Focus on the
Sports UK interview. What questions will they ask?
Definitely something about my first season with Blackcastle, how I felt losing to my old team, and maybe my summer training regimen.
Summer.
Training.
Scarlett.
My groan of frustration cut through the music.
Why did everything route back to her? We met a month ago, and I still couldn’t pinpoint why she had such a hold on me.
Was it because she was beautiful? I’d met plenty of beautiful women, including movie stars, supermodels, and two Miss Universes. I hadn’t given them more than a passing thought.
Because she was witty and talented? They were great qualities to have, but they weren’t enough to explain why she haunted me the way she did.
Because she was off limits and seemingly uninterested in me? I liked a challenge, but her connection to Vincent was a detractor more than anything else.
So if it wasn’t any of those things that drew me to her, what the hell was it?
My frown deepened.
I needed to decipher the source of her magic so I could negate it and refocus on what was important-my game. A summer distraction was all well and good, but I couldn’t afford a wandering mind after the next season started.
Since I transferred mid-season this year, I technically had some leeway when it came to our performance, but if I screwed up my first full season with Blackcastle, there’d be no going back. It would always be a black mark on my record.
I turned up the music and entered central London. I passed the illuminated buildings of Parliament Square and Buckingham Palace before I eventually found myself in the bowels of the West End.
I tapped my fingers against the center console.
Scarlett had gone on a date here two nights ago. I hadn’t asked for details because I didn’t care, necessarily, but what if she got so distracted with her beau that it affected her work in the studio?
The question unleashed an onslaught of new ones.
Who’d been her date? How did she meet him? Was he an athlete, accountant, or shit, I didn’t know, an aerospace engineer or something?
She won’t date a footballer again. Vincent’s declaration echoed through my head. I hadn’t figured out her ex’s identity yet, though admittedly I hadn’t dug that hard. It was best if I didn’t wade too deep into her love life.
Unfortunately, that resolution didn’t stop the questions about her mystery date.
Had Friday night been their first date, or had they been seeing each other for a while? Had they kissed? Gone back to one of their places after the show?
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.
SCARLETT
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.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.