The Striker: Chapter 38

The next day, a heavy sense of déjà vu slammed into me when I walked into Scarlett’s studio at RAB for the first time in two months.

It looked exactly the same as it did my first day here, and memories resurfaced like vivid snapshots from the past.

The bag. The realization that she was the mystery girl from the pub. The shock when I found out she was also Vincent’s sister.

The events felt like they happened both yesterday and a century ago.

I’d walked in resentful of my forced training and reentered head over heels for my trainer.

It was funny how one summer could change so much.

Scarlett’s smile dazzled when she saw me, but it lasted only a second before her gaze drifted over my shoulder and it morphed into a more neutral version of itself.

“Vincent, you’re early,” she said a little too brightly.

“I dropped off my luggage and came straight here.” Her brother strode in and hugged her. “Look forward to seeing what you have in store for me.”

He gave me a curt nod, which I returned with a similar one of my own. Neither of us quite knew how to handle the thaw in our relationship when we were sober, so we kept a respectful distance while Scarlett turned on the music.

“It’s going to be harder than the wishy-washy workouts you’ve been doing on your own,” she said.

“Wishy-washy?” Vincent sounded outraged. “I have a great training regimen. Ask Men’s Health. My interview with them was their most popular article last year!”

Second most popular. I bit back my reflexive response. My interview with them got a thousand more clicks than his, but antagonizing him before I told him I was dating his sister later this afternoon was probably not a smart move.

“Uh-huh.” Scarlett sounded unimpressed. “Either way, you’re not caught up on the type of training we’ve been doing all summer, so I’ve modified today’s session to account for that. The season starts in less than two weeks, which means we only have five sessions together.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure why your coach insisted on having you come back for so short a time, but it is what is. We’ll start with warm-ups and then go into the resistance bands.”

I knew why Coach wanted Vincent to catch the tail end of our training together, even if it was only for two weeks. He was gruff and grumpy as hell, but he was an optimist at heart. He probably thought two weeks of forced bonding was better than none.

“Also…” Scarlett drilled us with a hard stare. “The three of us haven’t trained together since the beginning of summer, but my rules still apply. There will be no fighting or bickering in my studio. Understand?”

I offered a laconic salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Vincent smirked. “What he said.”

She rolled her eyes, but a tiny sprout of optimism peeked through her professional demeanor when we transitioned into our workout without a speck of argument.

Scarlett paced the studio, studying our forms and adjusting us when necessary.

When it came to football, Vincent and I were on par with each other skills-wise. But when it came to cross-training, I had the added benefit of three months’ worth of dance-based practice; he didn’t.

I fought a smug smile when I breezed past our resistance and flexibility training while he struggled with the movements. The muscles we used for dance were different than those we used for football, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t relish the way he faltered.

Just because we didn’t actively hate each other anymore didn’t mean I should pass up an opportunity to (silently) gloat a little.

Vincent growled something in French that made Scarlett sigh. “Okay, let’s take a five-minute break. Hydrate, get your heart rate down. I’m going to use the loo.”

She slid a quick look at me on her way out.

Remember, be nice, it said.

I am nice, my glance responded.

We’d been careful not to make eye contact during our session in case we gave away our feelings somehow. We’d agreed to take Vincent out after training and ply him with a few beers before we dropped our bombshell on him, but I was having second thoughts.

Should we ambush him on his first day back in the city, or should we give him time to settle in first?

Silence hummed alongside the A/C as we waited for Scarlett to return.

I chugged half a bottle of water and glanced at Vincent, who was wiping his forehead with a Blackcastle-branded sweat towel.

“What are you doing after training?” I asked, breaking the ice.

“Why? You planning to ask me on a date?”

I snorted. “DuBois, I wouldn’t ask you on a date if you were the last living creature on earth.”

Not this DuBois, anyway.

“Good, because I wouldn’t fucking say yes.” He tossed his towel back onto his gym bag. “But I don’t have plans yet.”

“You fancy a pint at the Angry Boar? For subbing in at the charity match,” I added gruffly. “Last weekend was to celebrate winning, so this is my official thank-you. I don’t like owing people.”

His smirk returned. “So you are asking me on a date.”

“Oh, piss off. Do you want a pint or not?”

“I guess I could use one today.” He patted his stomach. “Can’t drink like that after the season starts.”

I made a noise of agreement. We had to be much more careful with our diets during the season.

“Speaking of thank-yous…” Vincent glanced at the door. No sign of Scarlett yet. “Thanks for listening to what I said at the beginning of the summer.” His voice was layered with so much reluctance it sounded like someone was forcibly dragging those words out of his mouth.

My brows bent with confusion.

“About not hitting on my sister,” he clarified. “I admit, I expected to come back and see you all over her, but you’ve been respectful. And professional. And you punched that fucker Pessoa for touching her. So I appreciate it.”

His grimace indicated how much it pained him to admit he was wrong, but it probably wasn’t as distressing as my knowledge that he wasn’t wrong.

You’ve been respectful. If he only knew. There’d been nothing respectful about what I did to Scarlett in the studio yesterday.

