The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: EPILOGUE #2

ASHER

Thirty seconds of added time left on the clock.

Sweat coated my skin and dripped into my eyes. A ceaseless, deafening roar rolled through the stadium as fans shouted for someone, anyone on their side to score.

It was our final match of the season. Once again, we were playing Holchester; once again, we were tied, and once again, we needed a win to take home the trophy.

The déjà vu was so strong it permeated the air and etched lines of determination across every Blackcastle player’s face. We’d let last season’s Premier League title slip through our fingers, but we would rather die than give Holchester another victory.

Not in our bloody stadium, in our city, surrounded by our fans.

Bocci broke through our defense and attempted a goal. My heart stopped in denial only to pick up again when Vincent streaked in at the last minute with a spectacular block.

He kicked the ball to Elliott, who tried to run upfield with it but faced strong resistance from Holchester. Instead of wasting time by fighting, he passed the ball back to Vincent, who took it and ran.

Fifteen seconds left.

My blood thundered in my ears, and I tracked Vincent like an eagle as he sprinted along the side.

Come on, come on, come on…

I silently urged him to run faster even as I kept an eye on the opposing team as well. This was our last play. Either it worked or it didn’t—and it had to work.

Ten seconds left.

Vincent finally paused and, without so much as a beat of hesitation, delivered a sumptuous cross so smoothly that Holchester’s defense was still scrambling when I raced in to meet it.

Five seconds.

I didn’t think. I acted on instinct and met the ball with a clean, simple header.

The noise that rocked the stadium swelled beneath my skin and filled my lungs as I joined seventy thousand people in watching the ball sail toward the goal in seeming slow motion.

Four.

Holchester’s keeper dived.

Three.

His fingers grazed the ball, but they didn’t replace purchase.

Two.

The ball sank into the back of the net.

One.

A moment of pure silence.

Then the stadium erupted, its roar so deafening that my teeth and bones rattled from the sheer force of it. It built and built, climbing higher and higher, until the very ground seemed to shake beneath the jubilation of tens of thousands of fans celebrating Blackcastle’s first Premier League victory in ten years.

I stood there, too stunned to move until my team swarmed me with hugs and cheers.

“We won!” Samson shouted, shaking my shoulders. “We fucking won!”

“We bloody did it! Take that, wankers!” Gallagher yelled, flipping the bird toward the Holchester players at the other end of the pitch.

Not very sportsmanlike, but who cared?

We won. We won.

Exhilaration shattered shock’s hold on me.

I finally joined in the celebrations, my heart full to bursting as I hugged and clapped my teammates on the back.

After all the shit we’d been through and all the obstacles we’d faced, we were bringing home the trophy.

Christ, it felt good—more than good. It was euphoric.

Laughter rumbled through my chest when the team hoisted me and Vincent on their shoulders. From this vantage point, I spotted our exultant club staff on the sidelines with Coach, who wore his first real smile since 1995.

“Good thing you didn’t screw that up!” Vincent shouted over the noise. His face gleamed with a mix of perspiration and elation. “If you had, I would’ve banished you from the team myself.”

“Like you have the power!” I shouted back. I flipped him off, laughing again when the team set us down and Vincent attacked me with a bear hug.

“Fuck you, Donovan!” he yelled in my ear. But he was grinning.

We all were.

Well, all of us except Holchester, whose members skulked off the pitch with their heads down. Bocci shot me a baleful glare on his way out. He was already in hot water with Holchester execs after he got caught street racing last month. His arrest had resulted in a hefty fine and a twelve-month driving ban, and there were rumors his stay on the team was dependent on him leading them to another league title this year.

I didn’t know what would happen to him now, and I didn’t care. I was focused on replaceing someone more important.

Vincent went off to sing our team’s anthem with Adil and Stevens while I scanned the stadium.

Finding her should’ve been impossible given how many people were jumping and running about, but I spotted her almost immediately.

Even if there were seven hundred thousand instead of seventy thousand people here, I would’ve found her just as easily because a part of me would always be connected to a part of her.

Scarlett sat on the north side with Carina, Brooklyn…and my parents.

My heart stopped for the second time that day. I blinked to make sure I was seeing correctly, but there was no mistaking my mother’s curly dark hair and my father’s grizzled beard.

They hadn’t said a word about attending today’s match, but there they were, decked out in Blackcastle gear—even my father.

My mother beamed and waved when she saw me looking. My father didn’t smile or wave, but his short nod was the most affirmation I’d gotten from him since I transferred.

I doubted we would ever have a “normal” father-son relationship, but it had improved incrementally since his surprise visit to kick my ass into gear during the fall. Plus, the fact that he was here today in Blackcastle colors? That meant more than anything else he could’ve done.

