Page 193 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
She was out there somewhere hurting, and I couldn’t comfort her because I was thecauseof her hurt. Me and my stupid, selfish, short-sighted actions.
I swallowed a lump of regret in my throat, but another sprang up immediately to take its place.
There was no relief from my guilt, not even in the sanctuary of the gym.
Three.
Sweat poured down my face and stung my eyes. I’d worked out for close to an hour already, but I still hadn’t purged the nausea roiling my stomach.
Four.
The sound of my phone ringing snuck past the music playing on low in my ears. It wasn’t Scarlett; I’d set a different ringtone for her so I’d know if she called. She never did.
It was probably my mother again, fretting over the crash and the tabloids. It might even be my father, calling to scream atme about a host of things. They’d visited me while I was in the hospital, but they hadn’t stayed in London long.
My mother wanted to keep me company until I was fully healed, but I convinced her my injuries were minor (half true) and that she couldn’t take extended time off from her job as a teacher (definitely true).
She must’ve said something to my father before they came to the hospital because he’d held his tongue, though I could see the scathing sentiments swimming in his eyes.
It was why I avoided most of their calls these days. I was already falling apart; I didn’t have the additional mental or emotional energy to argue with them. My mother would want me to talk to my father, and my father…well, he was who he was.
I closed my eyes and let the music drown out my phone.
Ten reps.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Twenty-five.
I went beyond the planned reps for this set, but I was afraid that if I stopped, I’d be left alone with my thoughts.
So I kept going.
“Donovan.”
Sometime between twenty-five and thirty, a familiar voice interrupted my determined count.
I dropped the dumbbells and paused my music. “Aren’t you supposed to be in training?”
“I’m heading there now. I had to talk to Coach first.” Noah stood in the doorway to the gym, dressed in his practice kit and gloves.
My eyebrows hiked up. Noah always toed the line andnevergot into trouble. What did he have to talk to Coach about that couldn’t wait until after practice?
His stoic expression didn’t offer any hints, though a touch of sympathy entered his eyes when he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He wants to see you next,” he said. “As soon as possible.”
Dread coiled around my gut. It was my first day back on the training grounds since the crash. I’d spent the morning meeting with the team’s head of rehabilitation and physiotherapy, which meant this would also be my first time talking to Coach in person since I was discharged.
He’d visited me in the hospital, but our conversation had been limited to logistics and my physical well-being.
I had a feeling today’s meeting would be less genial.
“Got it. Thanks.” I stood, pulled my earphones out, and shoved them in my pocket. I took my sweet time placing the dumbbells back on the rack and wiping down the equipment I’d used, but I could only stall so long.
“Good luck.” Noah clapped a hand on my back as I passed him.
I nodded my thanks.