Page 33 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
“You do that, and I will personally fly to London to slap some sense into you,” Sloane said without a trace of humor.
I suppressed a laugh.
Coach was the boss on the pitch, but as my publicist, Sloane Kensington was in charge of everything related to my image (much to her chagrin). I paid her a boatload of money for dealing with me, but honestly, I was surprised she hadn’t quit yet.
Then again, Sloane and “quit” didn’t belong in the same sentence. She’d soldier through a trench of paparazzi bottom-feeders and internet trolls before she gave up.
“If you’re finished with your unamusing jokes, I’d like to remind you of yourSports UKinterviewon Thursday,” she said. “I’ll connect you to the reporter at noon sharp. Also, I spoke with Leon about Aoki Watches. They’re renewing your brandambassador contract. I’ll send you details for the Japanese press tour once they’re confirmed.”
“Perfect.” Leon was my business manager, and Aoki Watches was my most lucrative brand sponsorship. “You’re worth your weight in gold.”
“Instead of gold, pay me by staying out of trouble. I mean it, Asher. I don’t want to see youneara street race unless the internet and media collectively implode and I won’t have to deal with the resulting headlines.”
“Does that mean if I comply, I won’t have to pay your monthly retainer? I just bought a new Bugatti. Cash is a little tight.” It wasn’t, but I was curious as to how she’d respond.
She hung up on me.
Well, then. There was my answer.
I didn’t have any urgent mail, so I set it aside for the moment and walked to my garage. The custom-built space was the size of an airplane hangar, and it housed all fifteen of my cars, including my favorite vintage Jaguar convertible and the Bugatti in question.
The striking all-black model was so rare, there were only three in existence. Quad-turbo 8.0-liter W16 engine, six exhaust tips, seven-speed dual-clutch transmission, custom headlights—it was a thing of beauty.
I ran a loving hand over the hood before I climbed in and switched on the ignition. The powerful growl of the engine roared to life, and an electric thrill zipped down my spine.
Besides football, driving was the only thing that truly made me feel alive. In the dead of night, when the streets were quieter and the music was blasting, I could clear my head andthink.
For the next few hours, that was exactly what I did as I pulled out of the garage and took my new car out for a spin.
However, instead of vibing to the music and brainstorming strategies for the next season, my mind kept conjuring images of dark hair and gray eyes.
I shoved them aside.
They came back.
Jesus.
I rubbed a hand over my face and tried to steer my thoughts toward something, anything, other than a certain ex-ballerina.
Focus on theSports UKinterview. What questions will they ask?
Definitely something about my first season with Blackcastle, how I felt losing to my old team, and maybe my summer training regimen.
Summer.
Training.
Scarlett.
My groan of frustration cut through the music.Whydid everything route back to her? We met a month ago, and I still couldn’t pinpoint why she had such a hold on me.
Was it because she was beautiful? I’d met plenty of beautiful women, including movie stars, supermodels, and two Miss Universes. I hadn’t given them more than a passing thought.
Because she was witty and talented? They were great qualities to have, but they weren’t enough to explain why she haunted me the way she did.
Because she was off limits and seemingly uninterested in me? I liked a challenge, but her connection to Vincent was a detractor more than anything else.
So if it wasn’t any of those things that drew me to her, what the hell was it?