The Striker: Chapter 5

Mystery Girl was Scarlett.

Scarlett was Vincent’s sister.

Vincent’s sister was our new trainer.

I’d had two days to wrap my head around those mindfucks, and I still couldn’t pinpoint how I felt about them.

Scarlett was nothing like how I’d imagined Vincent’s sister would be. She was quieter, wittier, and pricklier in the most charming way. I’d shown up at RAB on Monday, prepared to tolerate her at best, and now I found out the girl I couldn’t stop thinking about was related to my biggest rival.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

I paused in the studio’s doorway. Scarlett was already in there setting up, but something kept me from entering right away.

I’d told myself I would stay away from her before I found out who she was. Obviously, I didn’t have that option anymore.

But you do have the option of not showing up extra early in order to spend more alone time with her, an annoying voice pointed out in my head.

My jaw tensed. Oh, shut up.

Arguing with myself. Never a good sign.

Scarlett turned. Our gazes collided, and a streak of awareness ran down the length of my spine.

“You’re early.” She didn’t move from her spot near the barre, nor did I move from the doorway.

“I’m just that type of student.”

“You mean a teacher’s pet?”

“Darling, if you want to call me pet, I won’t stop you.”

My mouth curled into a tiny grin at the pink tint creeping over her neck and face.

She blushed so easily. It was adorable, especially when it contradicted the words coming out of her mouth.

“Two new rules,” she said. “One, no flirting with me. Ever.”

“Ah, we’re back to that again. Ever’s a long time.” I finally abandoned my post in the doorway and entered the studio. “Also, I wasn’t flirting. I was telling the truth.”

“Two,” she continued, ignoring me. “Don’t call me darling.”

“What about honeybun?”

“No.”

“Madame?”

“No.”

“Tinkerbell?”

“Only if you want me to kick you in the tinkerbell between your legs.”

A burst of laughter erupted from my chest. “Here I thought ballerinas were supposed to be soft and elegant.”

“Oh, we are.” Scarlett cocked an eyebrow. “We’re also, pound for pound, some of the strongest athletes in the world. So believe me when I say I will kick you and it will hurt.”

“I believe you.” I couldn’t stop smiling. “No flirting, no darling. Understood.”

Our repartee died down when Vincent showed up a minute later. Typical. He always ruined things.

However, Scarlett’s warning from our last session was fresh in my mind, so I kept my mouth shut and ignored him the best I could.

That probably wasn’t what Coach had in mind when he forced us to train together, but he wasn’t here. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

We didn’t have much time for “bonding” regardless. People underestimated the rigor of ballet because it looked so ethereal, but in reality, the training was brutal—and we were still in the beginner’s stage.

Scarlett’s delicate appearance was a red herring; she ran her studio like a bloody drill sergeant. Even Coach would be impressed.

“One, two, three, four. Repeat, two, three, four. Good. Again. I—” Scarlett stopped short, the color draining from her face.

Vincent and I faltered.

“Are you okay?” I asked at the same time he said, “Is it⁠—”

“No. I’m okay.” She flashed a tight smile. “I just have to…use the loo. Keep going. I’ll be right back.”

My gaze followed her out of the room. Her walk seemed off, like she was favoring one leg over the other, but that might’ve been a trick of the eye.

She’s fine. She had no reason to lie, and even if she wasn’t feeling well, she was capable of taking care of herself.

So why did I feel worried?

“Don’t even think about it.” Vincent’s sharp tone brought my attention back to him. “I saw the way you were looking at her,” he said when I raised a questioning brow. “Touch my sister, and you’re dead.”

“Drop the overprotective brother bit, DuBois. It’s cliché.”

“I’m just giving you a friendly warning.” There wasn’t an ounce of friendliness in his expression. “Scarlett is off limits.”

“Scarlett can speak for herself.”

“Yes, but she’s too nice to creeps who want to take advantage.”

I wasn’t sure if we’d met the same Scarlett, since the one I knew seemed perfectly content putting me in my place.

I didn’t bother acknowledging the creeps who want to take advantage part of his comment. I knew my intentions and boundaries; Vincent could think whatever the hell he liked.

“Not that you’d succeed even if you tried getting with her. She won’t date a footballer again.” Vincent shrugged. “Tough luck.”

Again? Which player had she dated before? How long had they dated? Was it an old fling or recent breakup?

I tamped down the irrational desire to grill him about her ex. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Scarlett returned, cutting our conversation short. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, but her voice lacked the strength from the first half of our session.

