The Striker: Chapter 8

I developed a new mantra over the next two weeks: Keep it professional and stop thinking about her.

It was a bit long for a mantra, but it was smart, clear, and actionable. I was quite proud of it.

Unfortunately, it also proved that mantras were bullshit because fourteen days later, Scarlett still haunted my thoughts like a smart-mouthed, entirely-too-beautiful ghost.

When I woke up, I anticipated our next session together.

When I got behind the wheel, I remembered the night I drove her home in the rain.

When I entered her studio, I relived my sheer panic at seeing her collapse and my utter relief when she woke up.

Despite what I’d told her, I’d dropped by RAB that day to discuss the paparazzi issue with Lavinia. That was it. And yet, my feet had steered me to her studio instead of the director’s office, and my determination to keep her at arm’s length had snapped the second I saw her in pain.

I was convinced we were the subjects of some universal conspiracy at this point. I just couldn’t prove it.

“Are you listening to me?” My father’s irritation pierced through my unwanted thoughts.

I leaned back in my chair and refocused on his frown. We sat opposite each other at my childhood dining table, which still bore traces of the permanent marker stick figures I’d doodled of famous footballers when I was a kid. Despite my best efforts to move my parents to a newer, bigger place, they’d insisted on staying at their old split-level in southwest Holchester.

Luckily, they’d consented to a new security system after several run-ins with the press, but I was still uneasy about how accessible they were to anyone with an internet connection and the barest modicum of sleuthing skills.

“I’m listening,” I said, even though I’d tuned him out twenty minutes ago.

We always talked about the same things: what I did wrong in my last match and how I could improve for the next one. My father watched more replays of my matches than Coach, which was saying something.

“You lacked focus the entire season,” he said. “Where was the cohesion? Where was the fire?”

“Oh, come off it, Ron,” my mother said from her spot by the counter. She picked up two mugs of tea and set them on the table, casting a glare at my father along the way. “I think he played wonderfully. You were the league’s highest scorer this season, weren’t you, darling?”

My father cut me off before I could respond. “Highest scorer yet no trophy.” The weathered planes of his face drew deeper into a scowl. “Should’ve stuck to Holchester like I told you. You know I can barely show my face at the pub these days? We’ve always been a red-and-white household. Then you had to go and…and do this.”

He gestured at the newspaper splayed open on the table. A photo of me, clearly devastated after the Holchester match, took up half the first page of the sports section.

Not only had I lost, but I was wearing Blackcastle’s signature purple and white.

If my father was the head of the Holchester United Church, I was its greatest heretic.

“You know why I did it.” I was tired of rehashing the same thing over and over again. Every time I visited, my father inevitably brought up my “traitorous transfer” to Holchester’s biggest rival, which was why I rarely came home anymore. I was only here this weekend because of Teddy’s birthday.

“Money, Frank Armstrong, and a bloody loss on your record. How’s that treating you?” My father made a disgusted noise.

Money and working with Frank Armstrong. They were the reasons I gave him, but they weren’t the only reasons. I would never tell him what the third was, though.

When I didn’t respond, he shoved his chair back and stormed off, his tea forgotten.

“Don’t take what he says to heart.” My mother patted my shoulder. “You know how fanatical he is about that team. It’ll take time, but he’ll get over it.”

He’d had half a year to get over it. Then again, he’d refused to talk to me for a month after he found out about the transfer, so the fact we were on speaking terms at all was an improvement.

“I’m heading out to see Teddy.” I stood and placed my half-empty mug in the sink. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

Her face softened. “Okay. Don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? All this—the matches, the press, the pressure—it’s temporary. It doesn’t define you.”

I kept my smile even as my gut clenched.

She meant what she said in a comforting way, but the temporary nature of my career was the reason why I pushed myself so hard. I only had a set number of years to achieve everything I wanted, and that was assuming I didn’t suffer an injury that would cut the number down further.

Besides, she was wrong. Football did define me. It was the only thing I’d ever excelled at. What would I be without it?

