The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: Chapter 50

That weekend, Blackcastle played Tottenham and did just fine without me. They squeaked out a miraculous goal in the last minute, but a win was a win, and as happy as I was for them—for us—I couldn’t stop something unpleasant from slithering through my veins.

It was like my absence didn’t mean anything.

Like I didn’t matter.

The dark cloud that’d followed me since the crash grew heavier, and I begged off celebrating with the team afterward. It wasn’t like I’d contributed to their victory.

Maybe if Teddy were alive or I had another best friend, I’d have an outlet to vent the sickly emotions coiling inside me. Since I didn’t, I was forced to drown in them alone.

“I can’t believe you’re pulling a Noah on us,” Adil said when I told him I was going home. Noah rarely came out with us after a match.

However, even the ever-persistent Adil didn’t push me to join their revelry. The team had been walking on eggshells around me since the crash and my breakup with Scarlett. I hadn’t confirmed it myself, but they must’ve noticed how I clammed up when she came up in conversation and grilled Vincent about it instead.

It was mortifying—I hated being the object of pity—but at least they had my back. No one gave me shit about what happened with Bocci. Many of them had been present for the race, and they’d wanted to make him eat his words as much as I had.

“Anyway, enjoy your night off. I’ll see you on Monday.” Adil slapped a hand on my shoulder. Neither of us mentioned that I didn’t have nights on anymore since Coach benched me. “Take it easy, Donovan.”

I forced a smile and nodded as the team piled into their cars for a night at the Angry Boar. Noah had gone home, and Vincent was noticeably absent. Maybe he was already at the pub. We hadn’t talked much the past few weeks, and I suspected he was avoiding me given my broken relationship with Scarlett.

It was for the best. I couldn’t look at him without thinking about her, and I couldn’t think about her without feeling like someone had jammed a sword through my gut.

I drove straight home from the stadium and cut a direct path to the kitchen. Thankfully, my security team had succeeded in scaring off the paps that used to lurk around my house, so I didn’t have to worry about them on top of everything else.

Yes, I was wallowing.

No, I didn’t give a shit.

I grabbed a glass bottle of Coke from the fridge and popped the cap off. Normally, I didn’t indulge in much alcohol or soda during the season, but since I was benched for the foreseeable future, I allowed myself a cheat drink—or two, or three.

I leaned against the counter and took a swig, my eyes sweeping dispassionately across the giant kitchen until the copper gleam of cookware caught my eye and a flood of memories assaulted me.

I thought you were an intruder.

Why would you think that?

I came downstairs for a snack and saw the light from the kitchen. I didn’t realize…

That I might’ve gotten the same idea?

My mouth curved at the recollection of Scarlett wielding a frying pan like a weapon before reality intruded and flattened it again.

That night seemed like a lifetime ago.

She might never step foot inside my house, much less my kitchen, again.

The taste of the soda staled on my tongue, but I finished the rest of the bottle and forced myself not to call her like a pathetic ex desperate for a second chance—which I was, but I had enough dignity left not to broadcast it so loudly.

I did not, however, have enough dignity to stay away entirely. I visited her favorite café every weekend, hoping for a glimpse of her, but she was never there. She’d stopped going weeks ago because of the paps, but I thought…

It doesn’t matter what you think. She doesn’t want anything to do with you until you figure your shit out.

My stomach knotted itself into a ball of frustration. I’d promised her and Coach I wouldn’t race again, but how could I prove it? It was impossible to prove a negative.

Plus, I still didn’t know what Coach meant when he said something was driving my impulsiveness. If it wasn’t my pride or hot-headedness, as he called it, what the hell was it?

My phone rang.

My heart leapt, and for a wild, hopeful moment, I thought it might be her. Then I registered the ringtone, and my heart plummeted again.

Not her.

A quick glance at the screen revealed it was my father. I promptly sent the call to voicemail.

If I was avoiding him before, I was hell-bent on not talking to him now that news of my indefinite suspension had leaked. As predicted, Blackcastle fans were in an uproar, though today’s victory had soothed their anger somewhat.

