Page 45 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

The weight of Asher’s body on mine.

The chase for the pap.

The moment we realized I’d have to stay the night.

And most of all, our conversation in the theatre, which had unearthed insecurities that I would rather have kept buried.

I hadn’t meant to unload them on Asher. I’d always kept my deepest (and shallowest) fears locked inside me, hidden from even Vincent and Carina. Because what was more shallow than refusing to step onstage in case I looked like a fool, like a has-been desperately clinging to her former glory?

Yet there was something about Asher that made mewantto confide in him. He’d listened without a trace of judgment, and asan athlete, he probably understood my dilemma as much as any non-dancer could.

I should be angrier about him pushing me so hard, but maybe he was right. Was trying and failing better than not trying at all? Twenty, forty, sixty years from now, would I regret not reaching for a second chance when I could?

Ugh. Late-night existential crises were the worst.

I closed my eyes, listening to the claps of thunder roll through the room. My body was exhausted after the day’s exertion, but my mind was wide awake.

Asher had placed me down the hall, as far from his room as possible, despite the many empty guest suites between us.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. Did he think I was going to break into his room and ravish him or something? Either that, or he was worried about whathe’ddo if I was too close.

Orrrr…hear me out…maybe it was a random assignment and you’re overthinking things. Not everything is about you, Scarlett.

Fine. My inner consciousness got me there. Thinking Asher Donovan was so attracted to me, he’d lose control if we slept across the hall from each other was the height of arrogance.

Still, an ember of heat flickered to life at the mental image of him in bed. Was he awake? If so, what was he thinking about? Did he sleep in boxers or a T-shirt and sweats or nothing at all?

I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. Why was I suddenly picturing him naked? What waswrongwith me?

I attempted to focus on something else. Unfortunately, the only other thing grabbing my attention was how hungry I was.

My stomach growled in resentment.

“Shut up.”

The second growl overpowered the thunder. Clearly, my muffled command had only served to antagonize the hunger monsters more.

Oh, screw it.

I tossed my covers to the side and tiptoed into the hall.

It was almost three o’clock, the devil’s hour, and a shiver snaked down my spine. The house transformed into a different entity at night, when twisted shadows danced on the walls and the silence took on a menacing weight.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been cast as the unsuspecting lead in a horror flick, unknowingly walking to her gruesome death when she should’ve stayed safe and warm in bed.

Stupid Asher.I blamed my paranoia on him. Did he really think a story about a countryside manor haunted by sinister spirits was the best movie to watch before bed?

Maybethatwas why I couldn’t sleep. My subconscious was protecting me from potential nightmares. It had nothing to do with anyone initialed A.D.

I made it downstairs and through the living room with the help of my trusty mantra.

Ghosts don’t exist. Ghosts don’t exist. Ghosts don’t?—

I turned the corner and stopped dead in my tracks. Pale light spilled through the kitchen doorway, alerting me to the fact that someone—or something— was already inside.

I finally understood how the characters in horror films felt because while self-preservation screamed at me to run away, morbid curiosity propelled me forward.

Apologies to every stupid character I’ve ever lambasted for making poor decisions. It turns out I, too, am a stupid character who makes poor decisions.