Page 128 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

I wasn’t sure who he was talking to since he wasn’t aware I knew about Scarlett and Rafael, but I replied with the obvious anyway.

“He’s the sub.”

“No shit. I meant what he’s doinghere, at the match.”

They were the first words we’d exchanged all day. We’d greeted each other with stiff nods in the locker room, and I suppose I had to thank him later for agreeing to play at the last minute. However, I preferred to live in denial about that for as long as possible.

Was it mature? No.

Did I care? Also no.

I didn’t have an answer for why Rafael was in London when he lived in Brazil and played in Spain, but one of the other Reds piped up with an explanation.

“I heard he’s thinking of transferring back to the Premier League. Maybe he heard about the match and wanted to participate,” he said.

A low growl rumbled through my chest.

I’d never been a big fan of Rafael, but after Scarlett told me about the shitty, cowardly way he broke up with her, I despised that man with every fucking fiber of my being.

Judging by Vincent’s scowl, he felt the same way. He regarded the Brazilian forward with more loathing than he’d ever directed toward me.

The match resumed, cutting our conversation short, but a new tension suffocated the pitch. The first half had been for fun; this half was for vengeance.

I didn’t want to win against the Greens. I wanted tocrushthem.

Unfortunately, despite his assholishness in his personal life, Rafael was a good player, and he managed to score with a header ten minutes into the half.

Frustration poured through my blood.

Rafael and I matched each other step for step for possession of the ball. I triumphed after I successfully kicked the ball away from him and caught it before another player could swoop in, but I barely had time to gloat before he fell to the ground, clutching his knee.

The ref blew his whistle, and the match paused. Boos rose from crowd.

“He tripped me,” Rafael said when the ref came over to investigate. He gestured toward me, his eyes gleaming with…were thosetears?

Jesus Christ. He should quit football and go into acting.

“That’s bollocks. I didn’t touch him!” I fumed.

Vincent came up beside us. “Ref, you saw that play! We all did,” he argued. He pointed at Rafael. “He always pulls this crap. Like Donovan said, he didn’t touch him.”

Either he wanted to win enough to swallow his distaste and defend me, or he simply hated Rafael more than he hated me. Or both.

I cut a glance in his direction.

It was ironic Vincent was backing me up on this when he’d done the same thing as Rafael during the World Cup. In fact, what he did had been a million timesworse. The difference between getting red carded in the World Cup and giving the opposing team a penalty kick during a charity match was the difference between Mount Everest and a molehill.

However, Rafael had a history of diving, a.k.a falling to the ground and/or feigning injury in order to draw a foul. Vincent only did it once—on the biggest stage possible with the worst consequences for me imaginable, but it was still once.

Sadly, our combined efforts weren’t enough to convince the ref. He awarded the Greens another penalty kick. They’d missedtheir last one, but this time, Rafael kicked the ball firmly into the net.

The Greens were now up, three to two.

I clenched my jaw.Goddammit.

It was a charity match, but the stakes felt as high as those of a championship. Irefusedto let Rafael bloody Pessoa take home a win. The mere thought caused bile to rise in my throat.

Even if he hadn’t screwed Scarlett over, I would’ve hated him. Maybe it was my lingering bitterness from the World Cup, but I firmly believed that any player who engaged in regular diving didn’t deserve a place on the pitch.

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