The Striker (Gods of the Game #1)

23. Scarlett

CHAPTER 23

SCARLETT

I awoke to an empty bed and the scent of sizzling bacon.

The former was normal; the latter was unusual enough to rouse me from the dregs of sleep.

I rarely slept over at anyone’s house, and I rarely let anyone sleep at my house, so where did the bacon come from?

I reluctantly cracked my eyes open. Sunshine streamed through the curtains, gilding the pile of clothes on the floor and the glass of water on the nightstand. The space beside me was still warm, and the sheets smelled like sex and a trace of aftershave.

Sex. Aftershave. Asher.

Fragments of last night finally broke through my early-morning mental fog. The double date with Clive and Ivy, Asher showing up at my door after he’d already dropped me off, and then…

A smile spread before I could stop it.

It was the morning after, aka the day of reckoning. I should be worried, but all I felt were little champagne bubbles of euphoria fizzing in my blood.

I was still in bed, which meant my day technically hadn’t started yet, though bacon and Asher were both tempting draws.

I stretched my limbs. I was sore all over, both in a delicious way and a I’m-going-to-need-extra-Epsom-salts-for-this type of way, but it wasn’t bad enough to take precedence over my hunger.

After a minute of luxuriating in the quiet, I climbed out of bed and threw on the first oversize tee I found. I ducked into the bathroom to brush my teeth and make sure I didn’t look like a gremlin before I padded barefoot to the kitchen.

I stopped in the doorway, my stomach flipping at the sight before me.

Asher manned the stove clad in only boxer briefs. The muscles in his back flexed as he plated the bacon, and my stomach flips morphed into full somersaults.

Forget porn. This was what women wanted.

I soaked in the sight of his tousled hair and tanned skin for an extra beat before I made my presence known.

“Making yourself at home, I see,” I teased. I entered the kitchen and slid onto one of the island counter stools.

Asher turned, his face breaking into a smile when he saw me. “I figured you’d be less likely to kick me out if I bribed you with bacon, eggs, and sausage.”

A hint of sleep roughened his voice, which really added to the ambiance, in my opinion. I could get used to waking up like this.

He slid a plate and silverware toward me. I accepted it gratefully, my mouth watering at the heap of food. He’d cooked the bacon exactly the way I liked it—crispy but not too crispy, with just enough fat to stave off unappealing dryness. The strips glistened next to two pieces of perfectly seared sausage and a small mound of scrambled eggs.

“If you hadn’t forgotten the tea, I would’ve thought you were psychic,” I quipped. “You cooked everything perfectly. Thank you.”

“Ah, the tea.” Asher snapped his fingers. “How could I forget the drink of the gods?”

He grabbed a mug off the counter and placed it in front of me. Black tea with a dash of milk and sugar on the side. Perfect.

“Never mind. You are psychic.” I reached for the mug but stopped when he stared at me, his brow furrowing. Self-consciousness prickled my skin. “What?”

Had my bleary eyes deceived me in the bathroom mirror? Did I have a giant pillow crease marring my cheek or a line of dried drool at the corner of my mouth?

“Your shirt.” Asher’s mouth twitched. “Are you talking about the planet or the dog?”

I glanced down, confused, until I realized I was wearing my Justice for Pluto T-shirt. Carina had gifted it to me after I bought her a stuffed penguin from the Bronx Zoo Store during my holiday in New York.

My shoulders relaxed. “The planet. You see?” I pointed my fork at him, my breakfast temporarily forgotten. “You called it a planet. That’s because it is a planet. I’ll never forgive the IAU for demoting Pluto to a dwarf planet.”

“Isn’t a dwarf planet also a planet?”

“It’s not the same! It’s like moving from the Premier League to the EFL.”

British football was divided into several leagues. The Premier League was at the top. The EFL, or the English Football League, occupied the next level down.

“I see.” Another tiny smile came and went. “I didn’t realize you were so, uh, passionate about Pluto.”

“It’s my favorite planet.” The smallest, the most overlooked. It was the underdog of the solar system, and it deserved a little love. Why should Earth and Mars get all the glory? “I did an entire school presentation on it back when it was still the ninth planet from the sun. I had photos. I stayed up all night painting Styrofoam balls. My science teacher said it was the best planetary presentation she’d seen in years. Then you know what happened?”

Asher shook his head, looking alarmed.

“The very next year, the IAU demoted it. They said it wasn’t a planet anymore.” My indignation swelled at the injustice. “Can you believe that? Structures exist for a reason. Growing up, I was taught that there were nine planets. Then one day, they just went ahead and changed it to eight. How is that fair? It’s not. Pluto deserves better, hence Justice for Pluto.” I gestured at my shirt. “I don’t like it when people arbitrarily change long-standing rules.”

“I don’t know if planetary classifications are necessarily rules …” Asher held up his hands when I glowered at him. “I mean, you’re right. Justice for Pluto.”

“Thank you.”

“Remind me never to argue with you about astronomy or rule books. You’re quite terrifying when you get rolling on those subjects.” He said this with a straight face, but his eyes twinkled the tiniest bit.

Blood rose to my neck and cheeks. It occurred to me that we’d had sex for the first time last night, and I’d just spent a full five minutes ranting about planets.

“I like seeing this side of you.” Asher brought another plate over and sat next to me. His knee touched mine, and he looked so at home in my kitchen that little bursts of warmth flickered in my veins.

