The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: Chapter 32

I didn’t know how, but I did it.

Well, okay, I kind of knew how—a guilt trip, a group photo of cute kids wearing their Sport for Hope-provided football kits, and a promise to let him choose our next four dinners in a row worked wonders in getting Vincent to sign up for the charity match.

I suspected having Asher owe him one helped as well. Knowing my brother, he’d never let Asher forget it.

Regardless, I was thrilled Vincent said yes. I knew how much the charity meant to Asher, especially given its connection to Teddy, and hopefully the match would be a first step toward my brother and my boyfriend tolerating each other.

“So Vincent wasn’t suspicious of you asking a favor for Asher?” Carina followed me to our front-row seats in the bleachers. The charity match took place at a local football stadium, and it was already packed with families.

“Nope. He bought my excuse that I was the messenger and that Asher asked me to ask him because it was an emergency.”

“When exactly are you going to tell him about you two?” Brooklyn took the seat on the other side of me. It didn’t take much convincing to get them both to come to the match today. Carina was always down for a fun outing, and Brooklyn was apparently a football fan. “You said next week?”

“That’s the plan.” My stomach danced with nerves as the players filed onto the field for warm-ups.

I spotted Asher and Vincent immediately. The two teams were divided into colors, the Reds versus the Greens. Asher and Vincent both sported red kits, and the crowd’s excitement reached an audible crescendo when people noticed who was on the pitch.

They studiously pretended the other didn’t exist, but at least they weren’t actively picking arguments with each other.

I tamped down a laugh when I noticed how they performed the exact same stretches at the exact time in the exact same manner.

Like I said, they were more alike than they cared to admit.

“God, he’s even dreamier on the pitch than he is off of it.” Carina sighed when Asher sank into a calf stretch. His leg muscles flexed, and half our section released similar sighs. “You’re a lucky, lucky girl.”

Her tone indicated she was teasing me more than anything else. She had a visual appreciation for athletes, but when it came to dating, her type ran toward the artsy, angsty segment of the male population.

“Shhh.” I cast a nervous glance around us. We were surrounded by parents who were more concerned with keeping foreign objects out of their toddlers’ hands than with our conversation, but there were a few members of the local press lurking around. I didn’t want any of them to overhear. “Lower your voice.”

At least the paps weren’t here. They didn’t know Vincent would be playing today, and they clearly thought a charity match for kids wasn’t a ripe breeding ground for scandal.

“Calling your brother to play a match with his rival-slash-your secret lover is a boss move,” Brooklyn whispered. “You have balls. I respect it. You deserve a feature story in Mode de Vie.”

Carina giggled while I fought an exasperated sigh. “I don’t want a feature story in Mode de Vie or any other outlet. I just want to⁠—”

“Bone your man all the way to Sunday and back again?” Brooklyn tossed me a devilish grin. “Understandable.”

“Totally understandable.” Carina leaned over me to give the American a high five. “You have a way with words, Brook.”

“Thank you.” Brooklyn beamed. “I try.”

I scowled. “You know what? I’m sorry I introduced you guys. This”—I gestured to the both of them as they laughed at my expense—“is unacceptable.”

As I predicted, Carina and Brooklyn instantly hit it off when they met in person last night. I figured they would, but part of me had worried Carina would feel weird about me introducing someone new into our tight-knit duo. However, they took to each other like ducks to water.

Unfortunately, that meant they sometimes ganged up on me, which I did not appreciate.

“Aw, you know we love you.” Carina tossed an arm around my shoulders. “Would we be real friends if we didn’t take the piss out of you for your soap opera of a life?”

“Yeah, some of our lives are boring. We have to live vicariously through you.” Brooklyn crossed her legs, the picture of effortless cool with her high ponytail, gold hoops, and giant sunglasses. “The only thing that would make today more interesting is if Asher and Vincent got into a fight. Not that they would,” she said when I blanched. “No one wants to derail a charity match for kids. It’s bad press.”

“Don’t even put that thought out there.” I eyed the pitch again. Asher and Vincent were still ignoring each other, thank God. “It could very well happen.”

“If it does, whose side would you be on?” Carina asked Brooklyn. “Team Asher or Team Vincent?”

The blond wrinkled her nose. “No team. I like the sport, not the players. They’re way too full of themselves.”

It was a quintessentially Brooklyn answer. We’d texted constantly since the night we met, but I still didn’t know much about her. I knew she grew up in California, she was an aspiring nutritionist, and she could rock a ponytail like no other, but that was about it. She had an impressive talent for carrying on a full conversation without revealing anything about herself.

