The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: Chapter 43

It turned out hospitals frowned upon fistfights breaking out on their premises, especially when one of their patients tried to hobble out of bed and stop it.

I wasn’t stupid enough to try and throw myself into the middle of Vincent and Asher’s fight, but I needed to do something. God knew I didn’t have the strength to yell like I normally would.

Unfortunately, I also didn’t have the strength to sit up straight, much less walk anywhere. My head made it about four inches above my pillow before sheer fatigue dragged it back down.

“Stop.” The word scraped up my throat. “Stop.”

Neither of them heard me over their grunts, curses, and the sound of fists striking flesh.

Once Vincent threw the first punch, all bets were off. Asher had retaliated, and now the two of them were grappling five feet from me like Neanderthals without impulse control.

A migraine blossomed at the base of my skull.

Rest and medical attention had soothed the worst of my pain, but I still hurt all over, and my head throbbed where I’d hit it against the corner of my coffee table. Thankfully, the angle at which I fell meant I’d only suffered a flesh wound and mild concussion; it could’ve been much worse, all things considered.

However, seeing two of the people I cared about most beat each other up in my hospital room was not conducive to a speedy recovery.

“You bastard!” Vincent swung at Asher again. “You lied to me!”

“We were going to tell you.” Asher ducked the hit. “This is why we didn’t!”

“You—”

The door swung open again, cutting off Vincent’s response. The doctor rushed in, followed by Carina, Brooklyn, and one of the nurses.

Screams, shouts, and swear words flew through the air with abandon.

I wanted to scream with them. I wanted to stand, yell, do anything except be an observer of my own life, but I couldn’t summon the strength.

The migraine spread to my eyes, my temples, my jaw. Everywhere.

“Enough!” My doctor finally wrestled the situation under control. Her eyes flashed with fury. “Everyone, out.”

“But—”

“You can’t⁠—”

“She doesn’t⁠—”

“I don’t want to hear it! I have a patient resting in here”—she pointed at me—“and you are in here fist fighting? You should be glad I don’t call security. Now get out!” For such a kind-looking old lady, Dr. Ambani had one hell of a set of pipes.

It was as if a fog had cleared, and they realized I was in the room for the first time since Asher opened the door.

Vincent and Asher swung toward me with stricken expressions. Guilt etched horrified lines across their faces, but the doctor didn’t give them an opportunity to apologize.

She jabbed her finger toward the door, and they shuffled out, their heads hanging in shame.

I tried to say something before they left, but the words didn’t make it past my lips.

I’d sapped the remainder of my energy talking to Asher and then Vincent when they first arrived. It was a miracle I could keep my eyes open.

Dr. Ambani and the nurse bustled to my side. There was poking and prodding and low murmurs exchanged between them, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

A host of sentiments crowded my throat.

I wanted to tell Asher how touched I was that he’d skipped the match for me and that everything would be okay. Our secret was out, which meant the worst had passed.

I wanted to apologize to Vincent for keeping our relationship from him and reassure him that he didn’t have to worry about me. That this wasn’t a Rafael 2.0 situation and that I was happier with Asher than I’d ever been.

I wanted to remind them not to let today ruin their fragile truce because they were so much better as friends than as enemies.

I wanted to say a lot of things, but they would have to wait.

My grasp on consciousness slipped. Steel anchors dragged my eyelids closed, and darkness descended, shutting out the rest of the world.

ASHER

I let Vincent have the first punch, but after that, the gloves were off. I felt guilty about lying to him, but I didn’t feel guilty enough about it to serve as his docile punching bag.

By the time the doctor kicked us out of the room, we were both worse for wear. A cut on my lip dripped blood into my mouth, and a dark bruise mottled his jaw.

I was ashamed of fighting with him when Scarlett was lying right there, but when Vincent swung at me, my fight or flight had kicked in and blacked out everything except self-defense.

Dr. Ambani and the nurse stayed in the room while we glared at each other in the hall.

It was either a slow day or the hospital staff had been warned not to linger near us because the corridor was empty save for two nurses at the far end. There was no one around to eavesdrop or record us except Carina and Brooklyn, who appeared shell-shocked by the rapid escalation in events.