Nothing.

However, I didn’t voice any of those thoughts as I kissed her on the cheek and left.

My mother dealt with enough problems in her job as a teacher. I didn’t want to add mine to the heap.

My parents lived in a quiet part of Holchester so there was rarely traffic, and it took me less than ten minutes to reach Teddy.

The grounds smelled like damp earth and moss. Sunlight peeked through spindly branches, and bursts of flowers added color to the otherwise staid landscape. Workers kept the place well-tended, but there was only so much cheer one could expect in a cemetery.

I trod the familiar path to Teddy’s resting site. Guilt wormed through my chest when I saw how bare it looked.

His mother had died years ago, and his father had remarried and moved across the country. I was the only person who visited regularly anymore; even so, my visits had dwindled since I moved to London.

I placed a birthday card on my best friend’s grave and sat there until sunset beckoned.

Besides my mother, Teddy was the only person who remembered me as Asher before I became Asher Donovan.

Sometimes, I needed that reminder too.

SCARLETT

“If you’re dragging me to your secret lair so you can butcher me, I’m going to be deeply upset,” I said. “I have plans to see a West End show tonight.”

“It’s alarming that that was the first thought that popped into your head, but no, I am not dragging you to my secret lair. All my lairs are public.”

“Cute.” I glanced at our driver and tried not to calculate the million different ways we could die if he sped up, slowed down, or took the wrong turn. It’s fine. You’ll be fine. “Seriously, where are we going? Where’s the new studio?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Asher sat next to me in the backseat, his posture relaxed and indifferent compared to my white knuckles and rigid back.

He’d asked me to meet him down the road from RAB today so we could avoid the paparazzi, who still camped out near the school grounds every day hoping for a money pic of Asher.

When I’d shown up, too curious about his “paparazzi solution” to stay away, I’d been greeted by an armored Range Rover, a black-suited man the size of the Hulk, and Asher.

“I’m not driving today. Earl is,” he’d said, nodding at the Hulk 2.0. “We’re going to our new studio.”

I should’ve insisted he tell me where the studio was before I (reluctantly) climbed into the car, but again, curiosity got the better of me.

Well, that and Asher’s reassurance that Earl was the safest, most skilled driver in the London metro area. Apparently, he’d been a chauffeur for Downing Street for twenty years, followed by a stint with an extremely wealthy, extremely reclusive billionaire.

I still hated getting into cars with strangers, but I believed Asher, and he was right. Earl had been great so far.

“Which West End show are you seeing tonight?” Asher asked.

I named a new musical that had been garnering rave reviews.

“Friday night date. Should be a fun time,” he said.

I threw a sharp glance in his direction. He was the picture of carelessness, his profile outlined in sunlit gold against the window, but an edge ran beneath his otherwise casual drawl.

Our relationship the past three weeks had been perfectly cordial. He showed up to the studio, we trained, he left. Still charming but absent the flirtatiousness of our early encounters.

It was easy. Simple. Professional. Exactly what I’d asked for.

“Yes.” For some reason, I declined to mention that Carina was my hot Friday night date. “It should be very fun.”

A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw before his expression smoothed. “Good.”

Good.

The terseness of his response ran the length of my spine, followed by a strange thrill.

He’d uttered one word, and my mind was tearing it apart, searching for hidden meanings that didn’t exist—like whether that was jealousy behind his good or sincerity.

I crossed and uncrossed my legs, restless amidst the mushrooming silence. Asher’s gaze flicked down before sliding toward the window again.

Clearly, today’s abrupt change of plans had addled my brain if I was worrying over what he thought about my “date.”

Why didn’t you tell him you were going with Carina instead of some hypothetical guy you met on an overrated dating app?

Because it’s none of his business.

Sure. That’s why.

Shut up.

Earl turned the corner, and my oh-so-delightful conversation with myself died a quick death.

