Page 180 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
But racing would be worse than another fistfight, and I’d promised Scarlett I wouldn’t do it…no matter how much I wanted to.
“What’s the matter?” Bocci arched an eyebrow, his expression turning mocking. “Got cold feet again? Going to chicken out the way you did for our match?”
I bit my tongue so hard the faint taste of copper filled my mouth.
My pride roared at me tosaysomething. To prove him wrong.
I stormed in here with my team, ready to confront Bocci, and what did I have to show for it? A few useless words? If I wasn’t going to fight him and I wasn’t going to race him, why was I even here? I might as well have stayed home and fumed from a distance.
You promised Scarlett.A voice warned me away from the ledge.
Scarlett doesn’t have to know.Another, more insidious voice slithered into my ears, promising retribution with impunity.It’s one race. That’s all.
“You didn’t take me up on my challenge the first time. Now you’re running scared a second time.” Bocci tsked in mock disappointment. “You’ve lost your touch, Donovan. It’s only a matter of time before everyone else finds out you’re not the perfect golden boy you portray yourself as. You say we’ve been holding on to our grudge for too long, and maybe we have. But I offered you a chance to end this feud once and for all, andyou’rethe one who declined.” He nodded at the silent players gathered around us. “We have plenty of witnesses who can vouch for that.”
My heart slammed against my ribcage with bruising force. Bocci’s taunting words tangled with snippets from my past, filling my head with unwanted memories.
You’ll never amount to anything.
Football is a ridiculous dream.
Dammit, Asher, you’re nottryinghard enough! Do you want to be second best forever?
Promise me you’ll play for both of us. You have what it takes to be the greatest footballer in the world. Don’t let this opportunity go to waste.
You’ve lost your touch, Donovan.
Your team or your son?
My old teachers, my father, Teddy…their fragmented voices sank their claws into reason and ripped it to shreds, making me bleed pure emotion in the dark alleyway.
Do it.
Don’t do it.
Walk away.
You can’t let him have the last word.
The last gasp of rationality died beneath the roar of blood in my ears.
I’d spent the better part of a year taking the high road. I’d endured the taunts and the hate messages silently, without retaliation, but I wassickof taking the high road.
Bocci and my old team said they valued loyalty, but they were really bullies. They dragged their resentment out because having a target made them feel good. Unless I put them in their place, they’d continue their campaign of harassment until I snapped or they got bored.
I hadn’t made it this far in my career by being passive and waiting for things to happen to me. This wasmylife andmyreputation. It was time I retook control of them.
“I’m not scared of anything or anyone, Bocci, much less you,” I drawled, my smile a blade of white in the dark. “You want to race? Fine. Let’s race right now.”
Word of the last-minute competition spread like wildfire through a certain segment of the city’s street racing community.
I didn’t know who alerted them to the event, but when we arrived at our designated meetup spot in north London—the same spot where I’d raced against Clive and won—there were around two dozen people waiting for us. Most of them were athletes.
Simon was there. So was Clive himself, who I hadn’t seen since our double date. He’d shown up with his rugby buddies, and they watched Bocci and me exit our cars to make the rounds with quiet anticipation.
I greeted them with nothing more than a short nod. I still didn’t like Clive, and I hadn’t forgiven him for dragging Scarlett into the middle of our spat over the summer. He looked like he hadn’t forgiven me for denting his ego, either.
He clapped Bocci on the back and said something that made the other man laugh. There was no question who he was rooting for to win tonight’s race.