Vincent’s fists clenched and unclenched. “How long has this been going on?”

By this, I assumed he meant my relationship with Scarlett.

The truth was already out. I might as well tell him the whole truth. “Since July.”

“July?” I swore I saw steam billowing from his ears in clouds of unchecked anger. “You’ve been sneaking around together behind my back for almost three months?”

“Like I said, we didn’t tell you because we knew you would react like this.” Frustration snapped its teeth, lending my words more bite than I’d intended. I should give Vincent more grace considering he had to deal with the double whammy bombshell of our relationship and his sister’s hospitalization, but I was too stressed and worn-out to give a damn. “For the record, we didn’t want to date or keep it a secret from you after you returned to London. It sort of just…happened.”

It was a lame excuse, but this wasn’t the time nor place to explain the intricacies of the past three months.

Vincent didn’t appear to be listening anyway. His attention had dropped to my trainers (I never wore my cleats to the stadium before a match). Disbelief bloomed across his face. “Were you the guy in my sister’s shower when I dropped by her flat over the summer?”

Fuck.

“Technically,” I said with great caution. “I was in the bath.”

“Christ!” A resulting string of French swear words echoed in the sterile hallway. “She told me it was someone from RAB!”

I cleared my throat. “Also technically, I was someone from RAB. At least for the summer.”

Vincent’s eye twitched. He looked like he wanted to swing at me again, but a sharp voice interjected.

“Stop it!” Brooklyn stepped between us. She and Carina had been observing so quietly from the sidelines I almost forgot they were there. “Look at you two. Grown men acting like children in a hospital, of all places. Are you not ashamed?”

Crimson streaked across the tops of Vincent’s cheekbones. “Don’t⁠—”

“Don’t what? Call you out on your bullshit?” She crossed her arms, her face the picture of stubbornness. He was at least a foot taller than her, but she appeared to tower over him even as she glared up at him. “Your sister is lying in there”—she pointed at the closed door to Scarlett’s room—“trying to rest, and one of the first things you do when you arrive is start a fucking brawl in her hospital room. She’s stressed enough. She doesn’t need her brother and her boyfriend making things worse. And you.”

Brooklyn whirled around to jab a finger at me. “You should’ve known better than to indulge Vincent’s bullshit. There’s a difference between self-defense and actively engaging in a fistfight. No wonder my dad gets so grumpy when either of you comes up in conversation. I’m surprised you haven’t driven him into an early grave yet considering he has to deal with your selfish, childish antics every day!”

You could’ve heard a pin drop in the silence.

We gaped at her, too stunned about getting dressed down by someone half our size to respond immediately. Behind her, Carina smirked, looking like she was enjoying our discomfort a little too much.

But Brooklyn wasn’t wrong. We were acting selfish and childish. The doctor had pretty much said the same thing, but the way Brooklyn laid it out struck home.

We were so caught up in our pride and our need to win this stupid argument that we hadn’t considered how our actions would affect Scarlett.

A fresh wave of guilt doused the testosterone in the hall, leaving me cold and shame faced. Across from me, Vincent shoved his hands into his pockets, his face red.

If I really wanted to get technical, I was the one at fault for convincing Scarlett to delay telling Vincent about us. His anger was understandable, but when he came at me, my knee-jerk instinct had been to go on offense.

“We are going to stay here and keep an eye on Scarlett.” Brooklyn gestured to herself and Carina. “You two talk it out somewhere else. I don’t want your negative vibes poisoning this area.”

“Yeah?” Vincent’s eyes narrowed. He obviously didn’t appreciate getting bossed around. “How are you going to make us leave?”

Her smile dripped with sugar. “Stay and replace out.”

They stood toe to toe, their expressions stamped with defiance. The air sparked with challenge, but after a tense, drawn-out stare down, Vincent jerked his gaze away from her and stormed down the hall. He didn’t say a word as he left.

“That’s what I thought.” Brooklyn arched an eyebrow at me. “Your turn, lover boy.”

