Page 41 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

Dammit. I was hoping she’d overlook that.

“Fine. I’ll fetch you pistachio ice cream from the kitchen.”

“You don’t have pistachio ice cream. I checked.”

“When did you…? Never mind.” I mentally flipped through my other options. “Okay. If you watch theentiremovie with me tonight, I’ll give you a pass for a future favor. Any favor you want.” I held out my hand. “Pinky promise.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes. “What are we, eight?”

But she was thinking about it. I could tell by the furrow between her brows as she looked up to the left.

Left meant she was pondering something. Right meant she was lying.

It was alarming how well I could read her after only a month.

“Any favor?”

I held back a triumphant grin. “Any favor as long as it’s not illegal.” I paused. “Well, depending on the activity, I could be persuaded even if it is illegal.”

“Good to know your morals, Donovan.” Scarlett tapped her fingers against the armrest before she hooked her pinky around mine. “You have a deal.”

Whatever favor I’d have to grant in the future was worth it for the sheer entertainment value of seeing her overreact to every tiny thing for the next ninety-five minutes.

“Oh my God.” Scarlett peeked out from between her fingers, her eyes huge. Onscreen, the scared-but-determined-looking housewife inched upstairs, the wood creaking menacingly beneath her feet. “Whyis she going to the attic? It makes no sense! If I heard strange noises coming from my house, the last thing I’d do is investigate alone.”

“Maybe she’s braver than you.”

“You mean stupider.”

“Every brave act is stupid until it succeeds.”

“You—aaah!”

The scene’s ominous soundtrack crescendoed. Scarlett screamed and dove for me, burying her face in my shoulder and clutching my arm so hard I swore my circulation cut off.

“What happened? Did she die?What’s going on?”

Her muffled panic was drowned out by my laughter. I couldn’t help it. Scarlett was usually so reserved and put together that seeing her lose it over a cheesy horror film was almost better than winning a match.

Almost.

Once the music calmed and it turned out there was nothing in the attic except for a creepy old chest, Scarlett lifted her head to glare at me.

“Stop laughing.”

“Your scream,” I choked out, my shoulders shaking. “I should’ve recorded it. Priceless.”

She shoved my arm in retaliation, but I barely felt it. Apparently, amusement was the greatest insulator against pain.

“You’re a terrible host,” she huffed. “Polite hosts don’t—aaahhhhhh!”

This time, therewasa jump scare onscreen. Scarlett shoved her face into my shoulder again, and my laughter escalated into full-blown guffaws.

She spent the remainder of the movie attached to my side, peeking out occasionally when the sounds were calm and using my torso as a shield when they weren’t.

“This does not count as watching the movie,” I said. “You might as well be listening to an audiobook instead.”

Despite my words, I didn’t mind. Her hands were warm against my skin, and I liked the way she curled into me.