Page 83 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

While Clive extolled the virtues of rugby and his “importance” on the pitch, Ivy poked at her pasta with a frown.

“Ivy, darling, would you like more wine?” I asked solicitously.

The worddarlingtasted strange when aimed at someone who wasn’t Scarlett, but I swallowed my misgivings. We were halfway through dinner, and it was time to take things up a notch.

Scarlett’s seeming fascination with Clive’s rugby rant faltered.

“Yes, please.” Ivy pushed her glass toward me. She might’ve hated wine at uni, but perhaps shehaddeveloped a new appreciation for it because she gulped it down like a desperate woman who’d finally stumbled upon an oasis in the desert.

The dinner dragged on.

If I hadn’t regretted the double-date idea before, I sure as hell did now. Listening to Clive talk was insufferable. Seeing Scarlett stroke his ego with questions and encouraging nods was worse.

I tossed back my drink and glared as she laughed at his stupid joke about a priest taking up rugby.Anyonecould’ve seen the conversions punchline coming.

“Excuse me.” Ivy’s chair scraped back with a rasp of wood against the carpet. “I don’t feel too well. I’ll be right back.”

Concern leaked through my irritation. I’d been so focused on Scarlett and Clive, I’d neglected Ivy. Her face did look paler than when we’d arrived, but she hurried off before I could respond.

Her departure cast an immediate pall over the table.

Clive stared after her, then tossed his napkin on the table and stood. “I have to use the loo, too. I’ll be right back.”

Five seconds later, he disappeared into the hall housing the toilets.

Yeah. Not suspicious at all.

I didn’t know why Ivy and Clive broke up, but judging by their reactions to each other, the attraction wasn’t dead.

I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Maybe they’d rekindle their flame and Clive could leave Scarlett the fuck alone. Ivy was too good for that wanker, but if she was into that, then it was none of my business.

Scarlett and I sat in silence, the specter of our dates and a thousand unspoken words hanging over us.

“Ivy seems nice,” she finally said.

“She is. And Clive seems…present.”

She snorted, an undignified sound that was at odds with her elegant appearance.

The corner of my mouth tilted up. I loved her reactions. They were so real, soher. No artifice, no ass-kissing. Pure Scarlett.

“I can’t believe they used to date,” she said. “What a plot twist.”

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Of what?”

“That we’re on dates with the wrong people.”

My words stole the last semblance of pretense between us. They hissed and crackled like a blaze in a hearth, warming my skin and bringing a tint of red to Scarlett’s cheeks.

“That’s not something you should say when we’re stillonour dates.” She glanced in the direction of the toilets.

No Ivy or Clive yet.

“Perhaps, but am I wrong?” I challenged. “Don’t tell me you can endure Clive’s grandstanding about rugby.Rugby.” I made a noise of disgust. “It’s violence disguised as a sport. All brawn, no finesse.”

“You are such a snob. Other sports exist besides football, you know.”