The Striker (Gods of the Game #1)

14. Scarlett

CHAPTER 14

SCARLETT

I snuck out of the house the next morning like a coward.

When I woke up, the storm had passed and Asher was (presumably) still asleep, so I changed, placed his shirt in the laundry, and texted him a thank you before I hauled ass out of there.

I couldn’t face him knowing I’d gotten off to fantasies about him mere hours ago. With my luck, he probably possessed some superpower that allowed him to pick up on any orgasms he’d had a hand in (literally and figuratively).

I couldn’t risk it. I needed time to gather myself and figure out what I was going to do about our situation because it was unsustainable.

It took me almost an hour to get home. After another shower and change of clothes, I texted Carina to meet me at our local café.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” I said. “I had to get out of the house. It’s one of those days.”

“Not a problem. I’ll never turn down tea and pastries.” Carina broke off a piece of her scone. “Plus, I needed an excuse to get out of the house too. My parents are visiting.”

My eyebrows skyrocketed. “They’re in town? They were just here for Easter.”

“Yep. It was a surprise visit. I love them but, well, you know.”

I did, indeed, know.

Carina’s parents lived in Liverpool, where her father owned a thriving pho shop and her mother taught chemistry at the local university. They were super sweet, but she was their only daughter and they had strong opinions about her job, clothes, boyfriends, friendships, hobbies, and basically every other aspect of her life. It was the reason she moved to London and never looked back.

“There’s all this family drama because my aunt ran off with her accountant and sold our ancestral house in Vietnam without telling anyone,” she said. “My mom is beside herself.”

“Selling an ancestral home seems like something an accountant would advise against.”

“I don’t think he was very good at his job.” Carina shrugged, oblivious to the appreciative glances from a passing group of men.

With her gleaming black hair and flawless bone structure, she could easily make a killing as a model, but she hated being photographed. We’d been friends for three years, and there were maybe five pictures of us total.

“Anyway, enough about me,” she said. “What’s up with you? You look weirdly flushed.”

I relayed what happened yesterday minus the masturbation part. Some things were better kept secret.

“Wait, you slept over at Asher Donovan’s house and I’m just finding out now?” Her mouth hung open. “And you watched a horror movie? And you attacked him with a frying pan? Scarlett DuBois, who are you? It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

“I didn’t attack him,” I grumbled. “It was self-defense. I thought he was an intruder.”

“You thought he was an intruder in his own house?”

“I told you I didn’t see his face before my fight-or-flight kicked in.” My reaction seemed even more ridiculous in broad daylight than it had last night, but weren’t best friends supposed to have your back no matter what? “Whose side are you on anyway?”

“I didn’t realize there were sides,” Carina said between bouts of laughter. “But if there are, I’m on yours, obviously. That being said, what happened was clearly a sign.”

“A sign that I need better judgment?”

“No, a sign that you need to sleep with him.” Carina ignored my sputter of protest and ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “He accidentally landed on top of you. You accidentally landed on top of him. You were forced to spend the night together because of a freak storm. You went downstairs for a snack at the same time. I know when the universe is playing matchmaker, and it is totally shipping you two right now.”

She loved the woo-woo universe stuff as much as she hated photos. It was charming when it wasn’t directed at me.

Thank God I hadn’t told her about what I did when I returned to my room.

“I can’t sleep with him,” I hissed. I cast a furtive glance around in case anyone was eavesdropping. “How would that look?”

“Like a rocking good time. Did you see that story a few years ago about the soap star who hooked up with him? She said he does this incredible thing with his tongue?—”

“ Carina .”

“I’m just saying, there’s documented proof that the man is a god in bed.”

“Which is another reason why I’ll never sleep with him. Even if I weren’t training him and he wasn’t Vincent’s nemesis, I could never hook up with another footballer. They’re fuckboys, and the few that aren’t are already taken.”

My ex hadn’t cheated on me, but it’d taken him less than a month to move on after our long-term relationship—among other things.

Carina’s brows dipped. She examined me over the rim of her mug for a moment before she set it down with a soft sigh.

“You can’t let one bad ex ruin your opinion of the opposite sex forever,” she said gently. “Don’t let him have that power over you.”

“It’s not the opposite sex. It’s the profession.”

She pinned me with her signature don’t-you-bullshit-me look. I countered with my we’ve-talked-about-this-so-don’t-you-push-me stare.

I used to roll my eyes at the clichéd characters who could “never love again” because some asshole broke their heart. Everyone suffered heartbreak at least once in their life, right? Get over it and move on.

It wasn’t until I experienced it myself that I understood how they felt. Once you’ve been betrayed by someone you trusted completely, it was hard to let your guard down again.

I saw potential heartbreak everywhere now, and I’d rather nip it in the bud than regret it later.

My feelings toward Asher were complicated. Complicated was never good.

Nevertheless, something he said last night nagged at me.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked after my stare down with Carina dissolved into a silent truce.

“Always.”

“Do you think I should try for the staff showcase this year?”

Her expression shifted into one of neutrality. “It depends,” she said after a telling beat. “Is that something you’re interested in?”

I picked at my toast. “Maybe.”

“Have you talked to your doctor about dancing again?”

“No.” I shredded my poor toast into further pieces. “Do you think I should?”

Carina had supported my decision to abstain all these years, but she’d never offered her personal opinion on the matter.