I swallowed the emotion in my throat—if I teared up on the pitch, I would never live it down—and refocused on Scarlett.

She grinned and blew me a kiss with one hand. Her other hand carried a sign that said Kick Holchester’s ass from here to Pluto in huge, bright purple letters.

I burst into laughter. God, I loved that woman.

I winked and blew her a kiss back.

It was cheesy as fuck, but I didn’t care how many people groaned or how many front pages it would land on tomorrow.

I meant it with all my heart.

SCARLETT

“Do you think the logo was always there or he had someone install it after you guys won?” I asked, staring at the giant Blackcastle logo etched into the foyer floor.

Asher laughed. “I have no idea. This is my first time here. I’ve never even met Markovic before.”

It was the week after Blackcastle’s historic league win—the first under Coach Frank Armstrong and the first under its current owner Vuk Markovic—and Markovic had invited the entire club for a celebration at his mansion outside London.

Either he’d been extremely confident about the team’s ability to win or he spent an inordinate amount of money to host such a lavish party on such short notice.

He could certainly afford it. The billionaire CEO possessed a higher net worth than some small European countries. He lived in New York but owned multiple interests in the UK, including Markovic Stadium, and he was notoriously reclusive. According to the internet, he rarely, if ever, spoke in public.

Given his reputation, I was surprised he was hosting such an elaborate party, but winning the Premier League was a big deal. As the team owner, he had to thank the players somehow.

“It’s about time you two showed up.” Vincent appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Like the rest of the men, he wore a tuxedo to fit in with the black-tie theme. “I can’t believe you made me the early one out of our trio. Do you have any idea what that’ll do to my ‘fashionably late’ reputation?”

I patted his shoulder with a comforting hand. “Punctuality is a good thing. Embrace it.”

“We would’ve gotten here earlier, but we got distracted,” Asher added, swiping two pieces of baked shrimp toast off a passing server’s platter. He handed me one and popped the other in his mouth.

My brother visibly gagged. “Don’t ever say stuff like that in front of me again. I’m going to be sick.”

Asher raised an eyebrow. He chewed and swallowed before saying casually, “I was talking about the injured bird we saved from the side of the road. What were you talking about?”

I laughed and nudged Asher gently with my elbow. “Stop teasing him. You two play nice while I say hi to Brooklyn.”

My friend stood on the other side of the domed entryway, talking to another Blackcastle staff member.

The foyer represented only a sliver of the Markovic estate, which was vast enough to fit multiple football pitches with room left over for an American baseball field or two, but it was still five times as big as my flat. The aforementioned gold stallion team logo gleamed against an expanse of pale green marble while chandeliers dripped with heavy, teardrop-shaped crystals above.

It would probably take me ten minutes just to reach Brooklyn, especially given how many people were here. Besides the Blackcastle team and their dates, I spotted a few celebrities and socialites—including Polina, the model I’d caught kissing Asher over the summer. She came with Gallagher, but judging by the way she kept scanning the room, she was on the lookout for someone else.

“I’ll say hi to Brooklyn with you.” Vincent moved to follow me before I stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.

“Think about what?” He was the picture of innocence.

“She is not going to go for you. Even if she did, her father wouldn’t. The Boss will literally murder you with his bare hands if you so much as breathe wrong near her.”

“Please. I don’t have a death wish,” Vincent said. “I just want to talk to her because I lent her the latest Isabella Valencia book and I want it back.”

My brother did not read thrillers. “You don’t own…” My eyes narrowed. “Wait. You mean my Isabella Valencia book? The one I haven’t read yet? I was looking all over for it the other day!”

Vincent shrugged, having the grace to look sheepish.

Unbelievable. This was like the Adele vinyl situation all over again.

“Anyway, I’m not interested in her like that,” he said. “I admit, I was intrigued when I first met her, but she’s annoying.”

“Because she’s the one woman not related to you who doesn’t fall all over you? And Carina doesn’t count. She’s basically your de facto sister.”

“No. It’s because she’s annoying.”

“You used to think Asher was annoying, and now you’re best friends.”

Vincent’s mouth curled. “Best friends is pushing it. We tolerate each other.”

“I’m standing right here,” Asher interjected. “But he’s right. We tolerate each other for the team and for you. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.” They tolerated each other so much they were going to watch the upcoming Nate Reynolds movie without me, but whatever. I wasn’t bitter or anything. “Sure. Well, tolerate each other while I say hi to Brooklyn—alone.”

I left them to bicker with each other while I joined my friend next to one of the Picassos. The other staff member had left, leaving her by herself.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. She must’ve been watching my interaction with Asher and Vincent. “Dealing with those two together is like dealing with children.”

“Tell me about it.” I hugged her hello. “You look great.”

“So do you.” Brooklyn grinned. “It’s too bad Carina couldn’t come. This place is wild. Did you know there’s a shooting range in the back garden?”