“I agree,” I said. “Take it from someone who’s related to one. Way too full of themselves.”

Carina arched an eyebrow. “This coming from the girl dating a player.”

“Well…” I caught Asher’s eye when he scanned the crowd, his gaze skimming over the different sections until it found me. A thousand fluttering wings filled my chest. “He’s different.”

My friends let out good-natured groans, but I didn’t care. The world narrowed to pools of intense green and the heat of Asher’s stare. Electricity buzzed to life between us, slipping beneath my skin and setting every nerve ending on fire.

We couldn’t do much with my brother and a thousand other people present, but we didn’t need to. It wasn’t about what we said or did; it was about what we felt.

Then, right before the teams finished their warm-ups, Asher grinned and winked. It happened so fast I would’ve missed it had I not already been looking at him, but it was enough. The thousand wings multiplied into a million, and I couldn’t keep an answering grin off my face as the players took their places for kickoff.

When I finally looked away, my friends were staring at me with amusement.

“It’s so sweet it’s disgusting,” Brooklyn said. “I want it.”

“I don’t,” Carina said. “I’d never get any work done.”

“So real.”

I pointedly stayed out of their conversation, which petered out as the match started.

We screamed and cheered for the Reds and groaned when the Greens scored a goal. The players were a mix of top-level professionals and hobbyists. It made for an uneven match at times, but the crowd’s enthusiasm and the buzzy atmosphere was so much fun that no one seemed to mind.

It was also the first match where we saw what Asher and Vincent were capable of when they weren’t at each other’s throats. Maybe it was the relatively low stakes or the fact they were playing for charity. Whatever it was, they played so well together that the Reds dominated the first half. The combination of Asher’s offense and Vincent’s defense resulted in two goals that roused the stadium into a fit of pandemonium.

Then disaster struck.

Less than a minute into the second half, one of the Reds fouled one of the Greens. The Green player crumpled to the ground, and the cheers cut off so abruptly it was like someone had pressed mute on a thousand people.

The two sides swarmed the ref, their hands gesticulating wildly as they argued with the stern-faced man. I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but no one looked happy.

Asher and Vincent wore matching scowls, and after maybe a minute of heated discussion, the ref shook his head. He’d made his decision.

Greens got a penalty kick.

Someone helped the injured player off the pitch, and there was another small commotion when the Greens indicated they were subbing in a new player.

I squinted, trying to make out the new player’s face.

When I did, my heart plummeted to my toes. A cold sensation crawled down my throat and filled my lungs.

“No fucking way.” Carina verbalized my sentiments exactly. She grabbed my arm, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

I hadn’t seen the sub during warm-ups. I didn’t know why he was at the match or why he was in London, period, but there was no mistaking that dark hair or cocky smile.

My stomach curdled with disbelief as he jogged onto the pitch.

Of all the people who could’ve subbed in for the injured Green player, it had to be him. Rafael Pessoa. My ex-boyfriend.

Asher and Vincent’s heads snapped toward him like lions sensing prey. Their bodies went rigid, and identical shadows darkened their faces.

Oh, no. Oh nononono.

“This is not good,” Carina said. “This is not good at all.”

Brooklyn’s brow puckered. She didn’t know about Rafael, so she had no clue why we were freaking out. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well.” My mouth tasted like pennies. “I think you’re going to get that fight you were hoping for.”

ASHER

“What is he doing here?” Vincent spat from his spot beside me.

I wasn’t sure who he was talking to since he wasn’t aware I knew about Scarlett and Rafael, but I replied with the obvious anyway.

“He’s the sub.”

“No shit. I meant what he’s doing here, at the match.”

They were the first words we’d exchanged all day. We’d greeted each other with stiff nods in the locker room, and I suppose I had to thank him later for agreeing to play at the last minute. However, I preferred to live in denial about that for as long as possible.

Was it mature? No.

Did I care? Also no.

I didn’t have an answer for why Rafael was in London when he lived in Brazil and played in Spain, but one of the other Reds piped up with an explanation.

“I heard he’s thinking of transferring back to the Premier League. Maybe he heard about the match and wanted to participate,” he said.

A low growl rumbled through my chest.

I’d never been a big fan of Rafael, but after Scarlett told me about the shitty, cowardly way he broke up with her, I despised that man with every fucking fiber of my being.