She raised her mug to her lips again. “I think the fact you’re even considering it is your answer.”

Carina and Asher’s words played in my mind the rest of the weekend.

On Sunday night, I booked a virtual appointment with my doctor.

On Monday morning, I met with Lavinia during her office hours and broached the possibility of joining the staff showcase before I lost my nerve.

As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered.

“Auditions closed last week.”

A sharp intake of breath betrayed my surprise.

I didn’t have my doctor’s sign-off yet. There was also a chance my newfound motivation would fizzle, and I’d regret my decision by the time the showcase rolled out.

But if that were the case, why did I feel so disappointed?

Lavinia studied me, her eyes sharp and knowing behind her glasses. “Is there a reason why you’re so interested in this showcase? You’ve declined to participate every other year.”

“I like Lorena ’s choreography?” It came out more like a question than an answer.

The subtle arch of Lavinia’s brow displayed her skepticism.

I couldn’t get anything past her so, despite the rock lodged in my gut, I explained my reasoning and focused on my desire to take the stage again, if only for a night. Hopefully, she didn’t pick up on my skyrocketing anxiety when I talked about the performance.

I should’ve thought this through before talking to Lavinia , but I was in too deep to back out now.

This is what spontaneity gets me. A speech begging for something I’m not sure I even want.

Except the more I spoke, the more I started to believe what I was saying.

I wanted to prove I could do it.

I wanted to feel the exhilaration of dancing again.

I wanted one last show on my terms, not the universe’s. That was one of the hardest things I had to accept—that my career had ended due to something as unpredictable as a car accident.

If I’d known, I would’ve better appreciated my last moments onstage. I would’ve had more closure.

“I see.” Lavinia leaned back and steepled her fingers. Her lips thinned into a slash of red against porcelain skin. At sixty, she possessed a better complexion than most women my age. “You’ve worked here for four years, Scarlett. You know I believe rules exist for a reason and that willful disregard for said rules leads to disorder. I despise disorder.”

The rock in my gut expanded, dragging my heart and hopes to the ground. “I understand.”

I should’ve checked the audition deadline before I wasted her time. I’d been so afraid I would lose my nerve if I waited that I’d barged in and made a fool of myself instead.

I resisted the urge to slide down in my seat and hide.

“That being said, I’m aware yours is a special circumstance,” Lavinia said. “You’ve been a valuable member of the RAB family for a while now. If we can’t provide a measure of flexibility for one of our own, then how can I expect loyalty in return?”

A tiny sprig of hope sprouted past my misgivings.

“I can’t promise you’ll be onstage. We’ve assigned all the roles already,” she said. The sprig wilted. “However…” The spring perked up again. “We still need an understudy for Yvette, who’s playing Lorena. If you’re interested, the position is yours. It’s not what you asked for, but it’s all I can offer—pending final approval from your doctor, of course.”

“Of course.” Fingers crossed Dr. Stein has good news for me. “I would love to be the understudy. Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Lavinia said dryly. “Let’s see if you feel the same way in a few months.”

Being an understudy was one of the most difficult jobs in ballet. They had to learn the choreography, the musicality, and every spot of the performance without stepping on the principal’s toes, figuratively speaking, and they were expected to do all that without the promise of a turn in the spotlight.

Since the showcase was only one night, my chances of performing were low, but it felt good to do something again.

A pinprick of excitement buzzed through me. I hadn’t shaken off my hang-ups about reentering the world of ballet, but it’d be nice to fall back into a headspace where anything was possible and nothing could stop me.

That wasn’t true anymore, but a girl could dream. Sometimes, dreams were all we had.

The rest of the afternoon flew by. My students must’ve picked up on my energy because several cast curious glances my way.

Emma was one of the few brave enough to ask me about it outright. “Did you have a good weekend, Miss DuBois?” Her eyes sparkled. “You look happy.”

“Instructors shouldn’t discuss their personal lives with students. It’s inappropriate,” I said sternly. Her face fell. “But since you asked…” My mouth twitched. “I got some good news this morning.”

Her smile returned to full wattage.

We had a quick chat about her Nutrcacker rehearsals before I packed up and met Earl in front of the school.

My stomach fluttered during our drive to Asher’s house. He’d responded to my thank-you text with a simple you’re welcome. Other than that, we hadn’t talked since I snuck out Saturday morning.

Enough time had passed for me to pretend my, er, self-care session never happened. That was the only way I could look him in the eyes.

I was also oddly excited to tell him about the understudy role. He was the one who’d encouraged me to leave my comfort zone; he deserved to be the first to know.

Earl pulled into the circular driveway and opened my door. “Have a good session, Ms. DuBois.”

“Thank you, Earl.”

I walked up the front steps and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, but Asher was nowhere in sight.

Weird. He usually greeted me at the entrance so we could walk to the studio together. Maybe he was running late from an interview or other prior commitment.

I let myself into the house and tread the familiar path to the studio. I’d been here so many times I no longer looked twice at the original Rembrandts or the state-of-the-art gadgets.

I passed the living room. Stopped. Then doubled back.

Was that…?

It was.

My good mood evaporated like a puddle in the sun. A strange ringing filled my ears.

Now I knew why Asher hadn’t been there to greet me. He had a guest over. A very blond, very leggy guest in an outfit that probably cost more than my monthly rent—and they were kissing.