The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: Chapter 45

Nothing brought a team together like an attack from another team.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the keyed car was Holchester’s handiwork. People might think professional footballers were above such juvenile antics, but they weren’t. The Judas scratched into the hunter green paint was proof of that.

They were the only ones with the means and motive. If the incident happened in Holchester, I would’ve been more circumspect, but in London? It couldn’t have been anyone else.

They called me Judas consistently, and they’d played Chelsea over the weekend, so they were in the city through Monday. I didn’t know how they did it without anyone noticing—unfortunately, my car had been parked in one of the CCTV cameras’ blind spots—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they did it.

Even though it was my car, the rest of the club took it as a personal affront. Even Coach was angry, and I wasn’t his favorite person at the moment.

The fact that Holchester came to our training grounds and vandalized our property was an act of war, so we waited. We waited until they were back in town two weeks later to play against Arsenal before we confronted them.

That night, Vincent, Noah, Adil, and several other players joined me at the Angry Boar, where the Holchester team always hung out after a London match.

Mac had banned Lyle after he shoved me, so he was nowhere in sight. However, Bocci was playing billiards with another player when we arrived. The other player saw us first and nudged his captain, who straightened and turned.

A slow grin spread over Bocci’s face. “Look who it is. Donovan finally shows his face. I thought I’d have to track you down after you ran away from our last match like a coward.”

I let his taunt roll off me. Everyone in the UK—hell, everyone in the world—knew the real reason behind my absence from the Holchester match.

My relationship with Scarlett had been prime tabloid fodder for the past two weeks. Every news website, every magazine, every bloody celebrity podcast was talking about us. Scarlett could barely enter RAB without getting accosted by the paps. People were stopping her on the streets for photos, and she’d had to private her social media after it got inundated with follows and comments (not all of them pleasant). She handled the onslaught of attention as well as she could given the circumstances, but it was taking a toll on both of us.

All that to say, Bocci was full of shit when he insinuated that I was too scared to play against him. He was trying to get a rise out of me, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I’m not having this discussion with you here,” I said icily. I flicked my gaze at Mac, who looked like he was seconds away from kicking us out, fight or not. “Meet me outside unless you want to join Lyle in…hmm, where is he? Eating pizza alone in his hotel room, I imagine.”

Bocci narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t want to suffer Lyle’s exiled fate any more than I did. He followed me into the alley behind the pub, our teams trailing after us.

The other patrons tried and failed to pretend they weren’t eavesdropping, but I heard them buzz with excitement before we fully exited the establishment.

The minute the door shut, I grabbed Bocci by the front of his shirt and slammed him up against the wall. The other Holchester players immediately bristled and moved toward us, but my teammates blocked them.

The two sides glared at each other, drenched in the threat of violence swirling through the air.

Summer heat had given way to an early fall chill, but the alley reeked of rubbish all the same.

“What you did to my car.” I tightened my grip on Bocci’s shirt. “I knew you were bullies, but I didn’t know you were petty criminals too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bocci sounded unfazed by his current predicament, but his eyes glittered with loathing. “We live in different cities, Donovan. Do you think you’re so important that we’d risk our careers to play whatever prank you accused us of playing?”

“You’re the only people who could’ve done it,” I growled. “Judas, your favorite nickname for me. Who else would carve that into the side of my Jag?”

A shadow of what looked like true surprise flashed across Bocci’s face before he laughed. “Hate to break it to you, Donovan, but there are plenty of people who call you that, and plenty more who despise you enough to key one of your precious cars. You can’t use us as a scapegoat for everything.”

“It’s not about scapegoating; it’s about honor. You want to attack me? Have the balls to do it to my face. This sneaky sabotage is the work of a coward.”

Bocci’s smile vanished. “You want to talk about honor? How about we talk about loyalty?” he hissed.

My temper reared its head again, fangs bared and ready to strike. “It’s a transfer, and it’s been nine bloody months! Get over it!”

