The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: Chapter 2

“Now we go a little quicker. Back, side, back, side.” I walked through the studio, correcting the students’ posture and alignment. “Don’t overcross to the back. Now demi-plié…”

My leg ached, but I ignored it. It was manageable compared to true flare-ups, which could last days or weeks or months, and there were only ten minutes left until class ended. I’d deal with it then.

The studio was quiet except for the sound of my voice and the piano music keeping pace with the movements. I taught the advanced and masterclasses, and at this level the students were so focused, a nuclear bomb could go off and they wouldn’t notice.

I used to be one of those students, and as much as I loved teaching, I wished I could rewind time so I was on the other side of these lessons. Things had been so different then, and⁠—

Stop it. No more self-pity, remember?

I shook my head and refocused on the task at hand.

“Faster with the beat, Jenna. Up and stay…” I faltered when my aches intensified but quickly recovered. “Good. Open the supporting side a little more.”

I’d lived with more or less constant pain and fatigue for the past five years, so I pushed through to the end without incident.

Nevertheless, it took all my willpower not to rush my students out after class so I could get off my feet and sit in silence.

Just for a minute. Just so I could breathe.

“Excuse me, Miss DuBois?”

I glanced up. Emma stood before me, her hands fiddling first with her skirt and then the neckline of her leotard.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have some news.” Her excitement shone through her usual reserve. “Remember when I auditioned for The Nutcracker last week? They released the cast list today. I’ll be playing the Sugar Plum Fairy!”

“Oh my God.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Congratulations! Emma, that’s amazing.”

It wasn’t the most professional response, but Emma had been my student for years, and while we technically weren’t supposed to play favorites, she was secretly my favorite. She worked hard, she had a great attitude, and she wasn’t catty or competitive with her peers.

The Nutcracker was her favorite ballet. If anyone deserved its most prestigious role, it was her.

I’d been one of the audition judges, but none of us knew the final cast until the director announced it. I hadn’t checked my emails yet, so I’d missed it.

“Thank you. I still can’t believe it,” Emma said breathlessly. “It’s such a dream come true, and I couldn’t have done it without you. I’d love…I mean, if you’re not busy, I’d love for you to come to the opening night. I know it’s only May and opening night isn’t until December, and I know you usually don’t attend the school showcases, but I thought I’d ask anyway.” Rose colored her cheeks. “It’ll be at the Westbury Theatre again.”

Westbury Theatre.

The name punched a hole through my gut, and my excitement leaked out like water through a sieve.

Emma was right. I never attended school showcases because they were always held at Westbury.

I wanted to support my students, but the thought of going anywhere near the theatre caused panic to swell.

“You don’t have to,” Emma said, obviously picking up on my mood shift. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s during the holidays, so I understand⁠—”

“No, it’s not that.” I forced a smile. “I’d love to attend, but I might be out of town. I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

I hated lying to her, but it was better than saying I would rather stab myself in the leg than step foot in Westbury.

There were too many memories there. Too many ghosts of what I’d loved and lost.

“Okay.” Emma’s face regained some of its glow. “I’ll see you next class, then?”

“Of course. Congratulations again.” My smile was more genuine this time. “Sugar Plum Fairy is a huge role. You should be proud.”

I waited until the door shut and Emma was gone before I released a shaky breath and sank onto the floor.

The ache in my leg sharpened into a bright, pointed pain, as if the mere mention of Westbury had awakened the worst parts of my condition.

In, one, two, three.

Out, one, two, three.

I hated taking medication, so I breathed through the discomfort instead of reaching for the emergency packet I’d stashed in my bag.

Luckily, my symptoms had improved a lot over the years, thanks to lifestyle changes and careful stress management. It wasn’t like the months immediately following my accident, when I could barely get out of bed, but it wasn’t a walk in the park either.

I never knew when pain or fatigue would strike. I had to be on guard all the time, but I’d more or less learned to live with it. It was either adapt or wallow, and I’d done enough wallowing to last a lifetime.

My phone rang. I picked it up without checking the caller ID; there was only one person in my contacts who had that ringtone.

“Lavinia wants to see you in her office,” Carina said without preamble. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.” A pause. “I think.”

The shock was enough to take my mind off my leg for a second. “Wait. Seriously?”

Lavinia was the director of RAB and quite possibly the most intimidating person I’d ever met. I’d worked at the academy for four years, and I’d never heard of her calling an unscheduled meeting.

This can’t be good.

“Yes.” Carina’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I tried to replace out more but she’s being super hush-hush about it. She just told me to tell you to see her as soon as class is over.”

“Right.” I swallowed. “Oh God, I’m getting sacked.”

Was it because I refused to attend the school showcases? Did she think I was a bad team player? I mean, I wasn’t the best team player, but that was because people were so⁠—

“No! Of course not. If she sacks you, she’ll have to sack me too,” Carina said. “We’re a package deal, and we both know she can’t afford to lose her top instructor and her trusty assistant. I hold the keys to all her PDFs.”

A small laugh rippled across the surface of my anxiety. She always knew how to make me feel better.

I’d lost a lot of “friends” after the accident, but I’d met Carina three years ago, when she joined RAB as Lavinia’s executive assistant. We’d bonded her first day over our mutual love for trashy reality TV and jigsaw puzzles, and we’d been best friends since.

“I’m coming,” I said. “See you soon.”

I stood with a wince, but the pain gradually faded into a manageable ache again. Or maybe it was all in my head and manageable only relative to my sky-high anxiety over the surprise meeting.

Carina was on the phone when I arrived, but she mouthed good luck and flashed me a thumbs-up as I knocked on the director’s door.

“Come in.”

