Page 69 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“Nope. No voicemail.” A nervous laugh leaked out. “Just me.”

“Where are you? It sounds like you’re in a car.”

“I went out with a friend, but I’m on my way home.” Technically not a lie. “What’s up? Is Dad okay?”

“He’s fine. Complaining about the government and state of modern cinema, per usual,” Vincent said. “But he’s recovering well, and Bernadette, our nurse, has a good handle on things. Enough that I can leave the house without him worrying that she’ll murder him with arsenic when his back is turned.”

I snorted. Our father was eccentric, but I suspected he went on his rants because he liked to complain, not because he believed what he was saying.

“Anyway, I’m going to be in London next weekend. I have a promo video to shoot for Nike. You free for dinner one of those nights?”

“Hmm. I do have a riveting date with my latest thriller, but I suppose I could make time for you.” I strove for a normal, sarcastic tone. If I was too quiet or accommodating, he’d know something was wrong.

“Your generosity knows no bounds,” Vincent said wryly. “It’ll be good to catch up. How are things going with Donovan? He’s not giving you a hard time, is he?” His tone darkened at the mention of his teammate.

My pulse sped up again.

“No,” I squeaked.Quite the opposite, actually.“He’s fine. Very, um, professional during training.” I let theduring trainingpartdo the heavy lifting.

“Good. I hate that you have to spend a whole summer with him.” I could practically see Vincent gritting his teeth. “Be careful, Lettie.”

I mumbled some semblance of a response.

“If he so much as lays a hand on you or makes you uncomfortable, let me know immediately,” Vincent said. “I’ll kill him.”

“You’re so dramatic.” I forced another laugh. It sounded like I’d inhaled a tank of helium. “I can take care of myself. Hey, I just got home so I’m going to call it a night. Text me when you get in next weekend, okay?”

I could tell he wanted to say more, but he settled for a simple, “Yep. See you soon.”

I hung up and leaned my head against the headrest, too exhausted to fret over the taxi ride.

Asher and I had completely upended our relationship within the span of five minutes.

My brother was visiting next weekend.

And I was stuck in the backseat of a cab, wondering how, exactly, I’d fucked myself so thoroughly.

CHAPTER 19

ASHER

Five till five.

Scarlett was due to arrive at any minute.

I ran a hand through my hair. Fiddled with the volume controls on the sound system. Straightened the dumbbells on the rack.

None of it dislodged the phantom touch of her lips against mine.

It’d haunted me since Saturday night, when I finally gave in to the damnneedinside me and kissed her.

That fucking kiss.If Scarlett had plagued my thoughts before, the kiss had built her a permanent home there and invited her in for tea. She was the only thing I could think about before sleeping, after waking up, while showering, and basically during any activity I used to try and forget her.

It drove me up the wall. And yet, I didn’t regret what happened.

That alone terrified me more than any consequences. My career had always been my number one. It anchored my world, and the fact that I was willing to risk it, no matter how indirectly, for a woman…

I rubbed a hand over my face, but I didn’t get a chance to pursue that train of thought before soft footsteps scattered my concentration.