“You know it’s not about the fucking transfer!” he shouted back. “You can transfer whenever the hell you want. It’s a reality of the league. But to blindside us and ditch us mid-season for Blackcastle?” He spat on the ground. “You didn’t give us any heads-up. One day, you were with us, and the next, you were against us. That’s cowardice.”

The air thickened into toxic sludge.

No one moved. No one so much as breathed, but the tension was so palpable I could taste its bitterness at the back of my tongue.

Bocci hadn’t said anything I didn’t already know. I knew I should’ve told them first, but I’d been afraid the news would get back to my father and he’d talk me out of it before I signed the contract.

I understood why my old team felt betrayed, but again—it’d been nine fucking months. I hadn’t killed one of their family members or instigated a hate campaign toward them with Blackcastle. They were holding onto something that should’ve been old news long ago, and none of that was a good enough reason for what they did.

It wasn’t about the property itself; it was about the principle behind it. The lack of respect and good sportsmanship.

“I apologized,” I growled. “The minute the news came out, I apologized for not telling you earlier. This grudge is unnecessary, as was your fucking stunt with my car.”

Bocci’s lips thinned. He didn’t acknowledge what I said.

Fresh irritation streaked through me, but I refused to get into another fight. Not when I was already on shaky ground with Coach and the paps were breathing down my neck. Anything I did would be blown ten times out of proportion given the current scrutiny I was under.

My teeth ground together, but after a serious moment of contemplating whether I could punch him once and get away with it—it wasn’t worth it—I released Bocci and stepped back.

However, the tension didn’t dissipate. If anything, it intensified.

“You want straight talk? I’ll do you one better,” Bocci said. “Race me. Let’s end this grudge once and for all. You win, we back off. We’ll still talk trash on the pitch, but you’ll never hear another word about Judas or your transfer from us again. If I win…” A dark gleam entered his eyes. “That Jag of yours is mine—after you’ve fixed it up, of course.”

That bloody bastard.

He didn’t want the car. He wanted a symbol for his victory. He wanted proof that he was better than me in some way. Every time he drove that car, he’d feel a kick of triumph at beating me.

It was too bad for him that was never going to fucking happen.

My fists curled. It took every ounce of willpower not to take him up on his challenge and make him eat his words. I wanted to see his expression when he lost so badly that my blood burned with it.

But racing would be worse than another fistfight, and I’d promised Scarlett I wouldn’t do it…no matter how much I wanted to.

“What’s the matter?” Bocci arched an eyebrow, his expression turning mocking. “Got cold feet again? Going to chicken out the way you did for our match?”

I bit my tongue so hard the faint taste of copper filled my mouth.

My pride roared at me to say something. To prove him wrong.

I stormed in here with my team, ready to confront Bocci, and what did I have to show for it? A few useless words? If I wasn’t going to fight him and I wasn’t going to race him, why was I even here? I might as well have stayed home and fumed from a distance.

You promised Scarlett. A voice warned me away from the ledge.

Scarlett doesn’t have to know. Another, more insidious voice slithered into my ears, promising retribution with impunity. It’s one race. That’s all.

“You didn’t take me up on my challenge the first time. Now you’re running scared a second time.” Bocci tsked in mock disappointment. “You’ve lost your touch, Donovan. It’s only a matter of time before everyone else replaces out you’re not the perfect golden boy you portray yourself as. You say we’ve been holding on to our grudge for too long, and maybe we have. But I offered you a chance to end this feud once and for all, and you’re the one who declined.” He nodded at the silent players gathered around us. “We have plenty of witnesses who can vouch for that.”

My heart slammed against my ribcage with bruising force. Bocci’s taunting words tangled with snippets from my past, filling my head with unwanted memories.

You’ll never amount to anything.

Football is a ridiculous dream.

Dammit, Asher, you’re not trying hard enough! Do you want to be second best forever?

Promise me you’ll play for both of us. You have what it takes to be the greatest footballer in the world. Don’t let this opportunity go to waste.

You’ve lost your touch, Donovan.

Your team or your son?