I stepped inside with the caution of someone approaching an aggravated rattlesnake.

Lavinia’s office was as neat and polished as the woman herself. Giant windows overlooked the academy grounds, and an artfully arranged gallery of photos dominated the wall opposite the door. They captured the famous former prima ballerina in every stage of her career, from blossoming ingenue to international star to retired legend.

Lavinia herself sat behind her desk, her hair pulled back into a bun, her glasses perched on her elegant nose as she flipped through some papers.

“Please, sit.” She gestured at the chair opposite her.

I obliged, trying to tame my rampage of nerves and failing miserably.

“We’re both busy, so I’ll cut to the chase.” Lavinia was never one for beating around the bush. “We’ve partnered with the Blackcastle football club on a special training program this summer. I want you to run point on it.”

My mouth parted. Out of everything I’d imagined she’d say, a football cross-training program ranked in the bottom five.

Granted, I’d run similar programs in the past, but they were usually for League One or Two teams, not for the freaking Premier League.

“By run point, you mean…”

“You’ll be training them. You’re one of my best instructors, and you’re familiar with football,” Lavinia said. “I trust you’ll do a good job.”

I bit back a knee-jerk rejection. I knew exactly what she meant when she said I was “familiar with football.” After all, my brother was the captain of Blackcastle.

However, as much as I loved him and the club, I did not want to train him or his teammates. Most footballers were arrogant, insufferable, and selfish.

I should know—I used to date one.

Vincent was the only exception to my anti-footballer sentiments, and that was because he was family.

“I’m honored,” I said carefully. “But I have a full schedule this summer, and I think there are instructors who would be better suited for the role. Less conflict of interest.”

Lavinia’s brows rose a fraction of an inch. “Are you saying you can’t put aside personal feelings for the sake of professionalism?”

Dammit. I’d walked straight into a trap I should’ve seen coming.

“No, of course not. I’m simply preempting problems based on other people’s potential perception.” I gave the first excuse I could think of. “I don’t want to be accused of favoritism.”

“I’ll deal with any problems that might arise.” Lavinia looked unimpressed by my explanation. “If it makes you feel better, you’ll only be training two players, not the entire club.”

I blinked, blindsided twice in the space of five minutes. That had to be a record.

I’d thought it was strange Blackcastle would require its players to stay in London for the offseason, but given their performance yesterday, I’d figured it was some sort of special exception.

The two-player development was both a relief and a concern.

“I assume my brother is one of the two players,” I said. Otherwise, Lavinia would’ve denied the conflict-of-interest issue. “Who’s the other?”

There was a short pause before she answered. “Asher Donovan.”

My stomach dropped. “Asher Donovan?” I couldn’t have contained my outburst if I’d tried. “You want me to train Vincent and Asher in private lessons for an entire summer? They’ll kill each other!”

I’d lost count of the number of times I’d had to listen to Vincent rant about Asher, and the internet was constantly debating who was the better player. I thought the comparisons were unfair considering they played different positions, but people loved to pit the two against each other.

It started years ago when an innocent online Match poll asked people to choose the best up-and-coming footballer. Asher won by one point over Vincent, which had my brother fuming. Since then, their rivalry had escalated to encompass who got paid more (Asher), who had the most brand sponsorships (Vincent), and who won the most Ballon d’Ors (Asher, though they’d received an equal number of nominations). It came to a head at the last World Cup, when Asher’s red card turned their feud into something even more bitter.

“Part of your job is to ensure they don’t kill each other.” Lavinia’s face softened a smidge. “I realize it’s unfair of me to spring this on you with so little notice, but when Frank reached out to me, we agreed to keep the arrangement under wraps for as long as possible in order to prevent leaks.” Frank was Blackcastle’s manager. “He also hadn’t committed to his decision until after yesterday’s match.”

I understood the reasoning, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. In fact, the more I thought about it, the worse my gut churned.

It was easy to figure out why Frank Armstrong was singling out my brother and Asher. Their animosity had led to plenty of issues and resulted in Blackcastle losing this year’s league. Things between them were bitter on a good day, and Frank obviously wanted them to patch things up by forcing them to train together.

That was all well and good, but unfortunately, that meant I was now caught in the middle.

Asher Donovan. Of all the people in the world, the other player had to be him. He was most women’s celebrity crush, and he might’ve been mine too had it not been for my loyalty to Vincent, my strict No Footballers rule, and his questionable reputation.

Asher was generally regarded as the world’s greatest footballer. The striker who played as impressively as he looked, the savior whose goals had brought his team back from the brink of defeat countless times. But for all his talent on the pitch, he was mired in controversy off it. The car crashes, the parties, the revolving door of women—all tabloid fodder that the public ate up like sweets at a children’s party.

I’d never met the man, but if other players had a god complex, I could only imagine how massive his was.

“Is there anything I can say to get out of this?” I asked hopefully.

Lavinia’s brows rose another half an inch.

I held back a sigh. That’s what I figured.

“Lessons start next Monday,” she said. “You’ve cross-trained footballers before, so small tweaks to your previous regimens should be sufficient. I’ve also taken a look at your summer schedule and adjusted it accordingly. Are there any more questions?”

It was a subtle dismissal.

“No,” I said. “I’ll have a final training plan ready by Monday.”

“Good.” Lavinia returned to her papers. “Thank you, Scarlett.”

Okay, that was a clear dismissal.

When I exited her office, Carina was already waiting for me with her bag in hand. It was six thirty-five, which meant it was officially after work hours.

She grimaced when she saw me. “That bad?” She could read my expressions better than anyone.

“I’ll tell you about it over drinks,” I said. “I need one. Badly.”