Page 99 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)
He didn’t tell me what happened in his father’s hospital room, and I didn’t ask. However, the argument had clearly taken a toll on him. His eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and exhaustion darkened the grooves of his face.
I wasn’t used to seeing him so subdued. The sight sent an unexpected pang through my chest.
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” he said with a short laugh. “Coming home is always an experience. I hope my mother didn’t scare you off too badly with her interrogation.”
“No, she was lovely.” Pippa had startled me with her initial barrage of questions, but we had a nice chat while Asher was with his father. I could tell she truly loved her son and wanted what was best for him, even if she was a bit…intense about the grandchildren thing. “But she kept mentioning something about me and Hedy Lamarr?”
“Famous movie star from the forties,” Asher said. “My mum’s a big fan of classic Hollywood, and you look a lot like Hedy.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment.” Looking like a movie star could only be a good thing, right?
“You should.” His mouth quirked. “She’s probably imagining little Lamarr clones running around her back garden right now.”
I huffed out a laugh even as my heart tripped at the thought of having babies with him. It waswaytoo early to think about that considering we hadn’t even clarified our relationship status yet, but for the briefest of moments, I allowed myself to indulge in the fantasy.
The prospect of marriage and children with Asher wasn’t as scary as I thought it’d be, which was worrisome in and of itself.
We’d had sex once. I wasnotgoing to be the person who started planning her wedding in a state of orgasm-fueled delusion, so I shoved the image of little green-eyed babies to the back of my mind as he showed me the house.
It was cozy and charmingly lived-in, with family photos strewn across various surfaces and an array of tchotchkes from France, Italy, Australia, and other holiday destinations. However, the overwhelming decor theme wasfootball, especially in the den and front hall. I felt like I was walking through a Holchester FC gift shop.
“You weren’t kidding when you said your dad’s a Holchester fan,” I said, equal parts impressed and alarmed.
Posters of the team decorated the walls, the edges curled and yellowing from age and wear. A shirt signed by the entire 2018 team was framed and displayed like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. Photos of Asher in his Holchester kit lined the mantel along with a miniature gold football.
I noticed there were no photos of him in Blackcastle colors on display.
“Fan? More like fanatic.” Asher didn’t look at the mantel on our way past.
“I suppose. Either way, it seems like today’s the day for home tours,” I said lightly, hoping to soften the broodiness shadowing his face.
It didn’t work.
“I guess so.” We stopped in front of a plain wooden door toward the back of the house. “This is my childhood room. Don’t make fun of it, or you’ll hurt my feelings.”
Something inside me loosened at the hint of his usual humor. “Oh my God. Did your parents keep it the same all these years?”
Asher’s wince confirmed my suspicions.
I walked in, taking in every detail—the blue quilted duvet; the single bed pushed up against the wall beneath the window; the posters of Armstrong, Beckham, and other football greats decorating the walls.
“It’s like a museum,” I said, fascinated by the peek into Asher’s childhood.
I could almostseehim sitting on his bed, watching football on the telly and dreaming of the day when he was the one on the screen.
“Yeah.” Asher looked around. “You know, I haven’t been in here in ages. I usually stay at a hotel when I’m in town, and I never had a reason to come in when I visited my parents.”A touch of nostalgia flitted through his eyes. “Ten years, and it feels like I never left.”
“It must feel surreal.”
“A bit.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to change. Feel free to look around or sit anywhere.”
I didn’t feel comfortable snooping through his room while he was gone, so I waited on the edge of his bed until he returned. He’d ditched his earlier outfit in favor of a T-shirt and jeans, and he looked mildly more relaxed as he sat next to me.
Silence descended. It was a comfortable, companionable quiet, the kind I’d gotten used to during our drive to Holchester, but something simmered beneath the surface, waiting to break free.
“Do you remember the day of the storm?” Asher asked. “You asked why I transferred to Blackcastle. You said it couldn’t have been only the money.”
“Of course.” I couldn’t forget anything about that day if I tried. It was, in many ways, the day that’d led us to where we were now.