Page 136 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
Vincent hesitated and glanced at his sister before replying. “It’s a personal issue, but you’re right. Heisa wanker.”
Unfortunately, my estimation of him inched up another notch. We’d overheard Rafael harassing Scarlett, but he didn’t know if I was privy to the details and he didn’t spill them withouther explicit consent. His consideration for his sister was one of the few unimpeachable facets of his personality.
“Enough football talk. It’s boring,” Brooklyn said when our server returned with our drinks and food. “Let’s play a game. How about Truth or Dare?”
“No!” Scarlett and I shouted at the same time.
Carina coughed into her fist while Vincent’s eyebrows skyrocketed.
“I mean, I don’t want to do anything embarrassing in public,” Scarlett said. She pinned her friend with a hard stare. “You understand.Right?”
The last thing we needed was to inadvertently slip up during a drinking game.
“Uh, right.” Realization unfolded across Brooklyn’s face. “Fine. Let’s play something else.” Her smile returned in all its dazzling glory. “How do you guys feel about King’s Cup?”
Two hours and one deck of borrowed cards later (Brooklyn managed to charm even the uncharmable Mac into lending us the deck), we were drunk off our asses and laughing like we were longtime friends.
It was amazing how beer and the high of winning could smooth even the rockiest of histories.
“I asked around and found out how Simon injured his foot.” Vincent leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Guess.”
“He kicked a wall too hard.”
“No. It’s even stupider than that.” He lowered his voice. “He was assembling a bookcase and the thing toppled over onto his foot. He has to miss the first few matches of the season because offurniture.”
I burst into laughter. “Shut up.”
Simon played for Liverpool, so it was easy for us to make light of his situation. Part of me sympathized because injuries were nerve-wracking, but…his came from abookcase, for Christ’s sake.
“I swear to God. That’s what I heard.” Vincent held up one hand, his grin wide.
Honestly, he wasn’t that bad. He was almost tolerable.
Or maybe that was the five pints of ale talking.
I finished my current pint and caught Scarlett watching us with a small smile. We’d shuffled seats an hour ago, so she was sitting in between Carina and Brooklyn while Vincent and I remained on opposite sides of the table.
Her rosy cheeks and glittering eyes betrayed her tipsiness, but her smile was pure, authentic Scarlett.
See?Best friends, she mouthed.
I shook my head. Just because Vincent and I sort of got along when we were drunk didn’t mean we were or ever would be best friends.
“That girl is looking at you like you’re a fucking Sunday roast.” Vincent’s observation dragged my attention away from her.
I followed his gaze toward a pretty brunette sitting two tables over. She was with a group of friends, and she blushed a deep red when she noticed me staring.
“She’s hot,” Vincent said. “You should dance with her.”
A needle of paranoia punctured my buzz. Why was he suddenly playing matchmaker? Had he seen me smile at Scarlett and this was his way of warning me away from his sister?
But when I studied him, his face contained nothing but genuine encouragement. This wasn’t a subtle dig; this was his way of returning the olive branch I’d offered with the charityinvite (even if that branch had been tied to my selfish reason of needing a substitute player).
Rejecting it out of hand would be rejecting his peace offering, but I sure as hell didn’t want to dance with a random woman in a pub.
“I don’t feel like dancing,” I said lightly. “You should talk to her instead.”
“I’m not the one she’s eye fucking. C’mon.” Vincent grinned. “Let’s liven things up a bit. Brooklyn and I will join you guys.”