Page 168 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“I’m sorry,” Carina said. She must’ve come to the same conclusions I had. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“No. It’s…” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “No. We’ll deal with it. It’ll be fine. Thank you.”

It’s not fine.I batted away the voice that told me our secret, the secret Scarlett and I had worked so hard to keep for so long, would soon be out of the bag in the most public way possible.

One thing at a time.

The news hadn’t brokenyet. Until then, I needed to call Sloane—a quick scan of my messages revealed she’d already seen the video—then call Coach, then find the doctor and figure out a way to make Scarlett’s recovery more comfortable.

I didn’t know how long she needed to stay at the hospital, but she bloody sure wasn’t staying in that small, sad room for longer than a night.

I made my calls in a quiet corner near Scarlett’s room. Sloane was, as expected, on top of the impending relationship leak. She wasn’t thrilled about the timing or the circumstances, but I think she was just glad I wasn’t making headlines for racing anymore.

My call to Coach went to voicemail. I wasn’t surprised since warm-ups for the match had already started, but I needed to apologize to him in my own words, so I left a short message. He could be livid with me in person later.

Finally, I spoke with the doctor, who said Scarlett could be discharged as soon as tomorrow if her condition remained steady.

That was a relief, but I was already worrying about next week’s rehearsal. And the week after that. And the week afterthat. Would Lavinia let her remain the lead if she found out about the hospitalization? With Yvette gone, she didn’t have other options for the Lorena role, but I couldn’t see the stern, rule-abiding director letting what happened today slide. She wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but she cared about her staff’s well-being.

My head pounded with a million worries stacked on top of each other.

While Scarlett slept, I kept an eye on both the news and the match. Thankfully, we were up by one, but I was more focused on the brief close-ups of Vincent’s face than the actual gameplay.

I tried to read his expressions and figure out if he knew about Scarlett yet. The video of me at the hospital had been uploaded when the players were already on the pitch, so I doubted he was aware of that. But had he turned on his phone or spoken with Coach before the match?

It was impossible to tell since Vincent always looked like a moody son of a bitch during a match.

Coach, on the other hand, was visibly angry. If he clenched his jaw any harder during the few camera shots of him, he’d shatter a molar. Gallagher, my sub, was doing a damn good job, but it didn’t matter.

There’d be hell to pay for my last-minute decision to skip the match later. It was technically a personal emergency, but since no one was dead or dying, I doubted he’d sympathize much.

“Asher, go get something to eat,” Brooklyn said. “Scarlett’s still asleep. She’s not going to, I don’t know, roll over and fall onto the floor.”

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Carina added.

I nearly protested, but we were all tired and hungry and cranky after hours in the hospital. I didn’t want to get into an argument with Scarlett’s friends, but I would also rather chew off my hand than eat the cafeteria food.

Instead, I ducked into the loo and bought a pack of pretzels and water on my way back. I ate them next to the vending machine, grateful for the energy boost.

When I returned to the hall outside Scarlett’s room, only Brooklyn was there. She jumped up when she saw me.

“Any new developments while I was gone?” I asked.

I didn’t expect her to say yes, but a nervous expression crossed her face at my question.

“Well, Carina’s in the bathroom, and Scarlett’s awake again.”

“Already?” She’d looked so exhausted when I talked to her that I expected her to sleep through the night. Did something happen? Was she in so much pain she couldn’t sleep?

“Yes. But, um, you might not want to go in there,” Brooklyn said when I moved toward the door.

It was too late. I’d already cracked it open.

“Why…” My words died in my throat.

Because Scarlett wasn’t alone. Standing beside her bed, his back to me, was Vincent. I’d recognize that buzz cut and number four kit anywhere. He must’ve come straight from the match.

He turned, his face darkening when he saw me.

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