I didn’t argue—I owed her for telling me about Scarlett’s hospitalization and for slapping some sense into us, figuratively speaking.

I headed down the hall after Vincent, and we walked in silence until we reached a quiet alcove next to the vending machines. The bulky black boxes blocked us from view of the main hall and afforded us a small degree of privacy.

We leaned side by side against the wall, our bodies vibrating with lingering resentment.

“I can’t believe you’re dating my sister.” Vincent stared straight ahead, his jaw grinding. “I knew you would try to pull that shit while I was gone. I was a fool to think otherwise. I never should’ve left her alone with you.”

“You think I wanted this to happen when I first found out who she was? She’s a DuBois. I thought you all sucked.”

Vincent snorted.

“I told you, none of this was planned,” I said. “It just happened.”

“Right. You just happened to fall into bed with my sister.” He turned to face me, his cheekbones taut with suspicion. “Did you do it to get back at me? So you could rub your relationship in my face?”

My temper ignited again. “First, we didn’t just fall into bed. Second, not everything is about you,” I snapped. “If I wanted to rub it in your face, I would’ve told you the second you were back in London. Hell, I would’ve sent a carrier pigeon to break the news to you while you were gone. That would make sense. Trying to hide it from you doesn’t. Of course, I can’t blame you for not connecting those dots considering your brain is the size of a peanut and your common sense is floating at the bottom of the Seine somewhere.”

Vincent’s nostrils flared. “Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!” I was so tired of his shit. I felt bad about fighting with him in front of Scarlett, but she wasn’t here right now. “You might think the world revolves around you, but Scarlett is her own person. She confides in you because she respects you—God knows why—and she cares about you, not because she has to. And I think you’re doing her a great bloody disservice to insinuate I’m only interested in her because she’s your sister and not because she’s incredible on her own. She’s smart, beautiful, talented, funny…believe me when I say her relation to you is her biggest con.” I paused. “That and her cooking.”

Vincent stared at me, at a loss for words.

Several beats passed before he finally responded. “She is a shit cook,” he muttered. “That’s why we always order takeaway when we eat together.”

I allowed myself a tiny scoff as we lapsed into another brooding silence.

My pulse pounded from the force of my rant, but now that I’d gotten it off my chest, I could think more clearly. Our arguments were great for blowing off steam, but they weren’t getting us anywhere because they didn’t address the root of the issue.

“Look,” I said. “I know I’m not your first choice when it comes to boyfriends for Scarlett⁠—”

“You’re not my second, third, or fourth choice either.”

I ignored his petulant grumble and continued. “But I care about her more than anyone else in the world, and I don’t want you to blame her for any of this. She hated lying to you, but she was so worried about your career that she didn’t want to just drop the news on you.”

Vincent’s brows drew together. “What the hell does your relationship have to do with my career?”

“She was worried that if you found out, it would make things worse between us and affect our game. She knows what Coach said about benching us if we couldn’t work together. She didn’t want to add to the problem.”

He huffed out a long breath. “Right.”

The initial thoughtless, instinct-driven flames of our wrath had died down, leaving us drained. Brooklyn had basically sent us to time-out, but we’d needed it.

“I don’t doubt you care about her,” Vincent said. “The fact you skipped a match against Holchester to be with her proves that. But this isn’t about your feelings toward her. It’s about honesty. You both lied to me.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “When we were at the Angry Boar after the charity match, you let me go on and on about how I appreciate you not hitting on her, and you didn’t say a fucking thing.”

“I know.” Guilt seeped through me. “I’m sorry.”

It was my first time apologizing to Vincent. It was easier than I thought it would be because I meant it. If I were in his shoes, I’d be upset too.

“We were going to tell you the week you returned to London,” I said. “But you and I were starting to get along, and after your speech at the Angry Boar, I was even more worried that you wouldn’t…handle the news well. I was the one who convinced Scarlett to postpone our talk. I didn’t want to ruin our truce so close to the start of the season.”

Looking back, we could’ve handled the situation better. Communicated better. But these things were clearer in hindsight, and it was hard to make the right decision in the moment.