Judging by Vincent’s scowl, he felt the same way. He regarded the Brazilian forward with more loathing than he’d ever directed toward me.

The match resumed, cutting our conversation short, but a new tension suffocated the pitch. The first half had been for fun; this half was for vengeance.

I didn’t want to win against the Greens. I wanted to crush them.

Unfortunately, despite his assholishness in his personal life, Rafael was a good player, and he managed to score with a header ten minutes into the half.

Frustration poured through my blood.

Rafael and I matched each other step for step for possession of the ball. I triumphed after I successfully kicked the ball away from him and caught it before another player could swoop in, but I barely had time to gloat before he fell to the ground, clutching his knee.

The ref blew his whistle, and the match paused. Boos rose from crowd.

“He tripped me,” Rafael said when the ref came over to investigate. He gestured toward me, his eyes gleaming with…were those tears?

Jesus Christ. He should quit football and go into acting.

“That’s bollocks. I didn’t touch him!” I fumed.

Vincent came up beside us. “Ref, you saw that play! We all did,” he argued. He pointed at Rafael. “He always pulls this crap. Like Donovan said, he didn’t touch him.”

Either he wanted to win enough to swallow his distaste and defend me, or he simply hated Rafael more than he hated me. Or both.

I cut a glance in his direction.

It was ironic Vincent was backing me up on this when he’d done the same thing as Rafael during the World Cup. In fact, what he did had been a million times worse. The difference between getting red carded in the World Cup and giving the opposing team a penalty kick during a charity match was the difference between Mount Everest and a molehill.

However, Rafael had a history of diving, a.k.a falling to the ground and/or feigning injury in order to draw a foul. Vincent only did it once—on the biggest stage possible with the worst consequences for me imaginable, but it was still once.

Sadly, our combined efforts weren’t enough to convince the ref. He awarded the Greens another penalty kick. They’d missed their last one, but this time, Rafael kicked the ball firmly into the net.

The Greens were now up, three to two.

I clenched my jaw. Goddammit.

It was a charity match, but the stakes felt as high as those of a championship. I refused to let Rafael bloody Pessoa take home a win. The mere thought caused bile to rise in my throat.

Even if he hadn’t screwed Scarlett over, I would’ve hated him. Maybe it was my lingering bitterness from the World Cup, but I firmly believed that any player who engaged in regular diving didn’t deserve a place on the pitch.

“Tough luck,” Rafael said the next time we were close enough for him to shit talk without anyone else hearing. “Guess the golden boy of football isn’t so golden anymore. Can’t wait to follow Holchester’s footsteps and kick your and DuBois’s asses.”

I shouldn’t take the bait. Players trash talked each other all the time, and I was usually pretty good at letting their taunts roll off my back.

However, my frustration over the direction of the match and the ref’s earlier calls had already reached a furious simmer. The mention of Holchester turned it into a full boil.

I might still have been able to contain it had I not glanced at the crowd and seen Scarlett in that moment. Her worried expression blended with the image of her face when she shared what’d happened with Rafael. How forlorn she’d seemed and how sad she’d sounded. She said their breakup turned out for the best, but no one liked being abandoned when they were at their lowest.

I pictured her lying in bed and in pain while he ditched her to date someone else.

I imagined how heartbroken she must’ve felt.

And I snapped.

Red crept into my vision. Anger burned reason into ash, and instead of brushing off Rafael’s taunt, I turned and shoved him hard enough to make him stumble.

At that moment, we weren’t playing a match. We were fighting for real, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug smirk off his face.

A collective gasp reverberated through the stadium.

Rafael recovered and spat out something in Portuguese. He shoved me back. Vincent grabbed the back of my shirt to prevent me from punching him, but when Rafael issued another taunt that I couldn’t hear, he let out a growl and released me.

Vincent swung for him and would’ve made contact had another Green not stepped in at the last minute. The rest of our teams jumped in, blinded by their temporary loyalty to their colors. From there, it devolved into a dirty, all-out brawl.

The crowd’s shouts thundered across the pitch, drowning out a flurry of swear words and threats.

“What is your problem?” Rafael shouted.

“My problem is you.” I had more choice words for him, none of which were appropriate for the venue, but before I could unload on him, a shrill, prolonged whistle cut through the chaos.

“Enough!” The ref shoved his way into the middle of the brawl. He’d been trying to get us under control for the past two minutes, and he’d clearly had enough.

The man’s face matched the color of my kit as he glared at us, his shoulders quivering with outrage.