My old teachers, my father, Teddy…their fragmented voices sank their claws into reason and ripped it to shreds, making me bleed pure emotion in the dark alleyway.

Do it.

Don’t do it.

Walk away.

You can’t let him have the last word.

The last gasp of rationality died beneath the roar of blood in my ears.

I’d spent the better part of a year taking the high road. I’d endured the taunts and the hate messages silently, without retaliation, but I was sick of taking the high road.

Bocci and my old team said they valued loyalty, but they were really bullies. They dragged their resentment out because having a target made them feel good. Unless I put them in their place, they’d continue their campaign of harassment until I snapped or they got bored.

I hadn’t made it this far in my career by being passive and waiting for things to happen to me. This was my life and my reputation. It was time I retook control of them.

“I’m not scared of anything or anyone, Bocci, much less you,” I drawled, my smile a blade of white in the dark. “You want to race? Fine. Let’s race right now.”

Word of the last-minute competition spread like wildfire through a certain segment of the city’s street racing community.

I didn’t know who alerted them to the event, but when we arrived at our designated meetup spot in north London—the same spot where I’d raced against Clive and won—there were around two dozen people waiting for us. Most of them were athletes.

Simon was there. So was Clive himself, who I hadn’t seen since our double date. He’d shown up with his rugby buddies, and they watched Bocci and me exit our cars to make the rounds with quiet anticipation.

I greeted them with nothing more than a short nod. I still didn’t like Clive, and I hadn’t forgiven him for dragging Scarlett into the middle of our spat over the summer. He looked like he hadn’t forgiven me for denting his ego, either.

He clapped Bocci on the back and said something that made the other man laugh. There was no question who he was rooting for to win tonight’s race.

Noah came up beside me after I finished saying hi to Simon, who was back in the game now that his foot was fully healed.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said quietly. “You’re still on thin ice with Coach. If he replaces out…”

“He’s not going to replace out.” Adrenaline streaked through my veins, dulling my sense of danger. Coach, the paps, the slim but ever-present possibility of crashing—they didn’t exist at that moment. All that existed was the shining lure of victory. “I can’t back down after I agreed to the race. You know that.”

Noah frowned, his expression troubled. He didn’t attempt to talk me out of the race again, but he hung back from the rest of the crowd, clearly uneasy as shouts and laughter rang through the air.

I was surprised he was here at all. He was usually home with his daughter at this time, but he recently hired a new nanny, so maybe he had more freedom to stay out late.

Bocci hadn’t finished making his rounds.

I let him take his time. In half an hour or so, he wouldn’t be so happy.

“Asher.”

I turned at the sound of Vincent’s voice. He stood between me and my car, his face half cast in shadows.

He didn’t know about my promise to his sister, and I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t dwell on that right now. Not when we were a heartbeat away from the race.

Vincent dipped his chin in a cursory nod. “Good luck.”

I nodded back, and that was that. Nothing else needed to be said.

Two minutes later, the race finally started.

Bocci and I climbed into our cars—his Lamborghini versus my trusty Bugatti. He lived in Holchester but owned a house in London, and he kept part of his auto collection in the city.

We drove to the designated starting point on the main street.

I gripped the steering wheel, my body alive with nerves and anticipation.

A small voice screamed that this was a bad idea and I should back out before it was too late, but it was already too late. Like I told Noah, I couldn’t back out now—not without doing irreparable damage to my reputation.

This face-off with Bocci had been months in the making. In hindsight, it was foolish of me to assume we could settle our differences through a polite, regulated match on the pitch. It had to be something grittier. More personal.

Scarlett’s face floated at the edges of my consciousness, but for the first time since we started dating, I pushed it aside.

I hated breaking my promise to her, but I wasn’t racing tonight for an unnecessary thrill. I needed to do this. It was the only way for me to close the door on this chapter of my past.

I’m sorry, darling.

My grip tightened on the wheel.

All I had to do was win this one last race. After that, I was truly done.

Simon had offered to count us down, and the revs of our engines drowned out everything except the next few seconds.

Three.

Two.

One.

The flag came down, and we were off.