“You should’ve just told me,” Vincent growled. “I’m the captain of our team. I care about the season and about winning as much as you do, if not more. I would’ve handled it better if you told me to my face like a man instead of letting me figure it out myself while my sister’s in the fucking hospital.”

“I should’ve,” I admitted. “But it’s too late for that now.”

He let out another snort. “You think?”

More silence.

The hum of the vending machines buzzed through the air, muffling the faint voices and footsteps from the main hall.

“Did we win?” I asked after several minutes of wordlessness. “The match.” I hadn’t checked the final score before he showed up.

Vincent shook his head. “Draw. Two-two.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

We exhaled our frustrations with twin sighs.

“Coach is absolutely furious with you, by the way.” Vincent sounded far too happy about that. “He’s going to flay you alive the next time he sees you.”

I grimaced. I foresaw a lot of punishing runs in my future, but I didn’t care. Much.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll survive.”

“You always do.” A trace of bitterness ran beneath Vincent’s voice and reminded me of his reasons for not liking me. “You’re like Teflon.”

“Trust me.” I flashed back to the thousands of awful messages I received after I announced my transfer to Blackcastle. “I’m not as invincible as you think.”

“Maybe not, but let me think you are. It’s easier to hate you again that way.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “No matter what I did, I was always compared to you. We don’t even play the same position, yet there you were, always mentioned in the same breath as me when I know I couldn’t have gotten away with half the shit you did.”

“If it makes you feel better,” I said after a long pause. “You have a World Cup, and I don’t.”

Vincent barked out a short laugh. “It does, actually.”

As recently as yesterday, I wouldn’t have dreamed of joking about the World Cup. Seeing victory slip from my grasp during the last tournament would always be one of the defining moments of my life and career. I would never forget it.

But my earlier fight with Vincent allowed me to vent some of that pent-up anger, and our truce the past few weeks had softened the jagged edges of my resentment. He’d stood up for me against Bocci and Lyle, and like it or not, we were on the same team. Even if we weren’t, I’d have to interact with him regularly because of Scarlett.

All that made the World Cup incident easier to swallow. It really was time to put it behind us—but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to get my revenge the next time we played against each other.

“Don’t worry, though,” I said. “That’ll change in two years.”

The next World Cup was bearing down fast. Qualifiers for Europe started in the spring, and I could already taste the thrill. There was no way England wouldn’t make it into the tournament. Our national team was the best it’d been in over a decade.

“We’ll see about that,” Vincent scoffed, but his words lacked bite. This time, he was the one who paused before continuing. “I’m not proud of what I did. If I could go back, I would’ve done things different, but the past is the past. We can’t change it.”

I closed my eyes. Old memories resurfaced, as vivid as if they were happening right at that moment.

The shrill of the whistle. The cheers and boos of the crowd. The smell of grass and sweat, and my sheer, utter disbelief when the ref whipped out a red card.

It was the closest I’d come to punching someone on the pitch in my entire career.

Every time I trained, every time someone criticized me and I thought I couldn’t keep going, I relived that moment. I channeled my grievances and used them as fuel not only to be better, but to be the best. And it worked.

The red card had affected the trajectory of my career in many ways, and as much as I’d despised Vincent for it, not all of the consequences had been bad. It’d pushed me to where I was today.

“No, we can’t change the past,” I said. “The same way Scarlett and I can’t go back and tell you before today. But what’s done is done. There’s no use dwelling on it.”

Honestly, I was relieved our relationship was out in the open. The circumstances of the reveal weren’t great, and Vincent’s first response had been less than ideal. However, we’d needed that fight. We had too much bad blood for it to be smoothed over with words.

Vincent blew out a deep sigh. “No. I guess not.”

We didn’t say anything else. Instead, we took the moment to simply sit and acknowledge the closing of one long, rocky chapter in our shared history.

Coach, Holchester, the paps, the public’s inevitable discovery of my relationship with Scarlett and the ensuing fallout…that was the future.

The future would always be there, but today, we’d finally laid the past to rest.