Page 94 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
I read the tabloids often enough to know he had a penchant for street racing. Several high-profile crashes had earned him a reputation for recklessness, though it hadn’t stopped Blackcastle from paying an arm and a leg for him anyway.
I hadn’t seen news of any crashes or street races he’d been involved in recently, so maybe he wasn’t part of that scene anymore.
I hoped so. Before we met, I hadn’t cared. If he wanted to race, then he’d race. It was his life he was gambling with. Now,dread curdled in my gut at the thought of anything happening to him.
Theoretically, his checkered history with cars and speeding should’ve turned me off given my hang-ups about those issues. But I couldn’t reconcile that rash, daredevil tabloid version of him with the thoughtful, caring man who’d researched chronic pain after I told him about my accident and who’d hired thesamechauffeur to take me to and from our training sessions because I wasn’t comfortable with strange drivers.
I’d been a passenger in Asher’s car multiple times, and he’d always followed the rules to a tee. I’d never felt uncomfortable or scared, which was saying a lot because even the smallest things set me on edge.
The tabloids weren’t the most trustworthy source. Maybe there was more to Asher’s racing than met the eye—or maybe I was naive.
I was cycling through ways I could ask him about it when he picked up a photo from the top of my bookshelf. “Is this your mum?”
Five-year-old me was dressed as a fairy princess, tiara and all. My mother stood next to me, her face glowing with pride.
“Yes. That was taken before my first ballet recital.” My face softened at the memory. “She was so proud that she took me out for ice cream after. If you knew my mother, you’d know what a big deal that was. She isnota dairy or junk food fan. At all.”
Asher examined the photo more carefully. “You were adorable.”
“Were?” I teased.
He set the photo down and faced me again. “I think you’ve graduated from adorable to something else.”
Warm honey filled my veins.
The low pitch of his reply chased away our lighthearted morning and resurfaced memories of what we did last night. The things he made me feel and the uncertainty we’d unleashed.
We’d tiptoed around the elephant in the room all morning. Neither one of us wanted to break the spell, but we had to leave our bubble eventually.
Before I could think of a witty reply or a tactful way to bring up our relationship (friendship? situationship?), Asher’s phone rang.
“Excuse me,” he said after he checked the caller ID. “I have to take this.”
The tension cracked, giving me space to breathe more freely. “No worries. I’ll be here.”
He answered the call in the next room while I worried my lip between my teeth.
I’d never had a morning-after talk. I usually went in knowing what to expect or slipped out before the other person woke up, so what should I say when Asher came back?
Should I Google it? Did the internet have useful advice, or was it going to lead me astray like the time it told me shrimp was impossible to overcook? (Spoiler: it was, in fact, very possible to overcook shrimp).
Asher returned, and all my half-baked conversation starters died in my throat when I noticed how pale he was.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s my dad.” He swallowed, his expression dazed. “He had a heart attack.”
CHAPTER 24
ASHER
I didn’t protest when Scarlett insisted on coming with me to Holchester.
Normally, I wouldn’t subject anyone to a three-hour drive with the worst, most anxious version of myself, especially when I was sure they were offering out of politeness and not a genuine desire to give up their Saturday for someone else’s family emergency.
But when she’d offered, she’d done so with such sincerity I couldn’t say no, and I didn’t want to make the three-hour drive alone.
So I accepted.