Page 3 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“My office.Now.”

We obeyed without argument. We weren’t stupid.

“Do you want to take a guess as to why I called the two of you, specifically, in here?” Coach didn’t wait for the door to fully close before launching into part two of his rant.

Vincent and I remained silent.

“I asked you a question.”

“Because we lost,” I said. My stomach tightened at the wordlost.

Everyone hated losing, but today’s loss stung particularly hard for me when I knew there were people actively rooting for me to fuck up at Blackcastle—namely, Holchester United fans who hated me for transferring to their biggest rival.

I’d had plenty of naysayers growing up—teachers who thought I’d never amount to anything, football fans who thought I was a flash in the pan, press who dug for dirt in every aspect of my life—and I couldn’t stand proving my critics right.

“No. It’s not because we lost,” Coach snapped. “It’s because you two are the ones the rest of the team looks up to the most, but you’ve let your stupid rivalry affect your game. Worst of all, it’s affecting morale.”

We slunk lower in our seats beneath his glare.

“I knew there would be a transition period, but I thought you would get over it and work things out because you’re adults. However, it seems like I’m dealing with children because herewe are, postseason, and we have nothing to show for it except a host of mistakes that could’ve been easily avoided if you’d learned how tobloody work together!” Coach’s voice rose with each word until it was loud enough to seep through the walls.

The muted chatter from the locker room noticeably died down, and a flush of shame crawled across my face.

Coach’s disappointment was almost as unbearable as not winning the league. I’d idolized him growing up, and the opportunity to work with him had been a major factor behind me handing in my transfer request.

This hadnotbeen how I’d envisioned ending our first season together.

Vincent shifted beside me. “Coach, I?—”

“Don’t get me started with you.” Coach cut him off. “What the hell was that in the last twenty seconds? Donovan wasright there. You should’ve passed him the bloody ball when you had the chance. See opening, pass ball. It’s football 101!”

Vincent’s mouth tightened. He couldn’t say what we all knew: he hadn’t passed the ball immediately because he hadn’t wanted me to score the winning goal. The press would’ve replayed that kick over and over, and I would’ve received all the glory that came with it. Vincent wouldn’t have been able to stand it.

Selfish prick.I didn’t dwell on whether I would’ve done the same had I been in his place.

Coach’s stare sharpened. He’d been a club manager long enough to figure out Vincent’s motivations without him verbalizing it.

“Since you want to act like children, I’ll treat you like children,” he said. “Normally, I leave offseason training up to the individual players, but not this summer. This summer, you’re both cross-training at the Royal Academy of Ballet. Together.”

“What?”

Vincent and I exploded at the same time.

My sense of self-preservation couldn’t override my shock at Coach’s edict. Clubs almostneverdictated the specifics of how we spent our offseason. Players hailed from all over the world, which meant summer was their chance to go home, see their families, and train as they saw fit.

“I already spoke with RAB’s director. She’s on board,” Coach said. “I didn’t say anything before because I wanted to see if you two could pull it together by the last match and fucking win. You couldn’t, so you’ll be taking private lessons with thesameinstructor for the summer. She’s one of their best, and she has an intimate knowledge of football. You’ll be in good hands.”

I didn’t want to be in any fucking hands except my own. I had nothing against ballet. Though I’d never cross-trained using its techniques, I knew players who had, and they sang its praises for improving their strength, flexibility, and footwork techniques.

However, I’d already created my training plan. I didn’t need a stranger jumping in and telling me what to do.

Vincent straightened, his face taking on a ghostly pallor. “Don’t tell me she’s…”

“Your instructor will be Scarlett DuBois.” Coach offered a mirthless smile. “You’re welcome.”

DuBois?As in…

“Vincent’s sister?” I sputtered. “You’re joking. That’s a conflict of interest!”