I wasn’t a stranger to luxury. Vincent lived in a multimillion-pound mansion that once belonged to a famous rock star, and during my career prime, I’d attended parties at venues that would make even the most jaded jaws drop.

But the estate before me…wow.

It boasted the usual features one would expect from a house in one of the poshest neighborhoods outside London—intimidating iron gates, marble fountains, a sprawling green lawn.

That wasn’t what made it exceptional. What made it exceptional was how unexpected it was.

I would’ve pictured Asher’s house (and I was almost positive this was Asher’s house) as some modern monstrosity made of glass, concrete, and no soul, per the standard bachelor pad design package.

Instead, three stories of pale stone soared over the perfectly manicured grounds, its walls thick with ivy and its arched windows bright beneath the sunlight. A marble swan adorned the fountain anchoring a circular drive, and everywhere I looked, flowers flourished in all their summertime glory. Peonies, roses, geraniums…

A snort of laughter escaped when I noticed a pair of hedges sculpted into the shape of a football and a championship trophy, respectively. They were so obviously satire that I could only shake my head.

“Subtle,” I said as Earl parked in the drive and we exited the car. “If you added your squad number, you’d have the trifecta on your lawn.”

“That’s a great suggestion,” Asher said with all seriousness. “I’ll call my landscaper and let him know.”

“Will you pay me a consulting fee for the idea?”

“Only if you take it in the form of pizza and ice cream.”

“Veggie and pistachio?”

“Pepperoni and Rocky Road.”

“Deal.”

A smile tugged on Asher’s mouth. Our earlier awkwardness dissolved, replaced with a heady new tension. It crawled beneath my skin and spurred my pulse into a gallop.

I’d always prided myself on my ability to think clearly.

When my parents divorced, I’d drawn up a thirty-point logistical plan of action for all four members of our household.

When a pipe burst last year, flooding my flat and destroying half my belongings, I’d calmly turned off the main water supply, opened the faucets to drain any remaining cold water, and called the plumber.

And when I found out I’d never dance professionally again, I hadn’t shed a single tear. Devastation was a private thing, to be confined within the walls of my mind and soul.

So no, I wasn’t prone to emotion-led decisions. I kept my thoughts as rational as possible.

But sometimes, when I was around Asher, I found it hard to think much at all.

My mind blurred around the edges. I was roasting in my leotard and tights. I couldn’t tell whether that was because of the weather or⁠—

Earl cleared his throat. The sound had the same effect as dumping ice water over a roaring fire.

My mental haze vanished, and Asher and I took a simultaneous step away from each other.

Earl didn’t say a word, but I swore I saw a smirk slip across his mouth.

“Let’s go inside.” Asher turned his back to me and unlocked the front door. “It’s too hot out here.”

A hush blanketed us again during our walk through his house.

“Pizza and ice cream. Not the diet I’d expect from a top footballer,” I said. I was beating a dead horse at this point, but I needed to fill the silence.

“I don’t make a habit of it.” Asher’s arm grazed mine as we turned the corner. “But sometimes, I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

A faint roughness ran beneath his words, turning what should’ve been an innocent response into anything but.

Heat warmed the back of my neck. A brief image of Asher enjoying something sweet flashed through my mind before I crushed it with a determined fist.

I took another, deliberate step away from him as we walked deeper into the house. It didn’t stop the bolt of awareness streaking through my blood, but at least I was actively fighting back against my hormones.

Those traitors. I could never trust them.

Asher gave me an abbreviated tour of the mansion, which was even larger than it looked from the outside.

Original Picassos hung next to framed shirts signed by retired football legends; a state-of-the-art entertainment center faced a display case filled with trophies, medals, and sentimental items like the boots he wore in his first ever Premier League match. A forty-person screening room with a genuine concession stand occupied the same hall as an indoor bowling alley, and natural light spilled through dozens of giant windows overlooking the grounds.

It straddled that perfect line between cozy and luxurious, and I loved it.