“No. How did you know that?”

“People tell me things.” She shrugged. Her gaze coasted over my shoulder, and her eyes widened—with appreciation or apprehension, I couldn’t tell. “Speaking of people…look who’s here.”

I turned as the lively chatter in the foyer faded into silence and the only sound was the clack of shoes against marble.

He emerged from the shadows of another room and stopped at the edge of the crowd. I recognized him from my internet sleuthing immediately.

Vuk Markovic.

I thought his photos were intimidating, but they didn’t do him justice. In person, he was downright terrifying. It wasn’t his size or the vicious scar bisecting his face into two icy halves. It wasn’t the unsmiling mouth, the burn marks around his throat, or those pale blue, almost colorless eyes.

It was the sense of danger he emitted, like a predator dressed in sheep’s clothing. Even in a custom ten-thousand-pound tux, he didn’t look like a CEO. He looked like someone who would calmly and efficiently dismember you with his bare hands if you crossed him.

A chill skittered down my spine when those unsettling eyes brushed over me, but they didn’t pause. They simply skimmed over me like I didn’t exist.

He scanned the room without a hint of emotion. It seemed like he was searching for someone, but whoever it was must not have been there because his mouth thinned with displeasure.

An older woman came up beside him and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and walked toward the Boss, breaking the spell of silence that had descended upon his arrival.

The room released a collectively held breath, and chatter picked up again.

“I guess he’s not going to give a thank-you speech,” I said wryly.

“He’s hot.”

My head snapped toward her. “Who? Markovic?”

“Yeah. In a scary, I-might-kill-you-after-I-fuck-you sort of way. But it works. What?” she said defensively when I arched my eyebrows. “I have a thing for bad boys.”

“Sometimes, you worry me.”

“I always do,” she said with more cheer than the situation warranted. She glanced over my shoulder again, a small smile creeping onto her face. “But I think you’ll feel much better soon.”

“What—”

“I hate to interrupt, but do you mind if I steal Scarlett away?” Asher’s smooth voice interjected along with a hand on my hip. “I have something important I need to show her.”

Brooklyn smirked. “I’m sure you do.”

Heat scalded my face. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Nah. It’s a fun place to be, but I can take a hint.” She winked at us on her way to say hi to Adil. “Have fun.”

“What’s this important thing you need to show me?” I asked Asher suspiciously as he led me around the edge of the entryway toward the main part of the house. “It’s not your dick, is it?”

His chuckle rose over the din, teasing my senses. “Not necessarily, but if you want to see it…”

My blush deepened. “I’ve seen it plenty. I don’t need—what are you doing?” I squealed out a laugh when Asher pulled me into a dark room off the foyer and locked the door behind us.

“Stealing some time alone with my girlfriend.” He lifted me onto one of the side tables and stepped in between my legs. “I’m tired of sharing you with other people.”

“We were apart for ten minutes max, and we see each other every day.”

I officially moved into Asher’s house last month after the lease on my flat expired. It was a huge step, but it was also a natural progression of our relationship.

“True,” he conceded. “But ten minutes is too long, and every day isn’t enough.”

“You’re impossible,” I said with another laugh. “Even so, Mr. Markovic is going to be very upset if he replaces out we’re desecrating his…” My voice trailed off for a second, and my breath hitched when Asher’s hand slid up my leg. “Whatever this room is.”

Drawing room? Living room? Sitting room? My muddled brain noticed chairs and tables, but the bulk of my attention had diverted toward the graze of Asher’s fingers against my thigh.

“I just won Mr. Markovic his first Premier League title in a decade.” Asher lowered his head, his velvety murmur making me shiver. “I think he’ll give me some grace.”

My resistance gradually melted like snow beneath the sun as he feathered kisses along my jaw.

“I don’t know,” I breathed. “He seems pretty unforgiving. Do you think he’s…” I swallowed as Asher’s hand found the lace edge of my knickers. “Um, do you think he’s actually in business or…” I gasped, my words dissolving into a burst of pleasure when he slipped his fingers beneath the lace and found my slick arousal.

Asher kissed his way back up to my mouth. “Scarlett?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to talk about Markovic, or anything else, right now.”

Heat fluttered between my legs. “So what do you want to do instead?”

His grin was pure wickedness in the dark.

“Why tell you…” he drawled, sinking to his knees. “When I could show you?”

Those were the last words we exchanged for the next half hour.

I had no idea if people were looking for us or if Markovic would be upset about us defiling his drawing/living/sitting room.

If they were, and he was, we’d deal with it together. We always did.

For now, I allowed myself to abandon my worries and sink into the pleasure of the moment.

The past was the past, and the future was unpredictable.

But the present? It belonged to us, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.