Somewhere in the distance, I heard renewed pounding on the door and a voice infused with panic. “Scarlett, what was that noise? Are you okay? Scarlett!”
I wanted to reply, but I was so tired, and my mind was too jumbled.
The only thing I could do was give in to gravity and—
A fresh spear of pain lanced through my head. I’d hit something on my way down.
I felt it, the impact reverberating and amplifying and consuming until there was nothing left except agony and exhaustion and finally, blissfully, oblivion.
CHAPTER 42ASHER
I spent the morning of the Holchester match prepping my go-to match day meal—a high-carb, high-protein mix of whole grain pasta, grilled chicken, and salad with a hard-boiled egg on the side—and listening to my pregame playlist.
I never worked out the day of a match, but mental preparation was as important as physical conditioning. Over the years, I’d curated my playlist to include only the songs that motivated and calmed me in equal measure.
It looped back to the first song as I tossed my lucky boots into my playing kit. I hadn’t played in them since the halfway line goal that put me on the map, but I carried them with me to every match. Call me superstitious, but I credited many of the impossible goals I’d made to their help.
They were the boots that started it all, and they were going to take me all the way to a World Cup championship.
A thrill of anticipation streaked through my blood. It wasn’t match time yet, but I couldn’t wait to wipe the smirks off Bocci’s and Lyle’s faces when we crushed them today. Our team was stronger and more cohesive than ever, and if we played our cards right, we’d be hoisting the Premier League trophy at the end of the season.
Holchester may be the reigning champions, but that would only make the taste of victory that much sweeter.
I glanced at my watch. Fuck. I needed to leave soon if I wanted to avoid traffic and get to the stadium in time.
I grabbed my playing kit and headed to the entryway. I’d just locked the door behind me when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it roll to voicemail.
Bloody telemarketers. How did they get my unlisted number?
I made a mental note to ask Sloane to double check if my private contact information was leaked anywhere. Stalkers were real, and I didn’t want random people blowing up my phone with weird calls.
I made it to my car when my phone rang again. And again. And again. All from the same number.
A slice of worry wedged into my chest. Telemarketers didn’t usually call this many times in a row from the same number, did they?
It could be an emergency, and someone I knew was calling from a stranger’s phone. Was it my mother? Did my father have a heart attack again? I hadn’t talked to him in the past two months. My mother said he was doing fine during our calls, but anything could happen.
I was in a time crunch, but I answered the call anyway.
“Hello?” I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder as I tossed my duffel into the passenger seat.
I climbed into the driver’s side, my chest tightening with worry.
“Asher, it’s Brooklyn.” The strain in her voice had me straightening immediately. The worry compounded, spreading from my chest to my throat. “I tried calling Vincent, but his phone’s off, and I—”
“What happened?” I demanded. I didn’t have time for a detailed breakdown of what she did before she called me.
Brooklyn wouldn’t reach out this close to match time unless something was terribly wrong.
My mind spun gruesome images of Scarlett lying somewhere, injured or…
Bile climbed up my throat.
When Brooklyn didn’t answer immediately, I clutched the steering wheel with impatient white knuckles. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Scarlett.” Her voice sounded tiny and far-off beneath the sudden thunder of my pulse. “She’s in the hospital.”
The drive from my house to the hospital should’ve taken forty minutes.
I made it there in twenty flat.
I might’ve followed the traffic rules or I might’ve broken them. I had no bloody clue. The entire drive was a blur, propelled by panic and the echo of Brooklyn’s words.
She’s in the hospital.
She didn’t give me details other than Scarlett collapsed at home. Luckily, she’d been with her at the time and called 999.
She said Scarlett wasn’t in life-threatening danger, but that didn’t ease the knots in my chest. I barely breathed until I reached the hospital, but I still had the presence of mind to alert Sloane about the situation.
For once, she didn’t warn me about “staying out of trouble.” She simply said she would take care of everything on her end, including calling Coach and the hospital, and that she was on standby for new developments.
When I arrived, a waiting staff member ushered me in through a side exit and up to Scarlett’s floor. I wasn’t family, but apparently she was conscious and gave them permission to let me see her.
She’s conscious, which means she’s okay.
