The Striker: Chapter 51

My father’s words echoed in my head long after he left, especially what he said about Teddy and my death wish.

Was that really the reason behind my compulsion to race? It seemed absurd. I enjoyed racing, and it didn’t make sense for his death to be the reason behind my self-destructive behavior. It’d driven me to succeed, not to sabotage myself.

But the thrill I got from racing was the thrill of cheating death, so maybe…

My headache intensified. It was too late for this. I needed sleep first. Then I could figure out what to do with the revelations from my father’s surprise intervention tomorrow.

Unfortunately, the night had other plans for me when, less than an hour after he left, someone else showed up at my gates.

Disbelief cut through me when I saw who it was. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I was tempted to leave him outside, but I caved and opened the gates again. What was one more visitor? Hell, maybe I should ask the London Philharmonic to come over for a concert and then set up sleeping bags for all the paps to camp out in my living room.

Maybe the universe was doing me a favor by trying to distract me from thoughts of Scarlett—or maybe it was trying to punish me by making me deal with my father and the person who reminded me most of her within the span of one hour.

I opened the front door to Vincent’s scowling face.

A bolt of irritation darted through me. He showed up at my house uninvited and had the nerve to look annoyed?

Typical Vincent.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Did someone put out a broadcast telling London I’m having an open house tonight or something?”

Given the way my week was going, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“We need to talk.” He shoved past me into the foyer. He was still wearing his kit from that afternoon’s match, which didn’t improve my mood.

Not only did he remind me of his sister, but he reminded me of my suspension. At that moment, he was the symbol of everything I’d lost, and I almost decked him for it.

I didn’t.

One, that wouldn’t solve my problems; it would compound them. Two, my issues weren’t his fault, though I wished they were. It was easier to blame others for my misfortunes than myself.

“I don’t want to talk.” Nevertheless, I slammed the door closed in case there was a pap lurking out there with a long-range night lens or whatever they used to spy on their unsuspecting victims. I trusted my security team, but one could never be too careful. “If this is about your sister…”

I couldn’t bring myself to say Scarlett’s name. It hurt too much.

“It’s not. I’m not here as Scarlett’s brother.” I flinched even as Vincent continued without so much as a hello, it’s lovely to see you. “I’m here as your captain, and I’m telling you to get your shit together.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Was it Kick Asher While He’s Down Day and no one told me? Why was everyone barging into my bloody house to yell at me? “I already⁠—”

“You see those?” He pointed at the medals displayed inside a glass case in the hall. “If you want another one, you need to get your head out of your ass. So you’re suspended and your girlfriend broke up with you. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

My shoulders stiffened. “You said this wasn’t about Scar—about her.”

“It’s not. It’s about the way you’re acting because of her,” Vincent snapped. “You want to be the greatest footballer in the world, yet you can’t hold it together after one breakup. Let’s say you get back together. What happens if you get into a fight before a match? What happens if she breaks up with you again before the World Cup?”

“I—”

“You’ve been moping like a teenager for a week, and it’s time you got over it.” He barreled over my response. “Now I’m going to say this once—and if you tell anyone, I’ll fucking deny it—but we need you back on the pitch. Team morale is down, and we can’t keep up our streak without you. We barely won against Tottenham. Most importantly, you need to get your shit together and figure out a way to win Scarlett back. For some reason I can’t fathom, she still has feelings for you, and frankly, I’m sick of seeing her mope around too.”

I stared at him, stunned into silence for the second time that night.

I couldn’t believe Vincent DuBois, of all people, was giving me a pep talk. A harsh and annoying one, but a pep talk nonetheless.

Either he’d conspired with my father on tonight’s double attack, or the universe had determined I needed that much of a kick in the ass to get my shit together.

I suspected it was the latter.

The shock of the night’s events cleared some of the daze I’d been walking around in for the past two weeks.

It pained me greatly to admit it, but my father and Vincent were both right. I prided myself on my drive and determination, but I’d displayed neither since Scarlett ran out of my hospital room the night of the crash.

Why was I sitting around waiting for inspiration to strike instead of fighting for her and for my spot back on the pitch? I kept thinking it was impossible to prove a negative, but was it really?

Even if it was, I’d achieved the impossible before. I could do it again.

For Scarlett, I could do anything.

Clarity dissolved the rest of my daze, allowing Vincent’s words to fully sink in. “She’s moping around?”

He gave me an exasperated look. “Out of everything I said, that was your takeaway? And yes, she is, unfortunately, moping.”

My heart skipped a beat. I hated the thought of Scarlett being sad, but moping was good. Moping meant she hadn’t moved on.

Our issue wasn’t a lack of feelings for each other, but Vincent’s confirmation was the fuel I needed.

“You know, you could’ve saved half your speech,” I told him. “My father was just here. He also told me to get off my ass and fight, so you’re a little late with that.”

Vincent frowned. “Seriously? I have more to say. I rehearsed on the ride here.”

“Save it. I got the message.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good then.” He looked uncertain now that his original plan had been thwarted. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

My mind spun as it formed and discarded dozens of strategies.

I had to prove to Scarlett that I wasn’t the same reckless hothead who’d raced Bocci that night.