“The nerdy rambling side?” I asked.

“The unguarded side.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You can ramble about Pluto all you’d like. I won’t judge—too much.”

I fought a smile and lost.

We were floating on the last wisps of postcoital bliss. Soon, our feet would have to touch the ground, and we’d have to face reality.

For now, as we ate breakfast side by side with the sun streaming through the windows and the air redolent with the aromas of home-cooked food, we were content.

I hadn’t brought a guy home since I broke up with my ex, and Asher’s presence was almost overwhelming. His muscled frame filled the room, sucking up all the oxygen and making it impossible to breathe without inhaling him into my lungs.

I didn’t expect to like it as much as I did. I was a private person, and I guarded my personal space fiercely. But instead of rankling me, Asher’s company made my bachelorette flat feel just a little less lonely.

“What are your plans for the day?” I asked, taking what I hoped was a casual sip of tea.

“Hanging out with you,” Asher said easily. “If you want me to, of course.”

Oh, he was good. Not only that, he was genuine , which made it that much worse for my poor heart.

“I suppose I could keep you company for a bit,” I said with feigned reluctance. “My reading will have to wait.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I appreciate your magnanimity.”

Since “hanging out” was the vaguest activity in existence, and he didn’t offer ideas for what we should do after breakfast, I gave him a quick tour of the flat.

There wasn’t much to see. Besides the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom (which he was already intimately familiar with), the only place of note was the box room I’d converted into a mini library. I didn’t have a lot of space, so I only bought physical copies from my favorite authors or books I’d already read and loved on Kindle.

“This is the neatest house I’ve ever seen.” Asher stared at my painstakingly organized collection of books. They were alphabetized by the author’s last name, followed by the book height and then color.

“Um, have you seen your place? It’s spotless.”

“Yeah, but I have people who help. This is all you.” He swiped his thumb over a shelf. It came away dust free. “Incredible.”

“I like cleaning,” I said, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. I tended my library the way some people tended their gardens. “It’s soothing. It makes me feel like…I don’t know. Like I’m in control.”

I couldn’t control the messes in my life, but I could clean them up at home. Spilled milk? Several swipes of a towel and it was gone. Muddy footprints? Nothing a good mop wouldn’t fix. I could snap my fingers, figuratively speaking, and return things to the way they were.

That power provided a small measure of comfort in a world where chaos was the only certainty.

“I get it,” Asher said. He touched the spine of one of my Leo Agnelli books—the same one he’d picked up and handed to me before our first training session. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago. “That’s how I feel about driving.”

I read the tabloids often enough to know he had a penchant for street racing. Several high-profile crashes had earned him a reputation for recklessness, though it hadn’t stopped Blackcastle from paying an arm and a leg for him anyway.

I hadn’t seen news of any crashes or street races he’d been involved in recently, so maybe he wasn’t part of that scene anymore.

I hoped so. Before we met, I hadn’t cared. If he wanted to race, then he’d race. It was his life he was gambling with. Now, dread curdled in my gut at the thought of anything happening to him.

Theoretically, his checkered history with cars and speeding should’ve turned me off given my hang-ups about those issues. But I couldn’t reconcile that rash, daredevil tabloid version of him with the thoughtful, caring man who’d researched chronic pain after I told him about my accident and who’d hired the same chauffeur to take me to and from our training sessions because I wasn’t comfortable with strange drivers.

I’d been a passenger in Asher’s car multiple times, and he’d always followed the rules to a tee. I’d never felt uncomfortable or scared, which was saying a lot because even the smallest things set me on edge.

The tabloids weren’t the most trustworthy source. Maybe there was more to Asher’s racing than met the eye—or maybe I was naive.

I was cycling through ways I could ask him about it when he picked up a photo from the top of my bookshelf. “Is this your mum?”

Five-year-old me was dressed as a fairy princess, tiara and all. My mother stood next to me, her face glowing with pride.

“Yes. That was taken before my first ballet recital.” My face softened at the memory. “She was so proud that she took me out for ice cream after. If you knew my mother, you’d know what a big deal that was. She is not a dairy or junk food fan. At all.”

Asher examined the photo more carefully. “You were adorable.”

“ Were ?” I teased.

He set the photo down and faced me again. “I think you’ve graduated from adorable to something else.”

Warm honey filled my veins.

The low pitch of his reply chased away our lighthearted morning and resurfaced memories of what we did last night. The things he made me feel and the uncertainty we’d unleashed.

We’d tiptoed around the elephant in the room all morning. Neither one of us wanted to break the spell, but we had to leave our bubble eventually.

Before I could think of a witty reply or a tactful way to bring up our relationship (friendship? situationship?), Asher’s phone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said after he checked the caller ID. “I have to take this.”

The tension cracked, giving me space to breathe more freely. “No worries. I’ll be here.”

He answered the call in the next room while I worried my lip between my teeth.

I’d never had a morning-after talk. I usually went in knowing what to expect or slipped out before the other person woke up, so what should I say when Asher came back?

Should I Google it? Did the internet have useful advice, or was it going to lead me astray like the time it told me shrimp was impossible to overcook? (Spoiler: it was, in fact, very possible to overcook shrimp).

Asher returned, and all my half-baked conversation starters died in my throat when I noticed how pale he was.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s my dad.” He swallowed, his expression dazed. “He had a heart attack.”