“Right.” I coughed, hoping Vincent couldn’t see the remnants of yesterday’s activities stamped all over my face. “He deserved it.”

I purposely didn’t acknowledge the first part of his statement, but my muscles coiled with dread when Scarlett finally returned and cut our awkward conversation short.

The rest of our training passed without incident, but when Scarlett tried to bring up the Angry Boar afterward, I stopped her with a meaningful look behind her brother’s back.

“I was thinking we could…” She trailed off at my wide eyes.

“We could what?” Vincent asked.

“Uh, we could bring things up a notch during our next session. I think you’ve got the hang of the basics now,” Scarlett said.

“Sounds good,” I interrupted before Vincent could ask any more questions. “Vincent and I are going to hit up the Angry Boar for a pint. Get some of that bonding time Coach wanted us to have before the season starts.” I punched him in the shoulder like we were long-time mates.

He stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

I didn’t blame him. I was acting wildly out of character, but I was so jumpy from our earlier talk that I acted without thinking.

If Scarlett joined us, she’d attempt to tell him about us like we’d originally planned, but I couldn’t let her do that until I figured out Vincent’s current headspace. Would the sentiment he expressed earlier make him more or less angry when he learned about our relationship?

Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have time to explain all this to Scarlett before we got to the pub, since she’d have to ride there with her brother instead of me. It would be easier for me to talk to Vincent alone first.

“Oh! Okay. Um, have fun?” Scarlett’s questioning tone revealed her confusion about why I was deviating from our original plan, but she trusted me enough not to press the issue as Vincent slung his duffel over his shoulder and said goodbye to her.

“I’ll explain later,” I muttered when I passed her.

“Looking forward to it,” she muttered back. She glanced at her brother’s retreating back. “Good luck.”

If I thought a one-on-one conversation at the pub would solve my dilemma, I was dead wrong.

I figured I could ease into the possibility that I was dating his sister after a pint or two and gauge his reaction, but Vincent continued our conversation like we never stopped the instant we sat down, drinks in hand.

“I meant what I said earlier.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You and I haven’t always gotten along, and I was nervous about leaving you alone with her. You’re arrogant, you sleep around⁠—”

“Huh. Sounds like you could be describing yourself.”

Vincent glared at me. “And I wouldn’t want Scarlett dating someone like me, either,” he snapped. “She’s been through enough. She has a…bad history with footballers, and she doesn’t need to deal with your bullshit after all that.”

I couldn’t resist following up. “By bad history, you mean Pessoa?”

He hesitated, then confirmed with a short nod. “I’m not going to go into the details because that’s not my place, but their breakup was hard on her. I never want to see her in that dark of a place again. She’s my only sister, and I’m protective of her.”

My mouth thinned. Fucking Pessoa. I should’ve hit him harder when I had the chance.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m sitting here,” Vincent said gruffly. “I don’t give a shit about thank-you drinks—no offense—but it does mean a lot to me that you protected Scarlett and that you didn’t try to take advantage of my absence over the summer. So I guess…” He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression turning sheepish. “Maybe we should let bygones be bygones. Like Coach said, I don’t want our issues to fuck up our next season. And as much as I dislike you, I hate Holchester even more.”

“What a ringing endorsement. That truly makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. You’re not my biggest fan either.”

“I most definitely am not, but I also hate Holchester more, so”—I raised my glass—“the truce continues.”

Vincent snorted but clinked his glass against mine.

We sipped our beer and lapsed into awkward silence once more.

We had plenty to say when we were rivals, but friendliness was a tougher bridge to cross than enmity.

“What’s your problem with me anyway?” I asked, genuinely curious.

I would never forget what happened at the World Cup. Getting ejected from the biggest football tournament on the planet because of a faked injury wasn’t something any player would ever get over, and England’s subsequent loss only added to the sting. But it’d been two years since that fateful call, and I was willing to leave what happened in the past for Scarlett’s sake.

Besides, I planned to kick Vincent’s ass in the next World Cup.

However, that didn’t explain why he was so against me. We competed for sponsorships and status, but so did a lot of players.

Was it because the internet constantly pitted us against each other in those “who’s the better player” polls? Was it because I earned more than him? Or was it something else?

“My problem with you? Besides the fact that you’re a cocky son of a bitch with a superiority complex?” Vincent asked. “You have it too easy.”

I almost spat out my drink. “Excuse me?”

Have it too easy? I trained and played just as hard as he did, and I worked my ass off to get to where I was. Admittedly, I was lucky enough to grow up in a relatively stable, two-parent household, but having my father scream in my ear all the time hadn’t been a walk in the park.

Besides, it wasn’t like Vincent grew up in a tough household. His parents were divorced, but from what I could tell, they’d been supportive of his dreams. His father had been an engineer and his mother was a nurse, and they had enough money to pay for Scarlett’s ballet lessons and his football training.

