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Page 162 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“You can argue all you want now, but we’ll see who the real winner is during our match,” I said. “Reigning champions doesn’t mean you’llstaychampions.”

“Yeah?” Bocci’s dark eyes gleamed with malice. “How about we put some money on it? A race after our match. You and me. We won’t be bound by rules like we are on the pitch, and the winner of the match gets a five-second head start.”

The others’ arguments petered out.

Meanwhile, the wind died, throwing the alley into eerie silence. Summer heat and the suffocating reek of rubbish crawled into my lungs.

A race. I hadn’t raced since I beat Clive over the summer.

Bocci and I used to compete for fun when I lived in Holchester, but that was then. This was now.

Any competition we had going forward, whether it was on the pitch or in the streets, wouldn’t be for fun. We would go for the jugular.

“Why so quiet, Donovan?” Bocci taunted. “I thought you loved racing. Too scared you’ll lose to take me up on the offer?”

Adrenaline pounded in my ears. I wanted to wipe the smug smirk off his face as much as I wanted to win the league, but I’d promised Scarlett I was done.

I won’t race anymore. I promise.

My teammates’ curious stares drilled into my cheek. I hadn’t told them I’d retired from street racing, so I didn’t blame them for being confused.

“Look at him,” Lyle said. “Heisscared. He’ll lose the match, and he’ll lose the race. There’s no shame admitting it, Donovan. You gotta know when to call it quits.”

The other Holchester players snickered.

Pride reared its ugly head, demanding action. A punch, a kick, an accepted challenge that’d shut them up and leave them eating dust in two weeks.

I wanted to feel the vibrations of the car and hear the triumphant roar of the engine as I sped past the finish line first.

Only the memory of Scarlett’s tears stopped me.

I can’t wake up every day wondering if that’s the day your luck runs out, and I’ll get a call saying you’re gone. I can’t lose you.

I swallowed the ball of rage in my throat.

My pride wasn’t worth breaking my promise to her.

“I’m not going to jeopardize my career to satisfyyourinsecurities,” I said coldly. “We don’t need a race to determine who’s better. We’ll find out on the pitch soon.” My smile could’ve frozen lava. “And Bocci? You’ve wononerace against me ever, and that was because I let you win. I felt bad for you. That won’t happen again. So I wouldn’t be so quick to challenge others in something you’re clearly not adept at.”

I left him sputtering in the alley with the rest of the Holchester team.

My teammates followed me, their voices overlapping as they consoled me and talked amongst themselves.

Despite leaving with the last word, my heart continued to race from the confrontation. Blood roared in my ears as I tried to push the image of Bocci’s gloating smirk out of my head.

I did the right thing by not rising to his bait.

Now, I just had to make bloody sure I beat him in two weeks’ time.

CHAPTER 41

SCARLETT

On the bright side, my subsequent cast rehearsals forLorenawent a lot better than my first attempt. I could practically see Tamara unclenching her butt cheeks after every practice, and I didn’t hear any more mutters from the rest of the staff.

On the not-so-bright side, I achedall the time. They weren’t intense, debilitating aches like the day I learned about Yvette, but they weren’t easily dismissed either.

No matter how many baths I took, massages I got, or Pilates sessions I indulged in, the pain was always there. It was so incessant and all-consuming that, on the morning of the Holchester match, four days after a particularly grueling rehearsal, I reached for my emergency packet.




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