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Page 188 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

Asher was lucky enough to have escaped serious injury, but it could’ve easily gone the other way. I could be in a morgue right now instead of the hospital, and the realization that he’d put himself in this situation when he was fully aware of the danger made me go cold all over.

“You promised you wouldn’t race again.” The words came out thick and swollen, like I’d tried to pack a lifetime’s worth of emotion into nine syllables.

The beeps from the monitor thundered in the ensuing silence.

Asher’s hands fisted the sheets, his face leached of color. “I know.”

The soft acknowledgment shattered something deep inside me.

I should be grateful he was alive—and Iwas. No matter how many promises he broke, there would never be a version of me that didn’t care whether he lived or died.

But I couldn’t look at him without imagining whatcould’vehappened, and I couldn’t imagine what could’ve happened without feeling sick.

This was about more than the race or even a broken promise. It was about who Asher was at his core. He was a good person,and Ilovedwho he was, but he also possessed a streak of impulsive recklessness that verged on self-destructive.

If he destroyed himself, he destroyed me, and once upon a time, I’d vowed never to put myself in a position where a man would have that type of power over me ever again.

Except I had, and he did, and that was on me.

“I’m so sorry, Scarlett.” Asher’s eyes were bleak beneath the fluorescent lights. “I swear, I didn’t mean to break my promise. The last time I saw Bocci, he challenged me to a race, and I refused. Today…” He swallowed. “My emotions got the better of me. But it was going to be—itis—the last time. I’ll never race again.”

I wanted to believe him so badly that I ached with it, but he’d said the same thing once before, and here we were.

However, this wasn’t the place or time for this conversation. He was injured, the paparazzi were frothing at the mouth downstairs, and our friends were right outside in the hall. Plus, I was exhausted from tonight’s wild swings in emotion. I couldn’t think clearly, and I didn’t have the bandwidth to sort through my muddled thoughts.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I said. A weight pressed on my chest and strangled my supply of oxygen. “Really, I am. But I can’t—I need—” His face blurred as the weight pressed harder.

I wanted to spend the night by his side and pretend everything was okay until we could have a proper conversation. But because of the paps, I had to “pretend” every time I stepped out the door, and I couldn’t do it tonight—not with Asher, the only person I’d never had to put on a fake face for.

I wouldn’t be of any consolation to him in my current state anyway. The specter of his race would hang over us, casting a shadow over everything we said and did.

I tried to put my thoughts into words, but nothing came out. There was only the sound of my breaths and the monitors beeping.

I took a small step back without thinking.

“Scarlett.” IfeltAsher’s agony more than I heard it. It traveled through my entire body and reverberated in my bones, making them ache worse than any flare-up.

I hated that I was the cause of it when he’d been hurt enough that night, and I hated that I couldn’t comfort him even more.

We all have ugly feelings sometimes.It’s a part of human nature. But it’s what we do with them that counts.

I was drowning in those ugly feelings, and I needed to get out of here before I said or did something I regretted.

“I need air.” I turned so I didn’t have to see the devastation etched into his face. “I’m sorry. I have to—I just need some space. To breathe.”

I ducked my head and rushed out, the world a blur of pale linoleum and alarmed voices as I barreled past my brother and friends.

I couldn’t draw in air fast enough or deep enough to sate the strain in my lungs. I hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack in years, but I was on the verge of relapsing.

However, I still possessed enough presence of mind not to rush downstairs and straight into the arms of the paps, so I rushed to the nearest lavatory and locked myself into the corner cubicle.

I made it just in time for my earlier nausea to overtake me.

I fell to my knees, leaned over the toilet, and threw up the entirety of that day’s meals. Tears pooled in my eyes as the gag-inducing sound of my own retching filled the empty room.

My throat burned so terribly I was sure I wouldn’t be able to speak after this. Even so, a tiny voice inside my head tried toconvince me I was overreacting. It was one race. One promise he’d broken out of the dozens he’d kept.

But every chain reaction started somewhere, and I worried tonight was only the beginning.




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