Page 27 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

And that’s exactly why he’s dangerous.

CHAPTER 8

ASHER

I developed a new mantra over the next two weeks:Keep it professional and stop thinking about her.

It was a bit long for a mantra, but it was smart, clear, and actionable. I was quite proud of it.

Unfortunately, it also proved that mantras were bullshit because fourteen days later, Scarlett still haunted my thoughts like a smart-mouthed, entirely-too-beautiful ghost.

When I woke up, I anticipated our next session together.

When I got behind the wheel, I remembered the night I drove her home in the rain.

When I entered her studio, I relived my sheer panic at seeing her collapse and my utter relief when she woke up.

Despite what I’d told her, I’d dropped by RAB that day to discuss the paparazzi issue with Lavinia. That was it. And yet, my feet had steered me to her studio instead of the director’s office, and my determination to keep her at arm’s length had snapped the second I saw her in pain.

I was convinced we were the subjects of some universal conspiracy at this point. I just couldn’t prove it.

“Are you listening to me?” My father’s irritation pierced through my unwanted thoughts.

I leaned back in my chair and refocused on his frown. We sat opposite each other at my childhood dining table, which still bore traces of the permanent marker stick figures I’d doodled of famous footballers when I was a kid. Despite my best efforts to move my parents to a newer, bigger place, they’d insisted on staying at their old split-level in southwest Holchester.

Luckily, they’d consented to a new security system after several run-ins with the press, but I was still uneasy about how accessible they were to anyone with an internet connection and the barest modicum of sleuthing skills.

“I’m listening,” I said, even though I’d tuned him out twenty minutes ago.

We always talked about the same things: what I did wrong in my last match and how I could improve for the next one. My father watched more replays of my matches than Coach, which was saying something.

“You lacked focus the entire season,” he said. “Where was the cohesion? Where was thefire?”

“Oh, come off it, Ron,” my mother said from her spot by the counter. She picked up two mugs of tea and set them on the table, casting a glare at my father along the way. “I think he played wonderfully. You were the league’s highest scorer this season, weren’t you, darling?”

My father cut me off before I could respond. “Highest scorer yet no trophy.” The weathered planes of his face drew deeper into a scowl. “Should’ve stuck to Holchester like I told you. You know I can barely show my face at the pub these days? We’ve always been a red-and-white household. Then you had to go and…and dothis.”

He gestured at the newspaper splayed open on the table. A photo of me, clearly devastated after the Holchester match, took up half the first page of the sports section.

Not only had I lost, but I was wearing Blackcastle’s signature purple and white.

If my father was the head of the Holchester United Church, I was its greatest heretic.

“You know why I did it.” I was tired of rehashing the same thing over and over again. Every time I visited, my father inevitably brought up my “traitorous transfer” to Holchester’s biggest rival, which was why I rarely came home anymore. I was only here this weekend because of Teddy’s birthday.

“Money, Frank Armstrong, and a bloody loss on your record. How’sthattreating you?” My father made a disgusted noise.

Money and working with Frank Armstrong.They were the reasons I gave him, but they weren’t theonlyreasons. I would never tell him what the third was, though.

When I didn’t respond, he shoved his chair back and stormed off, his tea forgotten.

“Don’t take what he says to heart.” My mother patted my shoulder. “You know how fanatical he is about that team. It’ll take time, but he’ll get over it.”

He’d had half a year to get over it. Then again, he’d refused to talk to me for a month after he found out about the transfer, so the fact we were on speaking terms at all was an improvement.

“I’m heading out to see Teddy.” I stood and placed my half-empty mug in the sink. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

Her face softened. “Okay. Don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? All this—the matches, the press, the pressure—it’s temporary. It doesn’t define you.”