Vincent said something in French. She responded in kind and gave him a pointed look. Whatever he was saying, she didn’t want him saying it in front of me, even if it was in another language.

We were nearly finished with the session when his phone went off.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He jogged to his duffel bag in the corner. “But that’s Dad’s emergency ringtone.”

Scarlett’s frown melted into visible worry as Vincent picked up. He listened and said a few brusque words in French before ending the call.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Dad had an accident.” More rapid-fire French, followed by a nod from Scarlett and a sideways glare from Vincent.

What the hell did I do?

“I’m sorry about the interruption,” Scarlett said as Vincent shouldered his bag. “This is highly unusual, but…”

“It’s fine. I get it.” We only had ten minutes left of training anyway, and my muscles could use an early break. “Is your dad okay?”

“I think so. Vincent’s going to deal with it. Dad’s…particular about the people who handle his personal affairs.”

“I’ll call you later with an update.” Vincent pinned me with a hard stare on his way out. “Remember what I said earlier.”

The Nobel Peace Prize committee should note that I chose the high road and didn’t respond with snark. His father was injured, after all. I wasn’t a monster.

“Apologies again.” Scarlett smoothed an unsteady hand over her bun. “This is only our second session, so I don’t want to give the wrong impression. There’s usually never this many disruptions.”

“By disruptions, you mean using the loo and a family emergency?” I leaned against the barre and crossed my arms. “How unprofessional. You should quit now.”

Her mouth twitched. “When you put it that way, I guess it’s not so bad.”

“It never is.”

Thunder boomed in the distance and drew our startled gazes to the window. I’d been so caught up in what was happening in the studio that I hadn’t noticed the transition from beautiful spring afternoon to raging storm.

“Don’t tell me you’re taking the tube in this weather,” I said as Scarlett packed up her belongings.

It was a fifteen-minute walk to the nearest tube station, and it sounded like the apocalypse out there.

“People take the tube when it’s raining all the time.”

“Only when they don’t have another choice. Let me drive you home.” I followed her out the door and down the hall. “Carina left early, so you don’t have to wait for her.”

Scarlett slid a glance my way. “Are you stalking her?”

“I ran into her on my way to the studio. She told me she had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”

“Why would she…never mind.” Scarlett shook her head. “She’s the queen of oversharing.”

“Think about it,” I said as we neared the exit. “Would you rather ride the tube with a bunch of wet, grumpy commuters or enjoy the passenger seat of a brand-new Mercedes?”

“The tube. I’ve heard stories about the way you drive, and I want no part in it.”

I should let it go. I shouldn’t even be talking to her outside training—no distractions and all that—but she had a way of making me forget reason.

“It’s a saloon car, not a sports car.” The Mercedes was my anti-paparazzi decoy. “I won’t go a single mile over the speed limit. I promise.”

“No thanks.” Scarlett opened the door. “I’ll take my⁠—”

“Asher! Asher, is this your new girlfriend?”

“How do you feel about losing the league during your first season with Blackcastle?”

“Is it true you and Vincent are training together this summer?”

An onslaught of questions and camera flashes exploded like a bomb amidst RAB’s otherwise tranquil sanctuary.

Paparazzi swamped us, their raincoats slick with water, their cameras shoved in our faces as I was stunned into momentary silence.

How the hell did they find me? Everyone at RAB had to sign NDAs, and I was always careful driving from my house to the school. Most importantly, how the hell did they get past the security gates?

“Did you see people are burning your shirts in Holchester?”

“How does it feel to be hated by the fans that used to love you?”

The clamor escalated. With their hoods up and giant black lenses obscuring their faces, they resembled a pack of vultures frothing for scraps.

My heart rate ratcheted up. The shouts and flashes blurred into white noise while my gut twisted with familiar overwhelm.

I didn’t hate the media per se. We had a symbiotic relationship, but only when the engagement was mutual.

I hated this—the ambushes, the invasions of privacy, the gross attempts at getting a rise out of me so they could sell my reaction for a buck. That was why I refused to give them one.

The rain fell in fat, heavy drops, soaking me to the bone. Claps of thunder rolled overhead and added to the chaos as I recovered my faculties and tried to push my way through the crowd.

I’d worry about how they found me later. Right now, I needed to get to my car and get us the hell out of here.

Us. Scarlett.

I turned, my heart giving a panicked thump when I saw her frozen at the top of the steps, her eyes wide and her face pale. I’d assumed she was right behind me, but she appeared to be in shock.

One of the paps said something that got lost in the storm and grabbed her arm.

A switch flipped, and my determination to keep my mouth shut washed away beneath a haze of red.

