I suppressed a laugh.
Coach was the boss on the pitch, but as my publicist, Sloane Kensington was in charge of everything related to my image (much to her chagrin). I paid her a boatload of money for dealing with me, but honestly, I was surprised she hadn’t quit yet.
Then again, Sloane and “quit” didn’t belong in the same sentence. She’d soldier through a trench of paparazzi bottom-feeders and internet trolls before she gave up.
“If you’re finished with your unamusing jokes, I’d like to remind you of your Sports UK interview on Thursday,” she said. “I’ll connect you to the reporter at noon sharp. Also, I spoke with Leon about Aoki Watches. They’re renewing your brand ambassador contract. I’ll send you details for the Japanese press tour once they’re confirmed.”
“Perfect.” Leon was my business manager, and Aoki Watches was my most lucrative brand sponsorship. “You’re worth your weight in gold.”
“Instead of gold, pay me by staying out of trouble. I mean it, Asher. I don’t want to see you near a street race unless the internet and media collectively implode and I won’t have to deal with the resulting headlines.”
“Does that mean if I comply, I won’t have to pay your monthly retainer? I just bought a new Bugatti. Cash is a little tight.” It wasn’t, but I was curious as to how she’d respond.
She hung up on me.
Well, then. There was my answer.
I didn’t have any urgent mail, so I set it aside for the moment and walked to my garage. The custom-built space was the size of an airplane hangar, and it housed all fifteen of my cars, including my favorite vintage Jaguar convertible and the Bugatti in question.
The striking all-black model was so rare, there were only three in existence. Quad-turbo 8.0-liter W16 engine, six exhaust tips, seven-speed dual-clutch transmission, custom headlights—it was a thing of beauty.
I ran a loving hand over the hood before I climbed in and switched on the ignition. The powerful growl of the engine roared to life, and an electric thrill zipped down my spine.
Besides football, driving was the only thing that truly made me feel alive. In the dead of night, when the streets were quieter and the music was blasting, I could clear my head and think.
For the next few hours, that was exactly what I did as I pulled out of the garage and took my new car out for a spin.
However, instead of vibing to the music and brainstorming strategies for the next season, my mind kept conjuring images of dark hair and gray eyes.
I shoved them aside.
They came back.
Jesus.
I rubbed a hand over my face and tried to steer my thoughts toward something, anything, other than a certain ex-ballerina.
Focus on the Sports UK interview. What questions will they ask?
Definitely something about my first season with Blackcastle, how I felt losing to my old team, and maybe my summer training regimen.
Summer.
Training.
Scarlett.
My groan of frustration cut through the music. Why did everything route back to her? We met a month ago, and I still couldn’t pinpoint why she had such a hold on me.
Was it because she was beautiful? I’d met plenty of beautiful women, including movie stars, supermodels, and two Miss Universes. I hadn’t given them more than a passing thought.
Because she was witty and talented? They were great qualities to have, but they weren’t enough to explain why she haunted me the way she did.
Because she was off limits and seemingly uninterested in me? I liked a challenge, but her connection to Vincent was a detractor more than anything else.
So if it wasn’t any of those things that drew me to her, what the hell was it?
My frown deepened.
I needed to decipher the source of her magic so I could negate it and refocus on what was important—my game. A summer distraction was all well and good, but I couldn’t afford a wandering mind after the next season started.
Since I transferred mid-season this year, I technically had some leeway when it came to our performance, but if I screwed up my first full season with Blackcastle, there’d be no going back. It would always be a black mark on my record.
I turned up the music and entered central London. I passed the illuminated buildings of Parliament Square and Buckingham Palace before I eventually found myself in the bowels of the West End.
I tapped my fingers against the center console.
Scarlett had gone on a date here two nights ago. I hadn’t asked for details because I didn’t care, necessarily, but what if she got so distracted with her beau that it affected her work in the studio?
The question unleashed an onslaught of new ones.
Who’d been her date? How did she meet him? Was he an athlete, accountant, or shit, I didn’t know, an aerospace engineer or something?
She won’t date a footballer again. Vincent’s declaration echoed through my head. I hadn’t figured out her ex’s identity yet, though admittedly I hadn’t dug that hard. It was best if I didn’t wade too deep into her love life.
Unfortunately, that resolution didn’t stop the questions about her mystery date.
Had Friday night been their first date, or had they been seeing each other for a while? Had they kissed? Gone back to one of their places after the show?