In order to do that, I needed to take concrete action. Do something that would highlight how serious I was about changing. What can I…

My heart stopped for a second before it kicked into double time.

I got it.

“I have a plan,” I said in response to Vincent’s question. “But I need the team’s help.”

The next afternoon, the entire Blackcastle football club piled into my house for an “unofficial team meeting.”

They bitched and moaned about the last-minute summons, the long drive, and the imposition on their day off, but every single member showed up.

An embarrassing twinge of emotion scoured my throat as I surveyed the crowded living room. I would never say it aloud because they’d give me never-ending shit about it, but the fact they were giving up part of their Sunday for me when I hadn’t given them any details about this meeting’s topic meant a hell of a lot.

One of the things I loved most about football was the brotherhood. I’d lost that after I left Holchester, but I was tentatively hopeful that I’d found it again.

“So what’s this mystery meeting about?” Samson asked, stretching his arms and legs with a yawn. “It better be something good. I’m missing a Sunday roast for this.”

“Are we finally starting our book club?” Adil straightened, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Wilma Pebbles has a new book coming out soon. It should be our featured read.”

Ever since he read that Triceratops book, he’d been obsessed with Wilma Pebbles.

The rest of the team laughed and jeered, though several members looked intrigued. Stevens tossed a throw pillow at him. Adil easily caught it.

“Don’t forget you all agreed to join the book club,” he reminded them. “I’m adding everyone to the group chat once I’ve sorted out the logistics.”

“You mean you haven’t sorted them out yet?” Gallagher snorted. “What kind of club admin are you?”

“The kind who’ll put you on cleanup duty if you don’t show me more respect.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you enforce that rule—hey! Watch the hair!” Gallagher protested when Adil threw the pillow at him.

Beside me, Vincent rubbed his temple and shook his head.

This was why I didn’t want to be team captain. Corralling a group of footballers was harder than herding a litter of hyperactive puppies.

“This is not a book club meeting,” he said. “This is a strategy meeting. It has to do with our newest team member.”

The other players quieted, their eyes roving between us with open curiosity. They were still getting used to Vincent and me working together instead of arguing, but they were fully on board with the new dynamic. Last season’s tension hadn’t been fun for anyone.

“Did you two finally kiss and make up?” Elliott, a midfielder, called from his seat next to the fireplace. “Are our parents not divorced anymore?”

Laughter erupted around the room.

“Excuse me.” Vincent looked insulted. “I’ve been your captain for years. He only transferred in this year.” He jerked his thumb at me. “We are not on the same level. There’s only one parent here, and it’s me.”

“Sure,” I said. “You can be the annoying parent. I’ll be the fun older brother.”

He glared at me, but the expression lacked heat. “Are you going to continue taking the piss, or are you going to explain to everyone why they’re here?”

Right. As much as I enjoyed humbling his ego, we had more important matters to discuss.

I faced the team again. “First, before we get to the reason why we’re all here, I want to apologize,” I said. The sentiment had been weighing on me for a while, and I needed to get it off my chest. “I know things have been difficult for various reasons since I joined the club. Some of it is due to external circumstances, but some of it is because of me. Because of my temper, my recklessness⁠—”

“Your huge ego,” Vincent said.

“My pride,” I said, ignoring him. “All of these things have contributed to a tumultuous start to the season. I dragged you guys into my fight with Holchester when I shouldn’t have, and now we’re all paying for it.”

I looked around the room at everyone’s somber faces. For once, they weren’t cracking jokes or goofing off. We had a rocky start, but we’d been through a lot together. I was grateful to have them by my side, and I wasn’t going to let them down again.

“However, that’s going to change because I’m committed to Blackcastle, and I’m sure as hell committed to making sure we bring home the trophy at the end of the season.”

Loud cheers greeted my words. I waited until they died down before I continued. “I’ll convince Coach to put me back in the game. When he does, know that I’ll be fighting for all of us on the pitch. This isn’t about me; it’s about the team. And together, we’re going to kick the other teams’ asses.”

Another raucous round of cheers erupted.

“Hear, hear!”

“Fuck Holchester!”

“Blackcastle for the fucking win!” Elliott pounded on the table for emphasis.

“Alright, settle down,” Vincent called like the buzzkill he is, but he was smiling. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk football later. Let’s get down to business.” He gave me a pointed look.

The guys quieted, clearly curious about where this was going.

I paused to collect my thought before speaking again. “As some of you may know, Scarlett and I recently broke up.”

“Yeah, I heard. You and DuBois’s sister.” Stevens clucked his tongue. “Shit luck, man. She was a hot—” He cut off abruptly when Vincent and I both pinned him with dark glares. “Uh, I mean, she seems like a lovely woman. I’m sorry. Please continue.”

I let his impertinence slide—this time.

“As I was saying, Scarlett and I broke up, but I’ve gathered you here because I would like to request your help with the situation.”

The team exchanged puzzled glances.

“I don’t understand,” Samson said. “How can we help?”

“And why do we need to meet in person for it?” Gallagher yawned. “This could’ve been an email.”

“No, it couldn’t,” Vincent said. “You’ll see when Asher explains step number one.”

Gallagher frowned. “Step number one of what?”

I smiled a genuine smile for the first time in two weeks. “Of our latest playbook: Win Scarlett Back.”