Page 19 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
“Are you sleeping together?”
“Is she your trainer?”
“What’s your relationship?”
“Asher?”
“Asher!”
My voice and the renewed shouts shook Scarlett out of her stupor. She grabbed my outstretched hand and ran with me to my car.
I barreled through the paparazzi without care, and we somehow made it to my car without further incident.
She gave me her address, but neither of us spoke again until I’d cleared RAB’s grounds and the cameras were a distant horde.
“Are you okay?” I asked. That seemed to be the question of the day.
“Yeah. I just…” Scarlett blinked, lingering traces of shock evident in the tremor of her words. “Is it always like that for you?”
“Not always, but most of the time.”
It was one of the many reasons I didn’t date. Any relationship would crumble beneath the combined weight of my football obligations, public scrutiny, and intrusive paparazzi. Everyone wanted to date a celebrity until they came home one day to find people rummaging through their trash for paydirt.
“God.” Scarlett slumped in her seat. “How did they find you?”
“Either someone broke their NDA, or they tailed me from my house and I didn’t notice.”
I needed to call my publicist and see if she could deal with the photos before they got published. Paparazzi often played fast and loose with the rules, but Sloane had a history of bending them to her will. I didn’t want Scarlett to deal with the absolute mess that would occur if her face got splashed all over the tabloids.
“Thank you for helping me back there,” she said quietly. “You didn’t have to do that. They probably got a money shot of you pushing that guy.”
“He deserved it.” My muscles coiled again at the memory of that asshole’s hands on her. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”
Scarlett swallowed hard.
“I’m surprised you haven’t had similar run-ins before,” I said after another bout of silence. “Because of your brother.”
“He keeps me shielded from that kind of stuff. Besides, he lives in Paris during the offseason, and when heishere, we hang out at each other’s houses, not in public.”
“So you two are close.”
“Yes. We grew up in different cities, but we talked often. I didn’t have a lot of friends as a kid because of my ballet schedule, and he had the same issue because of football. We were the closest the other had to a confidante.”
It was weird. The topic of Vincent usually aggravated me, but I could listen to Scarlett talk all day and not get tired.
Then again, it had less to do with the subject and more to do withher. She was so reserved that any glimpses into her personal life fascinated me.
I stopped at a red light and glanced over at her. Scarlett stared straight ahead, her brows knitted together in thought. I read people pretty well, but she could be contemplating my words, her life, or what she wanted for dinner. I had no idea.
My gaze traced the elegant curve of her profile, searching for something I couldn’t name. Water droplets clung to her lashes and coated the strands of hair slicked back into a dancer’s bun. The elegant slope of her nose gave way to a lush mouth and delicate chin, both of which firmed into a stubborn line.
“Stop doing that,” she said without looking at me.
“Doing what?”
“Staring at me.”
“Training’s going to be difficult if I’m not allowed to look at you.”