Page 50 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

My ex hadn’t cheated on me, but it’d taken him less than a month to move on after our long-term relationship—among other things.

Carina’s brows dipped. She examined me over the rim of her mug for a moment before she set it down with a soft sigh.

“You can’t let one bad ex ruin your opinion of the opposite sex forever,” she said gently. “Don’t let him have that power over you.”

“It’s not the opposite sex. It’s the profession.”

She pinned me with her signature don’t-you-bullshit-me look. I countered with my we’ve-talked-about-this-so-don’t-you-push-me stare.

I used to roll my eyes at the clichéd characters who could “never love again” because some asshole broke their heart. Everyone suffered heartbreak at least once in their life, right? Get over it and move on.

It wasn’t until I experienced it myself that I understood how they felt. Once you’ve been betrayed by someone you trusted completely, it was hard to let your guard down again.

I saw potential heartbreak everywhere now, and I’d rather nip it in the bud than regret it later.

My feelings toward Asher were complicated. Complicated wasnevergood.

Nevertheless, something he said last night nagged at me.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked after my stare down with Carina dissolved into a silent truce.

“Always.”

“Do you think I should try for the staff showcase this year?”

Her expression shifted into one of neutrality. “It depends,” she said after a telling beat. “Is that something you’re interested in?”

I picked at my toast. “Maybe.”

“Have you talked to your doctor about dancing again?”

“No.” I shredded my poor toast into further pieces. “Do you think I should?”

Carina had supported my decision to abstain all these years, but she’d never offered her personal opinion on the matter.

She raised her mug to her lips again. “I think the fact you’re even considering it is your answer.”

Carina and Asher’s words played in my mind the rest of the weekend.

On Sunday night, I booked a virtual appointment with my doctor.

On Monday morning, I met with Lavinia during her office hours and broached the possibility of joining the staff showcase before I lost my nerve.

As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered.

“Auditions closed last week.”

A sharp intake of breath betrayed my surprise.

I didn’t have my doctor’s sign-off yet. There was also a chance my newfound motivation would fizzle, and I’d regret my decision by the time the showcase rolled out.

But if that were the case, why did I feel so disappointed?

Lavinia studied me, her eyes sharp and knowing behind her glasses. “Is there a reason why you’re so interested in this showcase? You’ve declined to participate every other year.”

“I likeLorena’s choreography?” It came out more like a question than an answer.

The subtle arch of Lavinia’s brow displayed her skepticism.