The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: Chapter 9

ADIL

I’m bored

ADIL

New bet. Hundred quid says Donovan gets caught in another scandal by summer’s end

What do you mean ANOTHER scandal?

I feel targeted

ADIL

Remember what happened with your Lambo?

That wasn’t a scandal. That was a tragedy

ADIL

A tragic scandal.

I think they finally rebuilt that wall you destroyed

It was overdue for a renovation anyway. I did them a favor

ADIL

Ask the National Historic Society if they agree

NOAH

Stop texting me

NOAH

I went to the gym and came back to 86 new messages

ADIL

This is a group chat. Texting is literally the point

Noah Wilson left the conversation.

Adil Chakir added Noah Wilson to the conversation.

NOAH

I’m blocking you

ADIL

That’s very un-Nice Single Dad of you. You have an image to protect, you know

ADIL

Noah

ADIL

Hello?

ADIL

You didn’t actually block me, did you?

ADIL

Wilson!!

I shook my head. If Noah had his way, he’d show up to work, do his job, then immediately go home to his daughter, but Adil had somehow dragged him into our Blackcastle Baddies group chat (yes, that was really the name, and no, Adil wouldn’t change it).

We had another chat with the entire team, but I rarely posted there. The other guys were nice enough on their own, but Adil and Noah were the only ones who didn’t treat me differently when Vincent was around.

An incoming call disrupted Adil’s spiral over being blocked.

“Hey, boss.” I tucked my phone between my ear and shoulder as I flipped through the post. Every week, I received bags of items to sign for my official fan club. Some players ignored their fan mail altogether, but I tried to sign when I had the time. It didn’t require much effort, and it made people happy. “I haven’t crashed any cars yet, but I promise I’m working on it.”

“You do that, and I will personally fly to London to slap some sense into you,” Sloane said without a trace of humor.

I suppressed a laugh.

Coach was the boss on the pitch, but as my publicist, Sloane Kensington was in charge of everything related to my image (much to her chagrin). I paid her a boatload of money for dealing with me, but honestly, I was surprised she hadn’t quit yet.

Then again, Sloane and “quit” didn’t belong in the same sentence. She’d soldier through a trench of paparazzi bottom-feeders and internet trolls before she gave up.

“If you’re finished with your unamusing jokes, I’d like to remind you of your Sports UK interview on Thursday,” she said. “I’ll connect you to the reporter at noon sharp. Also, I spoke with Leon about Aoki Watches. They’re renewing your brand ambassador contract. I’ll send you details for the Japanese press tour once they’re confirmed.”

“Perfect.” Leon was my business manager, and Aoki Watches was my most lucrative brand sponsorship. “You’re worth your weight in gold.”

“Instead of gold, pay me by staying out of trouble. I mean it, Asher. I don’t want to see you near a street race unless the internet and media collectively implode and I won’t have to deal with the resulting headlines.”

“Does that mean if I comply, I won’t have to pay your monthly retainer? I just bought a new Bugatti. Cash is a little tight.” It wasn’t, but I was curious as to how she’d respond.

She hung up on me.

Well, then. There was my answer.

I didn’t have any urgent mail, so I set it aside for the moment and walked to my garage. The custom-built space was the size of an airplane hangar, and it housed all fifteen of my cars, including my favorite vintage Jaguar convertible and the Bugatti in question.

The striking all-black model was so rare, there were only three in existence. Quad-turbo 8.0-liter W16 engine, six exhaust tips, seven-speed dual-clutch transmission, custom headlights—it was a thing of beauty.

I ran a loving hand over the hood before I climbed in and switched on the ignition. The powerful growl of the engine roared to life, and an electric thrill zipped down my spine.

Besides football, driving was the only thing that truly made me feel alive. In the dead of night, when the streets were quieter and the music was blasting, I could clear my head and think.

For the next few hours, that was exactly what I did as I pulled out of the garage and took my new car out for a spin.

However, instead of vibing to the music and brainstorming strategies for the next season, my mind kept conjuring images of dark hair and gray eyes.

I shoved them aside.

They came back.

Jesus.

I rubbed a hand over my face and tried to steer my thoughts toward something, anything, other than a certain ex-ballerina.

Focus on the Sports UK interview. What questions will they ask?

Definitely something about my first season with Blackcastle, how I felt losing to my old team, and maybe my summer training regimen.

Summer.

Training.

Scarlett.

My groan of frustration cut through the music. Why did everything route back to her? We met a month ago, and I still couldn’t pinpoint why she had such a hold on me.

Was it because she was beautiful? I’d met plenty of beautiful women, including movie stars, supermodels, and two Miss Universes. I hadn’t given them more than a passing thought.

Because she was witty and talented? They were great qualities to have, but they weren’t enough to explain why she haunted me the way she did.

Because she was off limits and seemingly uninterested in me? I liked a challenge, but her connection to Vincent was a detractor more than anything else.

So if it wasn’t any of those things that drew me to her, what the hell was it?

My frown deepened.

I needed to decipher the source of her magic so I could negate it and refocus on what was important—my game. A summer distraction was all well and good, but I couldn’t afford a wandering mind after the next season started.

Since I transferred mid-season this year, I technically had some leeway when it came to our performance, but if I screwed up my first full season with Blackcastle, there’d be no going back. It would always be a black mark on my record.

I turned up the music and entered central London. I passed the illuminated buildings of Parliament Square and Buckingham Palace before I eventually found myself in the bowels of the West End.

I tapped my fingers against the center console.

Scarlett had gone on a date here two nights ago. I hadn’t asked for details because I didn’t care, necessarily, but what if she got so distracted with her beau that it affected her work in the studio?

The question unleashed an onslaught of new ones.

Who’d been her date? How did she meet him? Was he an athlete, accountant, or shit, I didn’t know, an aerospace engineer or something?

She won’t date a footballer again. Vincent’s declaration echoed through my head. I hadn’t figured out her ex’s identity yet, though admittedly I hadn’t dug that hard. It was best if I didn’t wade too deep into her love life.

Unfortunately, that resolution didn’t stop the questions about her mystery date.

Had Friday night been their first date, or had they been seeing each other for a while? Had they kissed? Gone back to one of their places after the show?

A quick burst of discomfort jolted up my arm. When I looked down, my knuckles had whitened around the wheel.

I immediately loosened my grip, but an unpleasant sensation continued to slither through my veins.

The Bugatti drew plenty of stares, but as the hour wore on, the streets gradually emptied. Billboards and lights gave way to brick and concrete; the bustle of central London quieted into a residential calm.

A familiar pastel building loomed in the distance, and I almost slammed on the brakes when I realized where I was.

I had somehow, unthinkingly, unintentionally driven to Scarlett’s flat.

Way to go. That’s not creepy or anything.

I didn’t linger. I already felt like a stalker, and my car was too distinctive to escape notice should she happen to wake up and look outside her window.

Nevertheless, a small part of me wondered what would happen if I cut the engine, walked up to her flat, and knocked on the door.

Nothing will happen because you’re both smarter than that, and she is Off Limits. Capital O, capital L.

I’d reminded myself of that so often I never wanted to hear the term “off limits” again, but I’d still repeat it a thousand times until it sank in.

If Vincent and I had issues now, they were nothing compared to the war that’d break out if I got involved with Scarlett. Coach would lose his shit, and I could kiss my championship and possibly my spot on the team goodbye.

No girl was worth giving up my career for.

I tore my eyes away from her building and drove home, letting the music drown out any thoughts to the contrary.