“This is a charity match for kids,” he hissed. “I don’t care who you are or what bad blood you have. This is a bloody disgrace. Look at them! Do you think you’re setting a good example for them right now?”

I followed his finger to where a group of kids sat in the front row. They ranged from maybe six to thirteen in age, but they all wore matching Sport for Hope T-shirts and round-mouthed expressions of shock.

Shame snuffed out the hostility faster than rain over fire.

My blood pumped with the dregs of fury, but the reminder of the children’s presence and why I was doing this—for the kids, yes, but also for Teddy’s memory—chastised me enough to step back from Rafael.

The other players hung their heads, equally abashed.

It wasn’t a regulation match so the ref couldn’t red card us, but he awarded the Greens yet another penalty kick since I was the one who made first contact.

Once again, they scored. They were now up four to two.

“That smug bastard.” Vincent seethed beside me. “Look at him. He thinks they’re going to win.”

Rafael gave us a mocking two-finger salute from across the pitch, his smirk firmly back in place.

“Over my dead body.” My hand curled into a fist. “Let’s take him down.”

A vicious smile slashed across Vincent’s face. “Best idea I’ve ever heard.”

Like the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy was my friend. For the next thirty minutes, we were united in our hatred of Rafael, and we played like we were vying for the World Cup again—only this time, we were on the same team.

Vincent blocked a pass from Rafael to another Green. He kicked the ball to me, and I took it and ran.

The goal was a foregone conclusion. The Greens’ keeper barely had time to react before the ball sank deep into the net, and the stadium erupted into cheers.

“Gooooallll!” The announcer dragged the word out over the loudspeaker.

I allowed myself a spark of triumph.

Three to four. Almost there.

“Go, Reds!” A familiar voice screamed over the crowd.

My gaze snapped to the source, and an unfettered grin spread across my face when I saw Scarlett jump from her seat between Carina and a blond whom I assumed was Brooklyn.

I’d played in front of royalty, celebrities, and heads of state, but hearing Scarlett cheer for me beat every other match a thousandfold. It wasn’t even close.

She waved, her face glowing.

I almost waved back until I saw Vincent returning her greeting. He must’ve thought his sister was cheering for him alone.

Right. No public displays of affection allowed yet.

I shook off a twinge of disappointment and refocused on the match.

A few minutes later, Vincent blocked a goal attempt by the other team. An audible wave of appreciation rippled across the bleachers.

I hated to admit it, but the bastard really was good.

Soon, we tied with the Greens again.

Five minutes left. All we needed was one more goal.

Four minutes.

Three minutes.

I finally stole possession of the ball from Rafael. I kicked it from the left wing, and⁠—

“Gooooallll!!”

The stadium shook from the force of the audience’s jubilation. The Greens never recovered, the clock wound down, and we won five to four.

“Yes!” Vincent pumped his fist in the air. “That’s fucking right!”

The sweet thrill of victory streaked through my veins. It was blazing hot, I was dripping sweat, and I’d lost my temper in a deeply public way, but none of that mattered.

We won. We’d raised a shit ton of money, and I got to savor Rafael’s scowl as he slunk off the pitch.

It was the perfect ending to a rocky day.

I found Scarlett in the crowd again. She smiled at me, her face soft with pride and something else that made my pulse race.

Vincent was too busy signing autographs to notice, so I let myself smile back.

The noise around us dulled into an indistinguishable roar. No matter where we were or how many people surrounded us, she commanded my attention like a lighthouse in a storm.

Bright. Beautiful. Unwavering.

I started walking toward her, but a Sport for Hope employee shepherding the group of kids I saw earlier stopped me halfway.

“Hi, Asher. I’m sorry to keep you. You must be exhausted,” she said apologetically. “But the kids are big fans, and they’d like a few autographs and pictures. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Today is for them.” I tore my gaze away from Scarlett and smiled at the group. They were adorable. “Who wants a picture first?”

After much clamoring and excitement, I finished signing every autograph and taking every photo. By then, the stadium had emptied, but when I checked my phone, I saw a text from Scarlett saying she was by one of the side exits.

I grabbed my duffel bag and headed to meet her. As promised, she was waiting in the area between the stadium and the car park. I didn’t see Vincent, Carina, or Brooklyn, but my anticipation over stealing a few moments alone with her—as well as my warm and fuzzy feelings from interacting with the kids earlier—disappeared as soon as I saw who she was talking to.

Rafael.