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Page 192 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

I forced myself to harden against the offense. “Do you remember the favor you owe me? When I agreed to watch the horror movie that first night I slept over at your house?”

Asher’s breaths were heavy and ragged in the otherwise silent studio. “Don’t.”

“I’m calling it in now.” I hated tainting that night with today’s poison, but I had no choice. “Please go.”

My last sentence was nearly inaudible.

For a second, I thought he wouldn’t leave, but Asher kept his word.

“If you need me,” he said, so softly and rawly I almost didn’t hear him. “I’m here.”

Then he left, taking his warmth and promises with him.

I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded before I sank onto the floor and pulled my knees to my chest. I buried my face in my elbow and finally gave in to my grief.

It gushed up, bitter and acrid, to pour out of my throat in silent, heaving sobs. My shoulders shook, and the tears flowed so endlessly that I was sure I wouldn’t survive this. I couldn’t have that much moisture left. I would simply dry up and wither away into a husk of my former self.

I wasn’t a stranger to pain. I lived with it every day, and some days were worse than others.

But I’d never experienced pain like this—like thousands of metal teeth were gnawing through my ribcage, tearing flesh and bone into shreds. When they reached their bounty—the beating, vulnerable organ responsible for their existence—they feasted on it, mangling it beyond recognition.

Soon, even my sobs hurt, but I could no more stop them than I could stop the agony marching through my chest.

This wasn’t the pain of my muscles rebelling or my body protesting against overexertion. It wasn’t even the despair I fell into after Rafael left. I thought I’d loved him at the time, but what I felt for him was mere infatuation compared to what I felt for Asher.

No. This? This inescapable, indescribable torment?

This was the pain of my heart truly breaking for the first time in my life.

CHAPTER 49

ASHER

I didn’t believe in ghosts. I was superstitious about my pre-match rituals—see: my lucky boots and listening to my playlist in the exact order in which I’d arranged the songs, no skips or replays—but I didn’t believe in the existence of spiritual beings or haunted houses.

I changed my mind after Scarlett broke up with me.

A week had passed since I left her studio, but everywhere I turned, there she was, haunting me. Every little thing reminded me of her—the light strains of classical music piping through a lift, the entire horror movie genre, even the fucking color pink because she’d worn it so much during our trainings.

There were certain rooms I couldn’t even enter, like the screening room and the ballet studio, because she was so present, sothere, that stepping into them was akin to reaching inside my chest and tearing my heart in half.

My house had turned into a mausoleum of memories, and I couldn’t stand the sight of it. I couldn’t even use football as an escape because I was benched while I healed from my injuries.

Thankfully, after a week of absolute hell, my doctor gave me the go-ahead to return to training. My exercises had to bemodified to account for my sprains and strains, but I was healthy enough to hit the gym while the rest of the team suffered through pain shuttles and alternating box sprints.

It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was better than nothing.

One.

I tried to focus on counting my dumbbell press reps instead of the echo of Scarlett’s voice.I can’t stand by and watch you self-destruct.

My chest clenched, fraying my concentration.

I gritted my teeth and pushed through it.

Two.

Her tear-streaked face swam past my vision, evidence that our breakup devastated her as much as it did me, and that was what killed me the most.




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