A quick burst of discomfort jolted up my arm. When I looked down, my knuckles had whitened around the wheel.
I immediately loosened my grip, but an unpleasant sensation continued to slither through my veins.
The Bugatti drew plenty of stares, but as the hour wore on, the streets gradually emptied. Billboards and lights gave way to brick and concrete; the bustle of central London quieted into a residential calm.
A familiar pastel building loomed in the distance, and I almost slammed on the brakes when I realized where I was.
I had somehow, unthinkingly, unintentionally driven to Scarlett’s flat.
Way to go. That’s not creepy or anything.
I didn’t linger. I already felt like a stalker, and my car was too distinctive to escape notice should she happen to wake up and look outside her window.
Nevertheless, a small part of me wondered what would happen if I cut the engine, walked up to her flat, and knocked on the door.
Nothing will happen because you’re both smarter than that, and she is Off Limits. Capital O, capital L.
I’d reminded myself of that so often I never wanted to hear the term “off limits” again, but I’d still repeat it a thousand times until it sank in.
If Vincent and I had issues now, they were nothing compared to the war that’d break out if I got involved with Scarlett. Coach would lose his shit, and I could kiss my championship and possibly my spot on the team goodbye.
No girl was worth giving up my career for.
I tore my eyes away from her building and drove home, letting the music drown out any thoughts to the contrary.
CHAPTER 10SCARLETT
I hated to admit it, but moving our training to Asher’s house was a genius idea. The facilities were better, there was more privacy, and I didn’t have to take the hot, jam-packed tube home every day.
The armored car did ease my anxieties, and Earl was an excellent driver. By our third day together, I was comfortable enough to release my death grip on my seat.
That was also the day Asher and I experimented with outdoor drills for the first time. We trained in the open-air gym for a while before he offered to show me the grounds during our break.
I’d agreed, thinking it would be a quick walk. I was wrong.
I knew his estate was big, but I hadn’t realized how massive it truly was until we reached the southwest corner.
“You built a football pitch in your back garden?” I stared at the sea of perfectly cut grass. White lines marked the most important playing areas, and nets anchored both ends of the pitch. “That’s mad.”
“It’s not an official pitch.” Asher lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. “It’s a mini pitch.”
“A pitch is a pitch.” I kept my eyes glued to his backyard and not on the flash of chiseled abs and tanned skin.
Admittedly, calling this place a back garden was like calling Versailles a house. Besides the football pitch—sorry, mini pitch—it boasted an Olympic-size pool with a waterfall and attached Jacuzzi, heated cabanas, two clay tennis courts, a wisteria walkway, and an outdoor dining area.
I couldn’t imagine how much Asher shelled out for landscaping every year; the flowers alone must’ve cost tens of thousands of pounds.
“Fair enough. You play?” Asher grabbed a football from the ground and tossed it lazily in the air. He caught it with his toe, flipped it to one knee, and bounced it to his other knee.
“No.” I grabbed the ball, halting his impromptu show. “Show-off.”
His eyes gleamed with laughter. “Not even a little? You must’ve kicked a ball around once or twice.”
“Kicking a ball around isn’t the same as playing.”
“Let’s see.” He snatched the ball back and dribbled it onto the pitch. “First person to score a goal wins bragging rights and a pint of ice cream.”
“That’s stupid. There’s no goalkeeper!” I yelled. Unguarded football nets were so large a toddler could score if they got close enough, which meant the challenge was retaining possession of the ball and, well, getting close enough.
Asher’s laughter drifted across the pitch.
Oh, screw it. My competitive drive kicked into high gear, and I sprinted after him.
My muscles protested immediately. I’d avoided high-impact activities like running since my accident, but I gritted my teeth and focused on the satisfaction of scoring on Asher.
I caught up to him surprisingly fast. I suspected he’d held back for my sake. Even so, it was frustratingly difficult to steal the ball from him. I succeeded twice, but he stole it back almost as quickly as he lost it.
“You’re better than you let on.” He wasn’t even breathing hard, the bastard. “Come on. Put that fancy footwork of yours to the test.”
I issued a little growl that earned me another laugh. Then we were off again, and my mind blacked out everything except for the need to score.
I may have been better than I let on, but there was a reason Asher was the top-paid footballer in the world. Playing against him, even in an unserious two-person match, was like pitting David against Goliath (if David lost). Nothing could’ve prepared me for it.
I’d watched him play before, of course. There wasn’t a single person in the UK who didn’t remember his legendary halfway line goal against Liverpool or his spectacular header in the quarterfinals of the last World Cup.
Asher was incredible onscreen, but up close, in person? He was magic.
