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Page 187 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

Punctured lungs, broken ribs, shattered pelvis.

She might never dance again. Not even recreationally.

Her injuries are severe, but she’s lucky…could’ve died…

The world swung sideways as past and present blended into a nauseating stew.

Did someone hit you?

In a way, yes.

I placed a hand atop a nearby machine, steadying myself. “What do you mean, ‘in a way?’”

The answer was probably innocuous. When it came to cars, there were many technicalities that prevented accidents from being black and white.

However, I recognized the emotion seeping into Asher’s expression. It wasn’t innocuous.

It was guilt.

Why would he feel…

The breath stalled in my lungs. He hadn’t hit someone else’s car. I sensed it in my gut.

But if he hadn’t done that, then there was only one reason for the guilt shining in his eyes.

Icy talons raked down my spine.Don’t say it,I silently begged.Please don’t say it.

“I was racing,” he said quietly. “Against someone from my old team. He was behind, but halfway through the race, whenwe were rounding a bend, he purposely rammed into me. My car went over the guardrail and crashed through a fence.”

My nausea returned with a vengeance.

I was racing.

The confession clattered to the floor and rolled to my feet like a live grenade. My earlier relief exploded into fragments of images—Asher behind the wheel, two sports cars hurtling through the dark streets with reckless abandon, the impact of one slamming into the other the way a car had slammed into my taxi half a decade ago. Only this time, it wasn’t an accident; it was planned. Malicious.

The fragments splintered further, detailing the flip of the car as it careened over the railing and the scrape of twisted metal against its hood.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“I didn’t do it for the thrill.” Asher’s voice hoarsened, turning the sentiment into an excuse rather than an explanation.

He told me about what Holchester did to his favorite car and how he confronted them at the Angry Boar. He told me about Bocci’s racing proposal and how he’d promised they would let bygones be bygones if Asher won.

Technically, I heard what he was saying. Part of me even understood his reasoning. But the actual words took a backseat to the phantom screech of tires and promises from the past.

I won’t race anymore. I promise.

Memories of my accident mixed with Asher’s crash and our first night in Japan. They twisted and turned, drilling into my brain with ruthless determination.

“It was my one chance to put the bad blood with Holchester to rest.” Asher’s voice sounded as if it was coming from underwater. “I didn’t…”

The rest of his sentence was eclipsed by the war raging inside me.

Iknewhe had a history of racing. Iknewhe’d crashed cars before. I even knew he’d raced right before we got together because he told me he had. That was what’d led to our conversation and his promise in Japan in the first place.

But the knowledge and the terror that came with it had always seemed abstract, like a parent worrying about someone kidnapping their child or a surfer worrying about a shark attack. The threat was present, but it wasn’ttherebecause I’d never witnessed the consequences.

Now I had.




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