Page 44 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

I’d known someone who’d let his fears control him. I couldn’t get through to him, and he took those fears to his grave.

There were nights when I’d lie awake and wonder what would’ve happened had I pushed him more. Tried harder instead of being caught up in the dreams of my own success. Would it have made a difference? Would he still be alive?

Those regrets kept me from backing down even as Scarlett turned rigid.

I didn’t care if she was livid with me. I’d let someone I cared about down once; I wasn’t going to do it again.

Scarlett wasn’t my best friend, girlfriend, or family, but I didn’t need a label to know that Ididcare about her.

I’d expected her to lash out after my question. Instead, the stoniness slowly fizzled from her face, and her shoulders sagged with a resigned sigh.

“The last time I performed, I was in my prime,” she said. “The next great prima ballerina. That was what the press called me. I openedSwan Lakeat the Westbury and killed it. Standing ovation, rave reviews. But I’m not that dancer anymore, and I want people to remember me as I was. Healthy. Talented.” Her voice cracked on the next word. “Whole.”

“Bullshit.” My response cracked like a whip through the air.

Scarlett startled, her face creasing with equal parts shock and affront.

“You’re not broken, so don’t give me that ‘whole’ BS,” I said. “And I bet you can still run circles around the majority of the general population when it comes to ballet, so don’t try to feed me that untalented line either.” I paused, replaying my words.“Okay, maybe ‘run’ wasn’t the right verb to use, but you know what I mean.”

The faintest curve touched her lips.

“The point is, your injuries don’t define who you are. Maybe you’re not the same dancer anymore, but who says you have to be? Growth isn’t always linear, and I’ve seen you in the studio. I think you’re still pretty damn incredible.”

Scarlett’s mouth parted. She stared at me, her eyes wide, as my mini motivational speech settled between us.

I wasn’t a big speech person, but I had to get that out there. Sometimes, we needed someone else to point out what was right in front of us.

“Where the hell did that come from?” she asked. There was an odd note in her voice, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“It’s the truth. I didn’t have to look too hard for it.”

Scarlett closed her mouth, opened it, then closed it again. A full minute passed before she spoke. “What if I flop? It’s been five years. I’m out of practice, and I’ve never performedLorenabefore. I know a staff showcase isn’t the same as a Royal Opera ballet, but those are my colleagues. My students. If I screw up, I’ll have to face them every day afterward, and I don’t know if I can do it.”

By the time she finished, her words were nearly inaudible.

A raw, unfamiliar ache settled in my chest. I hated how despondent she looked, but I understood how she felt.

Ballet, football. Both careers that came with preset expiration dates.

We weren’t like writers or lawyers who could theoretically keep their job until they died. We entered our fields knowing that one day, no matter how hard we tried, our bodies would simply be incapable of performing at the level necessary to sustain our dreams.

Our careers burned brief yet bright, and they were subject to the whims of the universe—one accident, one stroke of bad luck could end everything earlier than we’d expected.

I recognized it; Scarlett had lived it.

So maybe I was stepping over the line with what I had to say next, but I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t point it out—and I did consider her a friend, even if that sentiment wasn’t reciprocated.

“I think you’re capable of more than you give yourself credit for,” I said. “But at the end of the day, you have to ask yourself what you’d regret more—trying and failing, or not trying at all?”

CHAPTER 13

SCARLETT

The storm continued to rage outside. Rain pounded against the windows, and flashes of lightning chased away the shadows on the ceilings every other minute.

It was a white-noise dream. People paid for this kind of bedtime ambiance, yet I couldn’t sleep a wink.

Instead, I’d been lying in bed for two hours, replaying the day’s events on an endless loop.