Page 156 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
At that moment, it was all I could do.
CHAPTER 40
ASHER
I ended my call with Scarlett and tossed my phone in my gym bag right as Adil bounded over to me and Noah, whose locker was next to mine.
“There they are! My fellow Blackcastle baddies!” He clapped one hand on each of our shoulders. “Missed me?”
“Like a toddler misses a rash,” Noah muttered, but he didn’t shake off the midfielder’s greeting.
“So youdidmiss me.” Adil appeared unfazed by the goalie’s lackluster enthusiasm. “New season, boys. We’re back, and we’re going tocrushthose Holchester bastards! And everyone else,” he added as an afterthought.
“You got that right.” I bumped my fist against his in agreement, but my mind lingered on Scarlett. She sounded a little off during our call. Perhaps it was her nerves over the Yvette and showcase situation. She had complicated feelings about performing in public again, and the sudden promotion from understudy to lead couldn’t be easy.
I made a note to check in with her again once I was home.
I changed shirts while Adil regaled us with tales of his summer at home. The locker room crackled with the back-to-school energy of a new season, and laughter and teasing banter filled the air as the players caught up with each other for the first time in months.
“I can’t wait to see them on the pitch again.” Adil rubbed his hands. “Bocci better watch his fucking back.”
The mention of my old teammate filled my mouth with the taste of copper. It was the taste for competition. For redemption. For vengeance.
Wealmostswept the league last season, and this was our chance to vindicate ourselves. Since Vincent and I set aside our differences, there was nothing stopping us from taking the number one title come May.
Coach entered the locker room. “DuBois! Donovan!” he barked. He jerked his head toward his office. “Get in here.”
A chorus of tauntingoohsswelled as Vincent and I stopped what we were doing and walked toward him, our expressions identically wary.
“In trouble already? That’s a record,” Samson joked. The Nigerian winger laughed when Vincent gave him a light shove on his way past.
“Next time you want to make a joke, make sure you can complete a forty-five-minute run without heaving like you’re in labor first,” he called over his shoulder.
The first day of preseason was always the toughest as players transitioned from a summer of food and holiday back to work.
Another chorus ofoohsmingled with jeers as Samson shook his head. “Low blow, captain!” he yelled after us. “Low blow!”
I smirked, but my amusement quickly faded when we arrived at Coach’s office. He shut the door, and once again, déjà vu permeated my senses as Vincent and I settled into our seats.
Coach sank into his chair opposite us and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
The clock ticked.
The air-conditioner hummed.
The muffled noises from the locker room emphasized the tension dripping around us.
Vincent and I shifted in our seats.
If Coach was employing some sort of psychological warfare tactic to make us uncomfortable as fuck, it was working.
After what felt like an eternity of interminable silence, his eagle eyes zeroed in on Vincent. “DuBois, your father alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Coach leaned forward. “If I ever find out you trumped up a family emergency to get out of somethingIassigned to you, I’ll have you running interval sprints until you develop a bloody intimate relationship with the nearest rubbish bin. Understand?”
Vincent swallowed. “Yes, sir.”