That wouldn’t matter to my father. In fact, it probably made him more angry. I was supposed to be indispensable, and if I wasn’t, then I was clearly doing something wrong.

I reached for a second bottle when the phone rang again, and I sent it to voicemail. Again. If it was an emergency, he would’ve left a message after his first call. He hadn’t, so I assumed he simply wanted to yell at me and make me feel like shit. What else was new?

Between my suspension, the car crash, and the media circus around my relationship with Scarlett, he had plenty to vent about. But I’d taken enough verbal beatings this month, and I wasn’t interested in serving as his punching bag tonight.

I took my drink into the living room.

The house felt unbearably cold and lonely these days, but it was my only feasible sanctuary. I couldn’t go out in public without risking my privacy. I couldn’t go to my parents’ house without facing, well, my parents. And I didn’t have the privilege of staying at Scarlett’s flat anymore.

Remorse swelled in my throat. I was surrounded by the best luxuries money could buy, but I would give it all up for the chance to see her again.

I care about you. I care about you so much, and that’s why I can’t be with you.

Perhaps I was delusional, but I could’ve sworn she was about to use another word before she settled on “care about.” A word with four letters that began with the letter L.

I wasn’t sure whether that would’ve made things better or worse, though I couldn’t imagine feeling worse than I did at that moment.

My phone rang again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up, but I didn’t even get the chance to speak before my father’s gruff voice filled the line.

“About time you picked up,” he snapped. “Open your gates.”

I shot up straight. “What?”

“I said, open your bloody gates.” His voice deepened into an irritated grumble. “The taxi driver is getting impatient and so am I.”

I checked my home security app, which allowed me to surveil various sections of the estate from my phone. Sure enough, a black cab idled outside the gates. I could just make out my father’s scowl through the back window.

Fuck. My pulse sputtered.

My father showing up in London unannounced wasn’t on my bingo card for the night. Since he was here, I had no choice but to let him in.

I opened the gates and waited for him by the front door. Every inch of my body, from my skin to my bones, was saturated with dread.

The cab dropped him off right in front of the door and sped off.

My father walked toward me, his cane gleaming under the house lights. It’d been months since his heart attack, but according to my mother, he got winded easily, so his doctor had suggested the regular use of a walking aid.

“Dad.” I greeted him stiffly.

“Asher.” He looked a little haggard, but his stare was as piercing as ever.

We didn’t exchange another word as I led him to the living room. Tension sprouted between us like weeds through cracks in the pavement. It tangled around our ankles, making me feel like a prisoner in my own home.

This was my father’s first time visiting my house in London. He didn’t look particularly impressed even though the mansion was about fifty times bigger and more expensive than my childhood home. In fact, he looked almost annoyed by the display of wealth.

When we reached the living room, we settled on separate sofas, as far away from each other as possible.

“Where’s Mum?” I asked, breaking the silence. He wouldn’t leave Holchester without her.

“She’s at the hotel. She wanted to come, but I told her I wanted to talk to you alone first.” He sounded deceptively calm. “I didn’t want her to be here when I asked you what the bloody hell you’re doing!”

I went rigid at the sudden but not unexpected escalation in his temper. Honestly, I was surprised it’d taken him this long to march to my house and read me the riot act.

He glared at me, flaying me alive with his anger.

I glared back, my muscles taut. I’ll admit, I’d made my fair share of mistakes this year, but I wasn’t a kid anymore. I wasn’t going to let him ambush me in my own fucking house.

“I’m not in the mood, Dad,” I said, striving for calm. “If you came to yell at me for the crash or getting suspended, you’re out of luck. I already got the talk from Coach. I don’t need it from you, too.”

His face reddened further. “You think I came all this way because you got benched? Boy, if I wanted to yell at you about that, I could’ve called you on the phone and saved myself the train and hotel money. And no, I don’t give a shit that you’ve been avoiding my calls. I would’ve found a way.” His eyes flashed. “I’m here because I want you to look me in the fucking eye and tell me why you’re sitting on your ass at home when you should be proving to those vultures out there”—he thrust a finger toward the entryway—“that you’re Asher fucking Donovan for a reason. Have you seen what they’re saying about you? Are you going to take it lying down?”

