“We can make that happen.” Asher’s gaze dipped, and to my horror, I realized I’d been holding onto him this entire time.
I dropped his arm immediately, fire crawling up the back of my neck. Why didn’t he say anything earlier?
My palm tingled in the absence of his warmth, and I wiped it against the side of my leg, hoping that would help.
It didn’t. It only succeeded in aggravating the tenderness of my muscles.
I winced. Smart move, Scarlett. Truly Mensa-worthy.
A brief frown touched Asher’s face before he looked away. “A warning, though,” he said. “The press is back. The guy I was chasing earlier? He was a young pap disguised as a prospective student. That was how he got in.”
My chest swam with disbelief. “Seriously?” That was unhinged. What story could they sell with photos of Asher at RAB anyway? Him cross-training at a dance studio wasn’t scandalous in any way.
I was all for people making a living how they could, but I firmly believed paparazzi deserved a special place in hell next to the telemarketers and corrupt politicians.
“That’s going to be a problem,” I said.
I didn’t want to worry about candid pictures of me ending up in some sleazy tabloid every time I came to work. Asher was their target, but as his trainer, I had a high likelihood of getting caught in the crossfire.
“I agree, but I’ve been thinking about it since our first run-in with them, and I might have a solution,” Asher said. “Can you send me a list of everything we need for training? Equipment, supplies, room dimensions. Everything.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I must’ve looked skeptical because a small smile quirked at the corner of his lips.
“It’ll be a surprise. The paps will continue to be an issue because they know where I’ll be every other day. We have to throw them off our scent. Trust me,” he repeated. “I know what I’m doing.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
I also didn’t make a habit of trusting anyone outside my family and Carina, but in that moment, it was hard to remember why I should keep Asher at arm’s length.
He wasn’t my brother’s nemesis or my trainee—he was the person who’d carried me up three flights of stairs, stayed with me until I regained consciousness, and didn’t make me feel like an object of pity when I told him about my accident.
And that’s exactly why he’s dangerous.
CHAPTER 8ASHER
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.
