Page 9 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“Oh, you’llsettlefor my number?” The glint of amusement in her eyes brightened.

“Yep. It’ll be anonymous if you want. No name, just a number—so I can buy you a new shirt or pay for dry cleaning, of course.”

“Of course. I’m sure that’s all you’ll use the number for.”

I shrugged, a smile playing around the corners of my mouth. I hadn’t felt this lighthearted since yesterday’s match. Coming out to the pub had been a good idea after all.

“I can’t guarantee things won’t change in the future, but for now, my intentions are pure.” I held up a hand. “I promise.”

I really did intend on buying her a new top, so I wasn’t lying. Technically.

“As much faith as I have in promises made byplayers…” Her emphasis on the last word made it clear she wasn’t talking about my job title. “I have to respectfully decline. I can afford my own dry cleaning, and I don’t like handing out private information to strangers.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Try not to spill any more beer on unsuspecting passersby. It’s a waste of good ale.”

I stared, stunned, as she walked away. Her friend followed, half laughing and half sneaking peeks at me on her way to the exit.

What the hell just happened?

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been rejected. Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset about it; I was…intrigued.

Jesus.The guy who could get any girl he wanted was fascinated by the one girl who wasn’t impressed. I was a walking cliché.

“Oof. Shut downhard.” Adil’s voice shook me out of my stupor. I hadn’t even noticed his and Noah’s approach. He grabbed his soda from the counter and smirked at me. “She must’ve watched yesterday’s match and thought you played like shit too.”

“Shut up.” But I wasn’t paying attention to him.

I was too focused on the flash of dark hair and blue jeans as she disappeared through the door.

I’d never seen Mystery Girl before, but for some reason, I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time we ran into each other.

I spent the next week enjoying relative freedom. I hung out with friends, watched reruns of old shows, and took my favorite sports cars out for a spin or three. Football fired me up, but driving calmed me, and I’d amassed an enviable collection of luxury vehicles that I used for everyday errands or racing.

However, I chose a nondescript car for my first session at the Royal Academy of Ballet. Paparazzi were a problem, and I didn’t need a bright red Ferrari announcing my every move.

When I arrived at RAB, I felt a pinch of satisfaction at the absence of Vincent’s Lamborghini. He didn’t drive decoy cars, so I knew he wasn’t here yet.

I parked close to the entrance, my thoughts split between the dreaded cross-training session and the girl I’d bumped into last week.

I didn’t know why I was still thinking about her. We’d exchanged only a handful of words, and I didn’t know a single thing about her other than the fact she could pay for her own dry cleaning and that she didn’t like “handing out private information to strangers.”

My mouth curved at the memory.

I didn’t wish for much outside the realm of football, but I’d give up one of my cars to see her again.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Definitely.

Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t given me her name and number. I didn’t need that big a distraction in my life.

I entered RAB, checked in with the starry-eyed receptionist at the front desk, and followed her instructions to the training studio.

Housed in a mansion that looked like something straight off a Regency movie set, the Royal Academy of Ballet was worlds away from the sweaty, utilitarian grounds of Blackcastle’s training facility. There were paintings of ballerinas, photos of ballerinas, bronze statues of ballerinas…basically, ballerinas everywhere.

I guess subtlety wasn’t their strong point.

Then again, Blackcastle’s facilities had our team logo stamped on every possible surface so I shouldn’t throw stones.