The Striker (Gods of the Game #1)

11. Scarlett

CHAPTER 11

SCARLETT

This was the best worst decision of my life.

I sank deeper into the marble tub, certain the water here contained some sort of magic. Warm baths always soothed my pain, but the ones at home never worked this quickly or effectively.

I’d only been in here for—I checked my phone—seven minutes, and I already felt like a new person.

Maybe Asher imported his bathwater directly from a secret French mountain village and had it blessed by virgin nuns before he allowed it to pour out of the faucets. Or maybe his Epsom salts were higher quality than mine.

Whatever it was, I wasn’t complaining.

I leaned my head against the cushioned headrest and closed my eyes. The water jets, the classical music piping through hidden speakers, the scent of lavender and chamomile…my flat’s dinky little tub and the screams from the on-again, off-again couple next door seemed worlds away.

I didn’t care if bathing in Asher’s house was weird. I could stay in this tub forever.

Scarlett DuBois: the woman who sold her convictions for Epsom salts and a Jacuzzi bathtub.

Damn right I did. And it was worth it.

The only downside to my current situation was the lack of distractions. No distractions meant more time to think. More time to think meant my thoughts inevitably drifted toward a certain footballer. Trying to rein them in was like a novice trying to rein in a wild stallion—useless.

You looked up chronic pain?

Out of curiosity, that’s all.

Tiny wings fluttered to life again throughout my body.

How sad was it that Asher had done more for me in one month than my now-ex-boyfriend did in the year following my accident?

Pretty damn sad.

I stayed in the tub until the water ran cold. Afterward, I tossed on a fluffy guest robe and slippers and padded into the hallway. Asher had offered to run my grass-stained clothes through the laundry while I was in the bath, so I just needed to grab them before I left.

It was getting late, and I’d already overstayed my welcome.

Nevertheless, I took my time wandering through the private wing of his house. I didn’t want to snoop, but I was fascinated by the little peeks into Asher’s personal life.

I paused by the wall of photos outside the primary suite (the cracked-open door revealed enough personal effects to mark it as his bedroom and not a guest room). The photos were arranged in chronological order, documenting his life from adorable baby to adult superstardom.

My lips curved at a picture of toddler Asher wearing a birthday hat and a chocolate-smudged grin. A few frames down, a slightly older version of him sported a Holchester United kit and the same (albeit sans chocolate) grin. A stern-looking older man stood next to him with one hand on his shoulder. He must’ve been Asher’s father—they shared the exact same eyes and bone structure.

“My fifth birthday.” Asher’s voice pulled my attention away from the adorable photos. He walked out of his bedroom and nodded at the gallery. “My father gifted me my first Holchester kit, and I was so excited I put it on straight away. We ended up playing football the rest of the afternoon, much to my mother’s exasperation.”

Heat curled around my neck and ears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

“It’s fine. If I didn’t want people seeing the pictures, I wouldn’t have put them out here.” Asher shrugged. He must’ve taken a shower while I was bathing. His hair was damp, and he’d changed out of his workout clothes into a gray T-shirt and shorts.

“They’re cute pictures. I assume your father is a big Holchester fan?”

“Die hard,” he confirmed. “I grew up in Holchester, and he took me to every home match when I was a kid. Some away matches too. When I signed with them, he was over the moon. Even forgave me for my stint with Man U before that.”

“And Blackcastle? How does he feel about that?” I asked. Holchester fans didn’t like Man U, but Blackcastle was even worse. They were Holchester’s number-one rival.

“Less thrilled.” Asher’s tone verged on matter-of-fact, but the shuttering of his expression suggested there was more to the story.

I swallowed my curiosity. If he wanted to elaborate, he would.

Instead, I pivoted to another question that’d been nagging at me for a while. “Why did you transfer? You were doing so well at Holchester.”

“Two hundred fifty million pounds is a lot of money.”

“It is, but I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t strike me as someone who’d do something solely for a paycheck.” For all his flash and show, Asher possessed an honest, tangible reverence for the sport. It came through in his training, his interviews, his collection of mementos featuring other football greats, not just himself.

Players like that didn’t make huge decisions based on money alone. Besides, he’d already been mind-bogglingly rich before the transfer.

A small smile touched his face. “A DuBois saying something nice about my character? Someone check the temperature in hell.”

“I’m not my brother.” I’d been biased against Asher for reasons that had nothing to do with Vincent, but the more time we spent together, the harder it was to hold on to that initial animosity.

“No.” Asher’s gaze held mine for a fraction longer than was customary. “You’re definitely not.”

His words floated softly between us. My skin buzzed to life, and I was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that we’d been naked in the same house— his house—less than an hour ago. Me in my bath, him in his shower.

That shouldn’t feel so intimate. But it did.

Asher’s mouth parted. Anticipation ricocheted through my chest, but before he could speak, a boom of thunder rocked the house. The unmistakable sound of pouring rain followed, drawing my attention to the window at the end of the hall.

I’d been so caught up in this—whatever this was—that I hadn’t noticed the shift from beautiful summer afternoon to sudden downpour.

“Shit,” Asher said. Our earlier moment was gone, shattered by the distraction and our gradual return to our senses. At least, that applied to me; I had no idea what he was thinking. “We should get you home before the rain gets worse. I’ll call Earl and check on your laundry. It should be done.”

I’d forgotten I was only wearing a bathrobe.

My cheeks flamed. Nevertheless, I followed him to the laundry room, where my clothes were still spinning in the dryer.

“Four minutes left,” Asher reported. He appeared to be avoiding my eyes, though that might be my paranoia talking. “Not too long. We’ll have you out of here in no?—”

A shrill alert emanated from both our phones.

Interruptions seem to be the theme of the day. First the pap, then the thunder, now this.

However, my annoyance soon morphed into alarm when I read the accompanying emergency text.

A flash flood warning is in effect for this area until 8:00 a.m. BST. This is a dangerous and life-threatening situation. Do not attempt to travel unless you are fleeing an area subject to flooding or under an evacuation order.

8:00 a.m. BST. That was tomorrow morning, which meant…

Asher and I lifted our heads and stared at each other in horror.

Which meant I was stuck here for the night.