The girl finally yanked her hand away and shoved her book into her bag.
I dropped my arm as well, though the shadow of a tingle remained.
“It’s about time you showed up,” she said, her cheeks noticeably redder than before. “I thought I’d have to call and remind you about today’s session.”
“There was traffic, and I’m technically right on time. It’s not my fault you show up early everywhere.” Vincent ignored me to focus on her. “You ready to get started?”
Despite my misgivings about the girl and losing focus, a twinge of jealousy snaked through my gut at their easy banter.
“Do you know each other?” I asked as casually as possible.
She didn’t seem like the type who’d go for Vincent, but stranger things have happened. In hell.
She opened her mouth, but Vincent beat her to it.
“Of course.” He looked at me like I was stupid. “She’s my sister.”
CHAPTER 4SCARLETT
I wish I could’ve snapped a photo of Asher’s face when Vincent announced I was his sister. If his jaw had dropped any lower, he’d have to reattach it.
I shouldn’t have led him on by keeping my name to myself, but part of me had been amused at seeing the Asher Donovan flabbergasted by my refusal to fall at his feet like every other woman in the world.
I wasn’t above fangirling or celebrity crushes. For example, if I ever met Nate Reynolds, my favorite actor, I’d probably scream and pass out. I just didn’t fangirl over footballers; being related to one really took the shine out of their glory.
“Your sister?” Asher finally found his words. His gaze traveled between me and Vincent.
I understood why he was so shocked. Our parents couldn’t have natural-born children, so they’d adopted us when we were babies. Vincent’s dark eyes and light brown skin were the polar opposites of my gray eyes and pale complexion, but even though we weren’t biologically related, he was my brother in every other sense of the word.
Not a lot of people knew we were adopted, though, and it was always amusing to see their reactions when they found out we were siblings.
“Scarlett DuBois,” I said with a hint of apology. I really should’ve said something earlier. “Your new trainer.”
Asher cut a glance in my direction, and an unsettling spark of electricity danced over my skin.
Anti-footballer biases aside, the man was gorgeous. As in, gave-Nate-Reynolds-a-run-for-his-money, movie-star gorgeous.
Thick dark hair flopped over his forehead, framing sculpted cheekbones and a sensual mouth. Unfairly long lashes fringed the greenest eyes I’d ever seen, and every inch of his body was chiseled to high-performance perfection.
But the attraction wasn’t even really about his looks, though they were objectively flawless. It was the charisma, the utter ease with which he moved in the spotlight that made it impossible to look away. Asher was one of the most famous athletes in the world, yet he possessed the down-to-earth charm of the boy next door.
Raw masculinity wrapped in cool confidence. The combination was so magnetic, even my antagonism toward footballers couldn’t dull it. If he weren’t my brother’s teammate and rival, I would be swooning big-time.
Except he is, so you need to get it together.
“Anyway.” I cleared my throat, my skin still tingling from our brief touch earlier. It must be the static from my clothes; that was what I got for wearing wool in May. “Let’s start. The focus of our training will be strength, stamina, and flexibility. We’ll start with warm-ups, then move to footwork.”
I gradually relaxed as the session got underway and my unease over Asher’s proximity faded beneath my desire to do a good job. I hadn’t wanted this role, but now that I had it, I was going to excel, dammit.
“Let’s move into some deep stretches,” I said after we finished basic warm-ups. “We’re going to lift our right leg onto the barre, breathe, and lower our chest to our leg. Go slowly, take your time…”
I demonstrated the movement for them, luxuriating in the stretch and the gentle music playing in the background. This was the most calming part of—
“Dammit!”
My head jerked up at Vincent’s curse. I lowered my leg and turned to see him struggling to get his foot up on the barre. Football didn’t naturally develop flexibility the way dance and gymnastics did, so some stretches were difficult for the players.
However, Asher was already in the correct position and reveling in my brother’s difficulties.
“It’s a simple stretch, DuBois,” he drawled. “But it’s okay if you can’t do it. We can’t all have natural talent.”
Vincent’s face flushed. He hated being second best, especially to Asher. I never said it out loud, but I suspected that was the reason why he did what he did in the last World Cup.
If he’d been up against anyone else, he wouldn’t have faked that injury. He despised diving, but his rivalry with Asher often made him do stupid things.
“I’m not surprised you have such a low bar for what you consider talent,” Vincent snapped. “Newsflash, Donovan, tricks and flashy goals don’t mean you’re better than other people.”
“That’s not what the Ballon d’Or jurors thought when they presented me with my fourth award last year.” Asher had won the prestigious award for best player of the season four times; Vincent had won it twice. “Besides, it appears that for you, the barre isn’t low enough.” Asher smirked at Vincent’s form.
My brother’s knuckles whitened around the barre. “You—”
“Enough!” I said sharply. “Let’s get back to work. If you want to argue, do it on your own time.”
They lapsed into mulish silence, but to their credit, they didn’t attempt to pick a fight with each other again during the session.
I modified some of the stretches for Vincent, and we spent the next hour drilling into different footwork techniques, which was where football and ballet had the biggest crossover.
