Page 58 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
Those were absolutelynotbutterflies winging through my chest. They were something far less appealing, like…flying cockroaches. Or angry wasps.
Luckily, I was saved from answering when someone bumped into Asher with his shoulder. Hard.
The guy’s mouth moved. I couldn’t hear what he said, but judging by the way Asher’s smile vanished, it wasn’t an apology.
I wasn’t a confrontational person. The prospect of making a scene in public made me want to crawl under the table, but there was something about their interaction—the smug smirk on the guy’s face as he turned away, the angry yet resigned set of Asher’s jaw—that raised my hackles.
“Hey!” The rebuke slipped out before I knew what I was doing. “You bumped into him, and you’re just going to walk away? Apologize.”
Asher’s shocked gaze snapped toward me while the guy’s eyes narrowed. He looked like he was in his mid-to-late-forties, with graying hair and a blue shirt that stretched over his paunch.
“Whatcha gonna do if I don’t, little girl?”
“Well.” I offered a sweet smile. “While I can’t physically make you apologize because I’m such adaintylittle girl, Icancall your employer and tell them one of their officers has been harassing a civilian.” I nodded at the Holchester Police logo on his shirt. “I’m sure they won’t be too thrilled about that, especially when they find out the civilian is Asher Donovan.”
“Bumping into someone ain’t harassment,” he growled.
“Maybe not outside this pub, but premeditated physical aggression is strictly prohibited at the Angry Boar.” I tipped my head toward the bar, where Mac was slinging drinks with his signature scowl. “If you don’t believe me, we can call Mac over and see if he agrees.”
The man’s mouth thinned. Everyone knew Mac had a subzero tolerance for any type of provocation in his establishment. He’d once banned someone for intentionally stepping on another’s foot without apologizing.
“Or,” I said, “you can apologize and we’ll forget this happened. Your choice.”
A long, tense beat passed before he spoke again. “I’m sorry,” he gritted out.
“For what?”
If looks could kill, my lifeless body would be floating in the Thames. Luckily, they didn’t, and he had no choice but to amend his apology. “I’m sorry for bumping into you.”
“It happens,” Asher drawled. “Not everyone is born with grace, coordination, or manners.”
“You—” The man cut off with a small growl when I flicked my eyes toward the bar again.
He stormed off without another word, leaving the stench of cheap aftershave and indignation in his wake.
Asher turned his full attention toward me. His mask of amusement faded, softening the furrow between his brows and the hard set of his mouth. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Maybe not, but he deserved it.” My heart raced in the aftermath of the confrontation, but it wasn’t from nerves. It was from exhilaration. I felt like I could take on the world and win. “He was a wanker.”
“There’re plenty of wankers in the world, unfortunately. I’ve learned to pick my battles. Besides…” Asher flashed a crooked smile. “I have to watch myself here. Mac’s still upset with me for spilling beer on his beloved jukebox earlier this year.”
I wasn’t fooled by his devil-may-care attitude. “What did that guy say to you?”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before.”
“Asher.”
His smile devolved into a sigh. “The usual B.S. about me being a traitor and getting what I deserved in that final match against Holchester. It’s boring at this point, though I have to commend his commitment to his hatred while he’s on holiday.”
My brows pulled together. Asher got a lot of hate from Holchester fans when he transferred to Blackcastle, but it’d been months. I couldn’t believe people were still hung up on it when transfers happened all the time.
Then again, football fans were nothing if not passionate (to put it mildly), and the rivalry between Holchester and Blackcastle was particularly bitter.
“Well, I hope his beer is always warm, his food is always cold, and he stubs his toe every time he gets out of bed for the rest of his trip,” I said. “Imagine being so hateful on holiday. That’s bad karma.”
Asher’s laugh coated my arms and chest with warmth. “The ballerina has claws. I didn’t expect that from you,” he teased.
I shrugged. “I don’t like it when people act like wankers.”