“I guess so.” We stopped in front of a plain wooden door toward the back of the house. “This is my childhood room. Don’t make fun of it, or you’ll hurt my feelings.”
Something inside me loosened at the hint of his usual humor. “Oh my God. Did your parents keep it the same all these years?”
Asher’s wince confirmed my suspicions.
I walked in, taking in every detail—the blue quilted duvet; the single bed pushed up against the wall beneath the window; the posters of Armstrong, Beckham, and other football greats decorating the walls.
“It’s like a museum,” I said, fascinated by the peek into Asher’s childhood.
I could almost see him sitting on his bed, watching football on the telly and dreaming of the day when he was the one on the screen.
“Yeah.” Asher looked around. “You know, I haven’t been in here in ages. I usually stay at a hotel when I’m in town, and I never had a reason to come in when I visited my parents.” A touch of nostalgia flitted through his eyes. “Ten years, and it feels like I never left.”
“It must feel surreal.”
“A bit.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to change. Feel free to look around or sit anywhere.”
I didn’t feel comfortable snooping through his room while he was gone, so I waited on the edge of his bed until he returned. He’d ditched his earlier outfit in favor of a T-shirt and jeans, and he looked mildly more relaxed as he sat next to me.
Silence descended. It was a comfortable, companionable quiet, the kind I’d gotten used to during our drive to Holchester, but something simmered beneath the surface, waiting to break free.
“Do you remember the day of the storm?” Asher asked. “You asked why I transferred to Blackcastle. You said it couldn’t have been only the money.”
“Of course.” I couldn’t forget anything about that day if I tried. It was, in many ways, the day that’d led us to where we were now.
“You were right. I mean, the money was a factor, as was working with Armstrong. But the real reason was I…” He swallowed. “I needed to escape my father.”
I fought a knee-jerk response and waited for him to continue at his own pace.
“I couldn’t stay in the same city as him anymore,” he said. “He’d pushed me to excel at the game my entire life, and I am grateful for it. It played a huge part in getting me to where I am now, but the further I got in my career, the more I felt like I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it for him. Football is my life, but I was slowly losing my love for it. It terrified me. And as much as I liked my team at Holchester, I felt like I was trapped in this bubble where I couldn’t breathe.”
The sound of a car passing outside muffled his last word, but there was no mistaking the bleakness in his expression.
“When Frank Armstrong joined as Blackcastle’s manager, I used it as an excuse to transfer,” Asher said. “Still, it took me months to put in the request. If my dad wasn’t so fanatic about Holchester, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But when it comes to football, he’s not my father. He’s a second coach, and it was too much.”
A humorless smile touched his mouth. “Before you say anything, I know what it sounds like. Rich footballer complaining about his father being too hard on him. Boo-fucking-hoo. Let me wipe my tears with my money.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” I shook my head. “Just because you’re privileged in one way doesn’t mean you can’t struggle in other ways.”
Yes, he was more fortunate than the majority of people in the world, but I saw where he was coming from. I’d tasted it as a dancer, but I’d never dealt with the level of scrutiny he faced every day.
The public only saw the money and glamour; they didn’t see the pressures, politics, and power plays behind the scenes. They didn’t see the toll those things took on someone’s mental health. Rich or not, famous or not, we were all human.
“You said it took you months to put in the request. What made you bite the bullet?” I asked.
“It was the match against Chelsea last year.” Asher’s mouth flattened. “I scored three out of the four goals. We won. It should’ve been a great night, but afterward, all my father talked about was the corner I ‘screwed up’ and the free kick I missed. I should’ve been celebrating. Instead, I just wanted to scream.”
A raw ache took root in my chest.
If his father wasn’t recovering from a heart attack right now, I’d storm over and give him a piece of my mind.
“It wasn’t anything I hadn’t experienced before, but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak,” Asher said. “The whole country, maybe even the whole world, has certain expectations of Asher Donovan—how I should play, who I should date, where I should fucking holiday. I can deal with that. It’s what I signed up for. But I’d like a place, just one, where I don’t have to be on guard. I thought family would be that place. But it isn’t.”
The ache intensified. It slid behind my rib cage and wound around my heart, squeezing and squeezing until it was hard to breathe.
My parents had encouraged me and Vincent to pursue our talents from a young age. They were competitive, so they constantly tried to outdo each other when I was growing up—our mother with my ballet lessons, our father with Vincent’s football matches. We were the proxies in their long-distance cold war.
But at the end of the day, when I took off my pointe shoes and Vincent hung up his football boots, we were their children again. Asher didn’t have that.
“If it makes you feel better,” I said. “I prefer Asher to Asher Donovan.”
The former was a person; the latter was a brand. I was indifferent about the brand, but I liked the person. A lot. More than I should.
He didn’t respond, but his throat flexed with a visible swallow.
“You can’t control what the world thinks of you,” I said gently. “But you can control your actions, and I understand why you transferred. If I were in your shoes, I’d have done the same.”
“Yeah?” His knee brushed mine when he finally shifted to face me. “I thought you liked structure.”
“I do but only on my terms. I’m a hypocrite that way.”
Asher’s laugh scattered the cloud of melancholy, bringing a small sparkle back to his eyes and a smile to my lips. “Self-aware hypocrites are the best kind.”
“Exactly. Also, anyone who gives you shit for transferring wasn’t a real fan in the first place, so screw them. You don’t need that negativity in your life.”
His second laugh was richer and deeper than the first. “If you ever want to switch professions, you should think about being a therapist. You’d be great at it.”
“No, thanks. I have enough neuroses of my own without dealing with other people’s. That being said, I occasionally dole out advice when I’m feeling generous.”
