack dab in the middle, her eyes glued to something on her phone. “Did you two enjoy your ride so much you extended it?”

“Don’t push it, Blondie,” Vincent said. “You’re cute, but not that cute.”

She smirked. “Was that why you wanted to ride with me earlier?”

“No, that was because I was already in a charitable mood and wanted to extend my generosity to you.”

“Children,” Scarlett murmured as Vincent and Brooklyn continued to bicker. “I’m surrounded by children.”

“Don’t lump me in with them,” I said. “I’m a mature adult.”

“Today is not the day for you to make that assertion.”

I frowned.Hmm.Fair enough.

“How was the car ride?” Scarlett asked. “I see you’re not sporting any fresh bruises, which is a good thing.”

“It was fine. Quiet.” I ran a lazy hand over her thigh beneath the table. Her skin heated beneath my touch, and a smile flickered over my mouth when her breath hitched. “I would’ve much rather been riding with you though.”

“Mmhmm.” She shifted, her eyes flicking over to where Brooklyn and Vincent were still bantering/flirting/whatever they were doing while Carina remained engrossed in her phone. “You were supposed to use that time to bond.”

My hand stopped an inch above her knee and squeezed. Scarlett swallowed, her breath shallowing.

“He’s not the one I want to bond with, darling.” The soft, languid glide of my words landed with the feathery grace of a dancer. Heavy enough to impact the vibrations of the air around us, but so light it only reached the person closest to me.

“Asher.” Nerves twined with breathlessness. “Not here.”

I hummed in disagreement. I stroked the inside of her thigh with my thumb, loving the way it tensed and flexed.

A server approached our table, and my hand lingered on Scarlett’s leg for an extra beat before I discreetly, reluctantly pulled away. Brooklyn and Vincent broke off their conversation to place their orders with the rest of us.

Beer, burgers, and chips. The dinner of champions.

Most pubs didn’t have servers, but we were seated in the dining area and it was the weekend. The Angry Boar only supplemented their bar service with waiter service during the busiest nights.

“So what’s your beef with Pessoa?” Vincent asked after our server left.

My glass paused halfway to my lips. “What?”

“Pessoa. Why did you shove him on the pitch? Even before he grabbed Scarlett, your vendetta seemed personal.”

Carina finally looked up from her phone while Scarlett stiffened. Waves of tension rolled off her rigid shoulders and white knuckles.

I finished taking a sip of my water and used the time to think.

I didn’t have a publicly known problem with Rafael. Should I respond with an edited version of the truth and admit I knew about Scarlett’s past with Pessoa? Or was their relationship too intimate a part of her history for her to have shared with a casual friend?

Because that was what Vincent assumed we were after Scarlett called him about the charity match on my behalf. Casual friends.

I settled for a vague yet believable answer. “He’s a wanker,” I said. “And he dives too much.”

Vincent snorted. “Yeah. He could win an Olympic gold medal in it.”

Scarlett’s tight-lipped mask splintered into a smirk, and I knew she was remembering the time when I said almost the exact same thing.

I squeezed her leg again, this time in warning.

“What about you?” I asked as she choked on her water. “Why do you hate him so much?”




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