“I’m not talking about your work ethic.” It was like Vincent could read my thoughts. “I’m talking about you. Asher Donovan.” He gestured at me. “If any other player had pulled half the shit you’ve pulled, with the cars and racing, they would be radioactive. No one would touch them. You, on the other hand, got a record-breaking transfer deal and a renewed sponsorship from Aoki Watches. You’re reckless, you’re flashy as hell on the pitch because you can’t stand not being the center of attention, and it doesn’t matter because your brand is too big to fail.”

I sat there, too stunned by the barrage to respond. I thought his issues with me stemmed from disparities in pay or fame, but clearly, they ran deeper than that.

Vincent was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “Do you remember the Rocco campaign you did five years ago?”

I nodded. The sneaker campaign had been my first major brand sponsorship. When I received my first check from them, my eyes nearly fell out of my head.

“I was originally slated to be their brand ambassador.” He flashed a bitter smile. “But I got into a fight with Pessoa after the shit he pulled with Scarlett, someone recorded it, and Rocco pulled my contract.”

I vaguely remembered hearing about the fight, but it happened before our rivalry truly kicked off, and I’d glossed over the details at the time.

“Shit.” I grimaced. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t responsible for Rocco pulling his contract, but if I were him, I’d resent the person who took my place, too.

Now, I understood why my transfer bothered him so much. I got into trouble and got rewarded; he got into trouble and got penalized. Granted, we were at a different level of fame five years ago—Rocco might’ve let the fight slide if it’d happened today—but feelings were feelings.

Vincent shrugged. “What’s done is done. My Nike contract later soothed the burn.” His mouth curled into a smirk. “Besides, I was Rocco’s first choice.”

“Oh, piss off.” But instead of being annoyed, I felt the tentative tendrils of understanding snake around us, softening some of our hard-baked bitterness.

For two people entrenched in a career where ego and reputation ruled the day, that wasn’t a small feat.

“But like I said, that’s water under the bridge.” Vincent laughed. “I’m just glad nothing happened between you and my sister, or we’d be having a different conversation. I can get past work-related problems, but family? That’s another issue.”

My short-lived relief solidified into ice. Scarlett. Letting go of our past resentments was all well and good, but our biggest obstacle for a friendly relationship continued to simmer in the background like a volcano waiting to erupt.

“Anyway, I’m glad we had this talk. Coach will be happy too.” This time, Vincent was the one who raised his glass. “You ready to kick Holchester’s ass this season?”

I forced a smile and tapped my glass against his. “Absolutely.”

“We can’t tell him yet.”

Scarlett stared at me from my phone screen. I didn’t want to risk going over to her house after Vincent and I left the Angry Boar, so I’d video called her instead and explained why I changed our plans earlier. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we have to rethink our strategy for breaking the news.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “You should’ve heard him. He mentioned multiple times how much he appreciated me not making a move on you while he was gone. That’s one of the main reasons he’s willing to bury the hatchet. If we tell him now, he’ll feel like a fool, which means he’ll probably take the news even worse than we thought.”

“Maybe he won’t,” Scarlett said hopefully. “Maybe he’ll take it better now that he doesn’t think you’re the devil.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Ugh. You’re right.” She dropped her head into her hand. “I don’t believe this. We were nervous about telling him because he didn’t like you, and now we can’t tell him because he does like you. I swear, the universe hates us.”

“We can still tell him. We just have to adjust our timing,” I said. “2075 should be an auspicious year.”

“Asher.”

“I know, I know.” I sighed, conflicted.

On one hand, we could stick with our original strategy and deal with the fallout as it came. That would give Vincent time to calm down before the preseason started.

On the other hand, I doubted two weeks would be enough of a buffer period for him to get over the news. He would start the season with fresh hatred of me, which wouldn’t be good for anyone involved.

Old me would’ve chosen option one, but I was trying to be more thoughtful and less reckless about the decisions I made. I couldn’t jump into a situation headfirst and expect everything would work out in my favor. I had to think of the consequences.

I also wasn’t stupid enough to call Coach’s bluff. He would absolutely condemn us to the bench if he felt like we weren’t working together well enough, and I hadn’t worked this hard to sit on the sidelines during what I was starting to think of as my redemption season. If I didn’t bring home a trophy come May and prove my critics wrong, I might as well pack up my boots and call it a day.

Plus—and I would never admit this out loud—my truce with Vincent had lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. Clashing with someone on my own team took a lot of energy, and I needed every spare ounce of it if I wanted to beat Holchester.

“Maybe we can tell him during the holidays,” I said. “The spirit of giving and all that.”

Scarlett gave me a dubious look. “You want to tell him halfway through the season and ruin his Christmas?”

“Well, not when you put it that way.”

We sat in silence as we attempted to workshop a new strategy.

It didn’t work.

“Maybe it’s because it’s so late, but my brain is mush,” Scarlett said. “We can table this for now, but is it really better to tell Vincent after the season starts than before? What if he finds out before we’re ready? He’ll be even more upset if he hears about us from someone else.”

“I don’t know.” I tipped my head and stared at the ceiling, wishing it contained the solutions to our problems. “I really don’t know.”