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Page 152 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“Ugh. You’re right.” She dropped her head into her hand. “I don’t believe this. We were nervous about telling him because hedidn’t like you, and now we can’t tell him because hedoeslike you. I swear, the universe hates us.”

“We can still tell him. We just have to adjust our timing,” I said. “2075 should be an auspicious year.”

“Asher.”

“I know, I know.” I sighed, conflicted.

On one hand, we could stick with our original strategy and deal with the fallout as it came. That would give Vincent time to calm down before the preseason started.

On the other hand, I doubted two weeks would be enough of a buffer period for him to get over the news. He would start the season with fresh hatred of me, which wouldn’t be good foranyoneinvolved.

Old me would’ve chosen option one, but I was trying to be more thoughtful and less reckless about the decisions I made. I couldn’t jump into a situation headfirst and expect everything would work out in my favor. I had to think of the consequences.

I also wasn’t stupid enough to call Coach’s bluff. He would absolutely condemn us to the bench if he felt like we weren’t working together well enough, and I hadn’t worked this hard to sit on the sidelines during what I was starting to think of as my redemption season. If I didn’t bring home a trophy come May and prove my critics wrong, I might as well pack up my boots and call it a day.

Plus—and I would never admit this out loud—my truce with Vincent had lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. Clashing with someone on my own team took a lot of energy, and I needed every spare ounce of it if I wanted to beat Holchester.

“Maybe we can tell him during the holidays,” I said. “The spirit of giving and all that.”

Scarlett gave me a dubious look. “You want to tell him halfway through the seasonandruin his Christmas?”

“Well, not when you put itthatway.”

We sat in silence as we attempted to workshop a new strategy.

It didn’t work.

“Maybe it’s because it’s so late, but my brain is mush,” Scarlett said. “We can table this for now, but is it really better to tell Vincent after the season starts than before? What if he finds out before we’re ready? He’ll be even more upset if he hears about us from someone else.”

“I don’t know.” I tipped my head and stared at the ceiling, wishing it contained the solutions to our problems. “I really don’t know.”

CHAPTER 39

SCARLETT

Turn. Turn. Plié. Step back.

I was practicing forLorenaalone in my studio. I went through the motions well enough, but I found it hard to focus the way I should.

Asher and I never figured out a new strategy for telling Vincent. At this point, we were winging it and hoping the right moment would come up in conversation, which wasn’t really a strategy at all, but it was all we had.

Thankfully, Vincent didn’t suspect a thing. After his Angry Boar outing with Asher, the two developed a wary but burgeoning…well, friendship might be too strong a word. It was more like a friendly acquaintanceship.

Whatever it was, it meant the rest of our training sessions passed by smoothly. I’d hyped up the drama of Vincent’s return so much in my mind that the ease with which he transitioned back into our lives was almost unsettling.

However, as the days wound down toward the start of the season, my anxiety took flight again.

Everyone would be back in London, which meant more eyes on us and more opportunities to get caught. I understood andeven agreed with Asher’s reasoning for postponing our Big Talk with my brother, but my mind couldn’t stop chasing down every scenario where things might go wrong.

What if someone captured a photo of us on the street and uploaded it online the way they did with Clive and me?

What if Vincent ran into Clive himself and the rugby player exposed us? I hadn’t talked to him since I told him we wouldn’t work after our double date, but I knew he and Asher didn’t get along.

What if Vincent found out about the private ballet studio or our trip to Japan? I managed to keep the Asia trip a secret from my brother because it was so short, and I’d blamed my delayed replies to his texts on my busy schedule. But all it took was one slip-up or errant picture on the internet to blow our cover.

Part of me wished Asher and I had been honest from the start, but it was too late. We were stuck in a web of our own design.

My worries and disjointed thoughts jumbled in my head. I was so distracted that I missed two counts and stumbled when I tried to correct myself.




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