Page 73 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

Not yet…

The world narrowed to that one stretch of pavement.

Now!

With a quick flick of the wheel, I punched the car into a sharp turn. The tires squealed, but a controlled switch between the brake and accelerator smoothed the shift.

I was clear—and I’d pulled ahead of Clive.

However, my grin of triumph faded when the glint of his headlights filled my side mirror again. He’d recovered faster than I’d expected.

Motherfucker.

He inched in front of me by a hair.

I caught up a second later.

On and on, we traded leads until the finish line came into view. Simon stood by the roadside, shirt in hand.

Clive and I were still neck and neck. I could take one of two strategies. Either I pushed now, or…

Fuck it.

I went with my gut and eased my foot off the throttle a centimeter, just enough to let Clive speed past.

I ignored his gloating stare even as my blood drummed to the beats of competition and adrenaline.

Are you going to throw his number away?

No. Why would I?

It was a kiss…It didn’t mean anything.

I get why you’re so twisted up about her.

Is she a good shag? If she is, I might take her for a ride…

I slammed my foot on the pedal in the home stretch. It was my first time going full speed, no holds barred in this car, and the Bugatti shot forward like a bullet tearing through the night.

My body hurtled forward while my organs remained behind. The amount of g-force I’d unleashed provedexactlywhat several million pounds’ worth of vehicular optimization could do, so I held on and didn’t fucking breathe as the scenery outside morphed into an indistinguishable blur.

I imagined this was what astronauts experienced during a rocket launch—acceleration so powerful, it pressed them into their seats through sheer force.

Thank God I hadn’t eaten before I left the house.

But my temporary light-headedness soon gave way to relief and the sweet, sweet taste of victory as I flew past the finish line half a second before Clive.

Gravel sprayed as we skidded to a stop.

“Fuck!”

I heard his shout of frustration loud and clear through the glass, and I didn’t bother hiding my smirk as I exited my car.

Clive slammed his door shut and spat on the ground. One of his rugby buddies tried to console him with a pat on the back, but he shrugged him off with a scowl.

I walked over and held out my hand. Part common courtesy, part acknowledgment that I’d won.

After a moment of audible teeth grinding, he took it.