“Hey!” I doubled back and shoved him off her. “Don’t touch her!”

The camera flashes burst into a fresh frenzy.

“Are you sleeping together?”

“Is she your trainer?”

“What’s your relationship?”

“Asher?”

“Asher!”

My voice and the renewed shouts shook Scarlett out of her stupor. She grabbed my outstretched hand and ran with me to my car.

I barreled through the paparazzi without care, and we somehow made it to my car without further incident.

She gave me her address, but neither of us spoke again until I’d cleared RAB’s grounds and the cameras were a distant horde.

“Are you okay?” I asked. That seemed to be the question of the day.

“Yeah. I just…” Scarlett blinked, lingering traces of shock evident in the tremor of her words. “Is it always like that for you?”

“Not always, but most of the time.”

It was one of the many reasons I didn’t date. Any relationship would crumble beneath the combined weight of my football obligations, public scrutiny, and intrusive paparazzi. Everyone wanted to date a celebrity until they came home one day to find people rummaging through their trash for paydirt.

“God.” Scarlett slumped in her seat. “How did they find you?”

“Either someone broke their NDA, or they tailed me from my house and I didn’t notice.”

I needed to call my publicist and see if she could deal with the photos before they got published. Paparazzi often played fast and loose with the rules, but Sloane had a history of bending them to her will. I didn’t want Scarlett to deal with the absolute mess that would occur if her face got splashed all over the tabloids.

“Thank you for helping me back there,” she said quietly. “You didn’t have to do that. They probably got a money shot of you pushing that guy.”

“He deserved it.” My muscles coiled again at the memory of that asshole’s hands on her. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Scarlett swallowed hard.

“I’m surprised you haven’t had similar run-ins before,” I said after another bout of silence. “Because of your brother.”

“He keeps me shielded from that kind of stuff. Besides, he lives in Paris during the offseason, and when he is here, we hang out at each other’s houses, not in public.”

“So you two are close.”

“Yes. We grew up in different cities, but we talked often. I didn’t have a lot of friends as a kid because of my ballet schedule, and he had the same issue because of football. We were the closest the other had to a confidante.”

It was weird. The topic of Vincent usually aggravated me, but I could listen to Scarlett talk all day and not get tired.

Then again, it had less to do with the subject and more to do with her. She was so reserved that any glimpses into her personal life fascinated me.

I stopped at a red light and glanced over at her. Scarlett stared straight ahead, her brows knitted together in thought. I read people pretty well, but she could be contemplating my words, her life, or what she wanted for dinner. I had no idea.

My gaze traced the elegant curve of her profile, searching for something I couldn’t name. Water droplets clung to her lashes and coated the strands of hair slicked back into a dancer’s bun. The elegant slope of her nose gave way to a lush mouth and delicate chin, both of which firmed into a stubborn line.

“Stop doing that,” she said without looking at me.

“Doing what?”

“Staring at me.”

“Training’s going to be difficult if I’m not allowed to look at you.”

“Looking at me for training is fine. Staring at me like this is not.” She finally tore her eyes away from the road to gesture between us.

“How, exactly, am I looking at you?” I asked, amused.

“Like you…” Scarlett faltered, and the air suddenly condensed into something thicker, almost tangible.

Her eyes didn’t quite meet mine, but the steady drip, drip, drip of water against the windows matched the spike in my pulse.

“Like I what?”

The question floated between us, soft enough not to disturb the tension coating the interior of the car.

Her lips parted for a breath before she lifted her chin, her face hardening. “Like you’re flirting with me. That’s not allowed, remember? It’s one of the rules.”

“Do you have many of those?”

“What?”

“Rules.”

“I’m a ballerina. I live by rules.”

“That’s too bad.” The light finally turned green, and I broke eye contact to focus on the road. “You’d have more fun without them.”

Scarlett’s gaze warmed my cheek before she, too, faced forward again.

The tension didn’t dissipate in the resulting silence so much as rearrange itself, charging the air with a steady hum and making me hyperaware of her presence even when I wasn’t looking directly at her.

The subtle shift of her leg. The dip of her chin. The shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Fuck. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

The twenty-minute drive to Scarlett’s flat seemed both far too long and far too short, and when she finally climbed out of the car with a murmured thanks, I couldn’t muster more than a nod.

I waited until she made it safely inside before I drove away, but the scent of her lingered.

Scarlett is off limits. Vincent’s warning echoed in my head.

I was inclined to heed it—not because I was afraid of him, but because I was afraid of what getting close to Scarlett might do to me if I didn’t.