My jaw clenched.

The tabloids were relentless in their coverage. They were dragging Coach through the mud for suspending me, but they were howling at me too for putting myself in a position to be benched.

It was a lose-lose situation for everyone except fucking Bocci, who’d gotten off scot-free after the “investigation” into what happened the night of the crash yielded no actionable results.

“How?” I snapped, my temper igniting. “The tabloids are uncontrollable, and Coach benched me because he thinks something is driving my impulsiveness, whatever the hell that means. I assume he wants me to figure out why I feel compelled to race, even though I said I wouldn’t do it again. I have no desire. But how am I supposed to prove I’m not going to do something?”

“By showing him why he signed you in the first place!” My father stamped his cane against the floor. “Have I taught you nothing? When life throws you obstacles, you either obliterate them or you replace a way around them. You don’t bloody wait for the universe to haul them out of the way for you. You think those parasite paps sit around waiting for a photo to fall into their laps? I don’t fucking think so. You can’t prove you’re not going to do something, but you can bloody well do more than drown in self-pity!”

My hands fisted. He wasn’t wrong; I was drowning in self-pity. However, I couldn’t figure out how to pull myself out of the deep end without exposing myself to worse elements—like whatever was causing me to engage in the self-destructive behavior Scarlett accused me of.

But I wasn’t going to admit any of that to my father. I was wound tight from weeks of pent-up emotion, and I was spoiling for a fight.

“You should be happy,” I said. “You don’t have to watch your son play against—instead of for—Holchester anymore. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

My father’s nostrils flared. “What I wanted? You think I want a son who gets sidelined and fucking lambasted by the press because he can’t keep his emotions under control?”

“No, you want one who wins, but only if it’s for your team,” I shot back. “Tell me. Have you attended a single one of my matches since I transferred to Blackcastle? Have you ever called just to talk to me like I was your son instead of using it as an opportunity to criticize everything I did on the pitch?”

“For fuck’s sake, what do you want me to do?” he shouted. “Coddle you like you’re a fucking baby? You can’t improve if all I do is pat you on the head and say good job every time you kick the bloody ball!”

“I’m not asking you to coddle me. I’m asking you to act like my father and not my bloody coach!” The emotions exploded past the dam I’d spent years constructing and poured through my mouth, flooding the room with a lifetime’s worth of resentment. It wasn’t just the past month, and it wasn’t just my father.

It was everything. Scarlett, Coach, Teddy, Vincent, my critics and my fans, my triumphs and my mistakes. Sometimes, the weight of it all was so great I couldn’t breathe.

My home was supposed to be my haven, and I didn’t even have that.

“I have a coach already. I don’t need a second one,” I said, unable to keep the furious tremor out of my voice. “What I need is a family, and you took that from me!”

My father and I glared at each other, our chests heaving from the force of our anger.

We’d tiptoed around this conversation our entire lives. Our argument in the hospital had revealed a slice of it, but this? This had been decades in the making.

“You think I took your idea of a family from you?” my father spit out. “I’m not trying to be your fucking coach! I’m trying to make you into what you’ve always wanted to be: the greatest footballer in the world. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t push you to your full potential?”

“One who cares about his son more than his team.” We’d circled back to square one, but we’d never really left. “If you were trying to help me achieve my goals, you would’ve kept the same energy after I transferred to Blackcastle. But you didn’t, did you? You could only focus on how I betrayed you and Holchester by switching teams. You couldn’t even congratulate me when we won a match. Not once.”

He stared at me, his hand clenched tight around his cane.

I expected him to bluster and yell some more, but to my surprise, he seemed to deflate before my eyes. The anger drained from his face and body, making him look smaller and older than he had minutes ago.