“The basement is dedicated to all things fitness. It’s actually level with the lower tier of the back garden—the first floor of the house leads to the main tier—so there’s plenty of light,” Asher said, leading me down the stairs. “The sauna, steam room, and indoor pool are to the left. Gym and massage room are to the right.”

“So you basically have an at-home spa.” I twisted my neck to get a better look at the infrared sauna. I’d love a personal sauna. They helped a lot with my pain.

“Basically.” We stopped in front of a closed door. “You ready to see the latest addition to Spa Donovan?”

“I suppose.” I feigned a yawn to mask my curiosity. “Hopefully the inside is more inspired than the name.”

Asher rewarded me with a quick grin. “Hey, that’s why I’m a footballer, not a hospitality mogul. That being said…” He opened the door with a flourish. “Welcome to our new training center.”

I didn’t know what I’d expected. A standard room with mirrors, maybe, or gray concrete and a barre.

I should’ve known better; Asher Donovan didn’t do things halfway.

Instead of a basic workout area, I walked into a full-blown professional ballet studio.

Correction: it wasn’t a ballet studio; it was the ballet studio. As in, the ballet studio of my dreams, only even better.

RAB hadn’t spared any expense with its facilities, but this…this was everything I’d dreamed of.

A gleaming expanse of hardwood stretched across the vast space, its surface so polished it appeared to undulate with sunlight. It was a sprung floor, which meant it was designed to offer optimal shock absorption and minimize the stress on bones and joints.

Golden warmth poured through a wall of windows that opened onto an attached outdoor gym, and a double row of barres lined the perimeter of the room. They appeared to have been custom-built to accommodate for my and Asher’s different heights. A black Steinway piano and state-of-the-art sound system dominated one corner while potted plants added a welcome pop of greenery throughout the studio.

The floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected my shock back at me.

“I had it built according to the list you gave me about our training essentials, but I added a few flourishes.” Asher nodded at the outdoor gym. “If I missed anything, let me know.”

“How did you…” I spun slowly, taking in the details that elevated the studio from professional to exquisite. The line paintings of dancers by famed artist Marina Escrol; the unobtrusive camera setup that would allow us to film our sessions and monitor progress over time; the adaptive smart home resistance training system. He hadn’t missed a single thing. “It’s only been three weeks!”

“Money is a great motivator.” Mischief sparked in Asher’s eyes. “I may also have added VIP season tickets for the entire crew as an incentive if they got it done in under a month.”

Of course the contractors were football fans.

However, as much as I loved the studio and newfound privacy, there was one problem.

“It took us almost an hour to get here by car,” I pointed out. “The tube doesn’t run here, which means I’d have to take a cab, and we meet three times a week. That’s not sustainable.”

My schedule didn’t leave room for such a long commute. I had other classes I needed to teach.

“You don’t have to take the tube. Earl will be your chauffeur,” Asher said. “I had him drive us today so you can get a sense of his style. If you’re comfortable with him, I’ll cover the cost since I’m the reason we’re in this predicament in the first place.” He shrugged. “The car is basically a tank, so you don’t have to worry about safety either.”

A knot of emotion formed in my throat.

The most unexpected thing I’d encountered today wasn’t our impromptu trip to Asher’s house or the contents of the new studio; it was his thoughtfulness.

Careful. Remember what happened the last time you got sucked in by a handsome face and “thoughtfulness.”

“And my schedule?” I asked. “I have a class right before our sessions.”

“I’m fine pushing our sessions back, and I’m sure Lavinia won’t object to a schedule change. ”

Our sessions already took place late in the afternoon. If we pushed them back any further, they’d veer dangerously close to evening time.

Being alone in a beautiful, private studio with Asher after the sun set?

Apprehension fluttered through my body like a thousand tiny butterflies.

Absolutely not.

“Fine.” I turned to retrieve a resistance band from its rack. The warmth from Asher’s gaze burned between my shoulder blades, and the flutters multiplied into an unruly swarm. “Let’s get started, shall we? We’ve wasted enough time.”