Page 196 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
I came downstairs for a snack and saw the light from the kitchen. I didn’t realize…
That I might’ve gotten the same idea?
My mouth curved at the recollection of Scarlett wielding a frying pan like a weapon before reality intruded and flattened it again.
That night seemed like a lifetime ago.
She might never step foot inside my house, much less my kitchen, again.
The taste of the soda staled on my tongue, but I finished the rest of the bottle and forced myself not to call her like a pathetic ex desperate for a second chance—which Iwas, but I had enough dignity left not to broadcast it so loudly.
I did not, however, have enough dignity to stay away entirely. I visited her favorite café every weekend, hoping for a glimpse of her, but she was never there. She’d stopped going weeks ago because of the paps, but I thought…
It doesn’t matter what you think. She doesn’t want anything to do with you until you figure your shit out.
My stomach knotted itself into a ball of frustration. I’d promised her and Coach I wouldn’t race again, but how could Iproveit? It was impossible to prove a negative.
Plus, I still didn’t know what Coach meant when he said something was driving my impulsiveness. If it wasn’t my pride or hot-headedness, as he called it, what the hell was it?
My phone rang.
My heart leapt, and for a wild, hopeful moment, I thought it might beher. Then I registered the ringtone, and my heart plummeted again.
Not her.
A quick glance at the screen revealed it was my father. I promptly sent the call to voicemail.
If I was avoiding him before, I was hell-bent on not talking to him now that news of my indefinite suspension had leaked. As predicted, Blackcastle fans were in an uproar, though today’s victory had soothed their anger somewhat.
That wouldn’t matter to my father. In fact, it probably made himmoreangry. I was supposed to be indispensable, and if I wasn’t, then I was clearly doing something wrong.
I reached for a second bottle when the phone rang again, and I sent it to voicemail. Again. If it was an emergency, he would’ve left a message after his first call. He hadn’t, so I assumed he simply wanted to yell at me and make me feel like shit. What else was new?
Between my suspension, the car crash, and the media circus around my relationship with Scarlett, he had plenty to vent about. But I’d taken enough verbal beatings this month, and I wasn’t interested in serving as his punching bag tonight.
I took my drink into the living room.
The house felt unbearably cold and lonely these days, but it was my only feasible sanctuary. I couldn’t go out in public without risking my privacy. I couldn’t go to my parents’ house without facing, well, my parents. And I didn’t have the privilege of staying at Scarlett’s flat anymore.
Remorse swelled in my throat. I was surrounded by the best luxuries money could buy, but I would give it all up for the chance to see her again.
I care about you. I care about you so much, and that’s why I can’t be with you.
Perhaps I was delusional, but I could’ve sworn she was about to use another word before she settled on “care about.” A word with four letters that began with the letter L.
I wasn’t sure whether that would’ve made things better or worse, though I couldn’t imagine feeling worse than I did at that moment.
My phone rang again.
And again.
And again.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up, but I didn’t even get the chance to speak before my father’s gruff voice filled the line.
“About time you picked up,” he snapped. “Open your gates.”
I shot up straight. “What?”