Page 164 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
“Ugh, I have to go too. I have a tutoring session in half an hour.” In the absence of a steady side gig, Carina occasionally tutored secondary school students in maths. “Scarlett, we’ll see you at the match later?”
“Yep.” I forced myself to stand and help as we piled the empty glasses and dishes into the sink. The prickles shot up to my hips and down to my toes. “You guys go ahead. I’ll take care of the dishes later.”
Brooklyn frowned. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. I loved my friends, but Ineededto lie down as soon as possible. My energy was running dangerously low, and it was barely noon.
It was a testament to my acting skills that they didn’t question me or pick up on the sweat drenching my back.
After they left, I collapsed into a chair again. It didn’t seem like the pain pill was working. If it was, why did I?—
Someone knocked on the door.
“Scarlett?” Brooklyn’s voice drifted through the cheap wood. “I’m so sorry, but I think I left my bag in the kitchen. Can I grab it?”
A headache crept from the base of my skull up to my temples.
I scanned the kitchen until my eyes snagged on the purple tote sitting on the chair across from mine.
“Coming!” I yelled. My voice sounded unnaturally scratchy.
I blinked away the spots in my vision and grabbed her bag. I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, my steps sluggish. My flat had never seemed so endless.
I faltered beneath a wave of wooziness, but I shook it off and soldiered on. I just needed to make it to the door and hand Brooklyn her bag. Then I could lie down, close my eyes, andbreathe.
It was a sound plan in theory, and it almost succeeded—that was, until my body decided it’d had enough of my plans and mutinied.
It seemed to happen in slow motion.
The bag slipped from my grasp.
My legs buckled.
My vision blurred.
And I crashed to the floor, my mind stretching out the fall so long it almost seemed graceful.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard renewed pounding on the door and a voice infused with panic. “Scarlett, what was that noise? Are you okay? Scarlett!”
I wanted to reply, but I was so tired, and my mind was too jumbled.
The only thing I could do was give in to gravity and?—
A fresh spear of pain lanced through my head. I’d hit something on my way down.
Ifeltit, the impact reverberating and amplifying and consuming until there was nothing left except agony and exhaustion and finally, blissfully, oblivion.
CHAPTER 42
ASHER
I spent the morning of the Holchester match prepping my go-to match day meal—a high-carb, high-protein mix of whole grain pasta, grilled chicken, and salad with a hard-boiled egg on the side—and listening to my pregame playlist.
I never worked out the day of a match, but mental preparation was as important as physical conditioning. Over the years, I’d curated my playlist to include only the songs that motivated and calmed me in equal measure.
It looped back to the first song as I tossed my lucky boots into my playing kit. I hadn’t played in them since the halfway line goal that put me on the map, but I carried them with me to every match. Call me superstitious, but I credited many of the impossible goals I’d made to their help.
They were the boots that started it all, and they were going to take me all the way to a World Cup championship.