Page 20 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“Looking at me for training is fine. Staring at me likethisis not.” She finally tore her eyes away from the road to gesture between us.

“How, exactly, am I looking at you?” I asked, amused.

“Like you…” Scarlett faltered, and the air suddenly condensed into something thicker, almost tangible.

Her eyes didn’t quite meet mine, but the steady drip, drip, drip of water against the windows matched the spike in my pulse.

“Like I what?”

The question floated between us, soft enough not to disturb the tension coating the interior of the car.

Her lips parted for a breath before she lifted her chin, her face hardening. “Like you’re flirting with me. That’s not allowed, remember? It’s one of the rules.”

“Do you have many of those?”

“What?”

“Rules.”

“I’m a ballerina. I live by rules.”

“That’s too bad.” The light finally turned green, and I broke eye contact to focus on the road. “You’d have more fun without them.”

Scarlett’s gaze warmed my cheek before she, too, faced forward again.

The tension didn’t dissipate in the resulting silence so much as rearrange itself, charging the air with a steady hum and making me hyperaware of her presence even when I wasn’t looking directly at her.

The subtle shift of her leg. The dip of her chin. The shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Fuck. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

The twenty-minute drive to Scarlett’s flat seemed both far too long and far too short, and when she finally climbed out of the car with a murmuredthanks, I couldn’t muster more than a nod.

I waited until she made it safely inside before I drove away, but the scent of her lingered.

Scarlett is off limits.Vincent’s warning echoed in my head.

I was inclined to heed it—not because I was afraid of him, but because I was afraid of what getting close to Scarlett might do to me if I didn’t.

CHAPTER 6

SCARLETT

“Who drove you home?”

“What makes you think someone drove me home?” I unpacked our Chinese takeaway and avoided my brother’s eyes. “I always take the tube.”

It wasn’t Thursday, but he showed up at my flat an hour ago after he finished dealing with our father’s situation. I took one look at his face, let him in, and ordered us food.

Sometimes, sibling intuition trumped explanations.

“It’s a long walk to the tube station, and you don’t have an umbrella drying in the hall. Therefore, you didn’t take the tube.” Vincent shrugged. We were seated at my kitchen table in our usual spots—me next to the window, him next to the fridge. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Wow, I have Sherlock Holmes in my kitchen. Someone call BBC One and tell them they need another reboot.”

“Ha ha.” Vincent snagged a spring roll from its container. “It wasn’t Carina, was it? Because I haven’t forgotten the time she drove my Lambo into the curb.”

“She’s apologized multiple times for that,” I said, suppressing a laugh at the memory of Vincent’s face when hesaw the scratch on his precious car. Carina was like a second sister to him, which was the only reason he’d let her behind the wheel. “And no, it wasn’t her. It was someone else from the academy.”