“I’m not saying I act perfectly all the time,” he growled. “Was I upset when you transferred to Blackcastle without telling me first? Of course. Holchester wasn’t my team. It was our team. When you were a kid, they were all you talked about. We went to every match together. We strategized how to get you a spot in the club. I thought you loved them.”

In the face of his unexpected calm, my anger leaked out too, leaving a hollow cave in my gut.

“I did, but we can’t stay in the same place forever, even if we love it. We have to grow.” I swallowed. “I didn’t tell you beforehand because I was afraid you’d somehow convince me to stay before the paperwork went through. I needed to leave Holchester to become my own person. I couldn’t do that with you in my ear all the time. I couldn’t make a single move or celebrate a single win without you disparaging me. I can take criticism, but not if it’s the only thing I hear.”

My father’s mouth formed a thin slash across his face. “Your mother always said I was too harsh on you about football, and maybe I was. But I didn’t push you to win for me. I did it for you.”

“Bullshit.” We may be having a civil conversation, but I wasn’t stupid.

“Think what you want, but it’s true,” he snapped. “You need that title, son. You need the validation. You were so afraid of proving your critics right that it would’ve killed you to fail, especially after Teddy died. So I didn’t let you. And look at you now.” He nodded at the trophies and medals and expensive gadgets surrounding us. “Do you think you would’ve made it this far if I hadn’t pushed you from the start?”

I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to believe him.

I’d spent so long constructing my narrative for our relationship that to alter any piece of it would mean altering my worldview, and that was unthinkable.

But I heard the whisper of truth in his words, and even if it wasn’t the whole truth, it was more than I’d expected.

My father sighed, his face softening again. “You were inconsolable after Teddy died,” he said. I flinched. We hadn’t talked about Teddy since I was a teenager, and I preferred it that way. Some memories were better left in the past. “You blamed yourself for what happened to him. The night after his funeral, you took my car and stayed out all night. Your mother and I were frantic with worry. But you finally came home at four in the morning, smelling like ale and cigarettes. You couldn’t imagine…” His voice trailed off. “It was like you had a death wish and you were punishing yourself for surviving when he didn’t.”

My breath stuttered beneath the blow of my surprise. “I don’t remember that.”

Honestly, the days and weeks after Teddy’s death were a blur. I either blacked out or repressed them, but my father’s words dredged up a vague recollection of cheap beer and the rev of the engine as I floored it through dark, empty streets.

“I don’t suppose you would, but it’s not something a parent forgets.” My father’s jaw ticked. “We grounded you. Yelled at you. Lectured you. But I could tell the only thing that kept you going during that time was football. You were doubly determined to succeed for yourself and for Teddy. So I focused on that. I pushed everything out of the way and made it the only thing you thought about.”

An overwhelming pressure spread from the base of my skull to my temples. I couldn’t parse truth from fiction anymore, and I suspected he was making his motives sound more pure than they were.

However, he was right about one thing—Teddy’s death and the role I played in it had sent me into a dark spiral. Football saved me, but…

Something is driving those stupid, impulsive decisions of yours.

It was like you had a death wish and you were punishing yourself for surviving when he didn’t.

My heart stopped for a beat.

No. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?

“You can believe me or not. It doesn’t matter. What’s past is past,” my father said, dragging my attention back to me. “But I came here to remind you of that boy who would’ve done anything to sit where you’re sitting right now. Do you think teenage you would’ve come this far only to squander his dreams on a few stupid, bloody mistakes? He would’ve fought to play again.”

He stood, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, though Lord knows I’ve tried. But think about what I’ve said tonight. Think about what you’re tossing away if you don’t pull your head out of your ass soon.” He stumped toward the door. “I’ll see myself out. It’s late, and if I don’t get back to the hotel soon, your mother will have my hide.”

I almost let him leave without further comment, but there was one more unresolved issue hanging over us.

I stopped him just before he reached the doorway. “You never answered my question from the hospital.”

Your team or your son?

I needed to hear him say it.

My father looked back at me, his face unreadable. “The team will always be there,” he said. “But I only have one son.”

Then he left, and I was alone in the silence once again.