I didn’t say it, but Asher must’ve heard it somehow anyway.
The tension that’d crawled into his shoulders when I said I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship relaxed. “Fair enough. So it’ll be an exclusive nonrelationship with dates. And sex. And many shared memes.”
A soft puff of laughter escaped my lips. “Yes.”
It was basically a real relationship in everything but name, but that was enough for now. I’d never dated someone with Asher’s public profile before. I needed to know what I was getting myself into before I inadvertently got burned again.
However, I was glad it was exclusive. The thought of Asher with someone else made me squirm with jealousy.
“I can’t control the paps,” he said, bringing the conversation back to one of our main issues. “But Sloane has her ways of keeping them in line. They’re more scared of her than they are of most publicists.”
True. A sliver of hope entered my heart.
“And people make it work,” I added optimistically. “There are lots of celebrities with non-famous partners, and they’re not in the news every day.”
“Exactly. After the initial spike, interest will wane, especially if we don’t give them anything to write about.”
We.
That one word alleviated my worries more than anything else he could’ve said.
We meant we were in this together.
I wasn’t alone.
Warmth rushed to fill one of the tiny, fear-hollowed crevices in my chest.
“That being said, you’ll never have full anonymity again.” Asher’s tone gentled. “Like you said, there are always people watching. It can be a reporter. It can be a fan. It can be a random passerby. The average person usually has enough decency not to invade our privacy, but you never know for sure. There’ll be comments on online forums, social media posts, tips to the tabloids. People might make up rumors, and others will believe them even if they’re blatantly false. Old friends and acquaintances will come out of the woodwork with stories, real or fake, for their fifteen minutes of fame. These are all possibilities.”
The warmth dissipated, and my dinner hardened into cement sludge in my stomach. “It’s like you’re trying to scare me away,” I quipped, but anxiety pitched my voice higher than normal.
I’d been in the spotlight as a prima ballerina, but that was different. I was recognized mostly by my peers and ballet enthusiasts. The general population wouldn’t recognize a dancer on the street even if she was the most famous ballerina in the world.
Footballers, on the other hand? They were mainstream, especially in the UK. Especially when they played for a top club like Blackcastle. And especially when their name was Asher Donovan.
He’d never dated anyone for more than a few weeks at a time. The sheer novelty of our relationship (if we lasted longer than that) would drive incredible amounts of interest.
It would die down eventually, but I had to make it through the storm first.
“I’m not trying to scare you, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t warn you.” Asher watched me carefully, like he was afraid I’d run off and never look back.
“I know. I appreciate the warning.” I inhaled a deep breath. The idea of being perceived so publicly terrified me, but I couldn’t let my fears hold me back from what I wanted anymore. “We’ll figure out the pap situation. However, there’s a bigger issue. My brother.”
Asher’s entire face shuttered.
“You two have to sort out your issues for the sake of the team and your careers,” I said. “Do you remember why we started training together in the first place? The Boss will be livid if your animosity carries over into the next season.”
“The Boss?”
“Your coach. Armstrong. Vincent and I call him the Boss because, well, he’s the boss. I guess it’s not very original.” I drew my bottom lip between my teeth. “Why do you hate each other so much anyway? It has to be more than the sponsorships or the title of greatest footballer.”
If I knew why, then maybe I could help them mend their relationship. I didn’t want my brother and exclusive non-boyfriend to hate each other.
“I don’t hate him,” Asher said. “I just can’t stand him.”
“Same thing.”
“Perhaps.” He leaned back, his face angled away from the rest of the diners. Luckily, the din was loud enough to muffle our conversation from potential eavesdroppers. “This career is weird. So much of it is played out in the public eye, and we’re constantly pitted against each other on and off the pitch. Competitiveness is in our blood. So yes, part of our rivalry stems from the eternal battle over who’s the better footballer. I can overlook that. It’s par for the course.” His eyes darkened. “Then the World Cup happened.”
Concrete blocks settled at the pit of my stomach.
That damn World Cup. I should’ve known. The answer was so obvious, but it’d happened years ago. I hadn’t realized how long of a shadow it cast.
Even though Vincent had been born in London, he moved to Paris and became a French citizen when he was six, after our parents’ divorce. As a result, he played for France in international tournaments.
During the last World Cup, England and France had been tied during the semifinals. A quarter of the way into the match, Vincent and Asher got into an altercation that resulted in Vincent feigning an injury and Asher getting red carded.
The loss of their star striker turned the tide against England, who’d been favored to win the cup. Instead, they lost two to four while France went on to take the tournament.
The ref got raked over the coals for his call, but it didn’t matter. Side-by-side images of a triumphant Vincent hoisting the trophy and a devastated Asher walking off the pitch had dominated the news for weeks afterward.
“He faked his damn injury, and the ref didn’t see it.” A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw. “If it weren’t for him, I’d probably have a World Cup.”
I winced, unsure how to respond.
For footballers, the World Cup was the holy grail. Vincent had celebrated for months after France’s victory. He got a lot of hate from England fans after the tournament, but as Blackcastle’s captain and top defender, he also had a sizable fanbase that shielded him from the worst of the criticism. Eventually, people got over it and moved on.
Asher didn’t.
“There’ll be another World Cup,” I said softly. “That wasn’t your last chance.”
“I only have so many chances.” Asher’s eyes flickered in the dim lighting. “It takes place every four years, and a lot can change in that time. I have maybe two more tournaments left in me, and that’s not accounting for any injuries or accidents that might take me out early.”
There was nothing I could say to that because it was true. Most players will never win the World Cup. It didn’t matter how good an individual was; it was a team effort.
However, while this explained why Asher disliked Vincent, it didn’t explain why Vincent disliked Asher so much beyond basic rivalry.
“Long story short, your brother’s a dick,” Asher said. “That being said, I’m not the one you have to worry about if and when he finds out about us. You know him better than I do. How do you think he’ll react?”
“Um…” I gulped at scenarios playing out in my mind. None of them were ideal, to say the least. “Not well.
But he’ll listen to reason.”
I think. “He cares about his career as much as you do.”
Fingers crossed he cares about it more than he dislikes you.
“He’ll be angry at first, but he’ll get over it.”
I hope.
Asher didn’t look convinced. “He warned me away from you during one of our training sessions.””What?”
“You were in the toilet.” The corner of his mouth tugged up at my indignation. “He said you were off limits but I wouldn’t have a shot anyway because you’d never date another footballer.”
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.