Page 43 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

I’d hated school. I’d spent my classes daydreaming about football, which was probably why my grades had been abysmal. My teachers hadn’t known what to do with me. Most eventually gave up, and some had outright laughed when I said I’d be the next Beckham or Armstrong.

I’d proved them wrong, but a small part of me had held on to their words. Their dismissals had etched deep into my psyche, fueling me with spite but also agonizing me with fears that they’d been telling the truth.

That I was where I was merely because I’d gotten lucky, and that the luck could be snatched from me at any second.

“Maybe I’d be a race car driver,” I said as an afterthought. “Or another sport.”

It was a lie. Therewasno other sport. There was only football. However, that was too sad to admit, so I made something up.

“Barring that, I’d go off the rails with something wild, like a dog surfing instructor or professional cuddler or something.”

“Professional cuddler is not a thing.”

“It most definitely is. Google it.” I waved my phone in the air. “Not to brag, but I’m great at cuddling. I can demonstrate.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, but a small smile peeked through. “No, thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”

We lapsed into a comfortable silence. It seemed Scarlett wanted to stay as much as I did, despite the yawns she tried to hide.

Guilt pressed on my shoulders. I shouldn’t have pushed her to play earlier. I’d read that intense exercise could aggravate chronic pain symptoms, but the weather had been so beautiful, and I hadn’t been thinking. I’d enjoyed seeing her let loose too much, and she moved with a dancer’s grace that was apparent even to an untrained eye.

“Would you want to dance again?” I asked. “If you had the opportunity.”

Scarlett stilled for a second before she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” she said, her face devoid of emotion. “Ican’t. I’ve had surgeries, physical therapy, you name it. I’m much better now, but I lost a lot of mobility and flexibility because of my hip injuries. I’ll never perform at the level I used to.”

“But you miss dancing,” I said gently.

There was a long pause before she answered. “Yeah.” The word contained a world of wistfulness. “I do.”

An answering ball of emotion knotted in my chest. I couldn’t imagine waking up one day and losing the ability to play football. The end of her career was all the more devastating because it’d been so unexpected. I’d looked up the accident after she told me about it. She’d been on her way to a performance when the other car hit them.

The universe could be fucking cruel, and I hated seeing the sadness in her eyes.

“Not all dances have to be at the Royal Opera House or Westbury.” I thought I saw her flinch at the mention of Westbury, but I might’ve imagined it. “Can you do it for fun instead? Maybe there are roles that are less physically taxing.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.” Scarlett’s curt response suggested she wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible.

I didn’t want to push her too far, nor did I want to judge, but I couldn’t stop a jolt of shock at the fact that she hadn’t tried to dance since her accident.

I would’ve understood if she’d left that world behind, but she was still teaching ballet and she said herself that she missed it.

“The RAB staff showcase seems like a good opportunity to try.” I broached the subject with caution. “Low stakes, familiar audience.”

“No.”

One word. That was all it took for the gates to slam down.

Scarlett’s face closed, her eyes shuttering and her mouth flattening into a stubborn line. The openness that had brightened our conversation earlier dimmed, leaving an awkward tension in its wake.

Her reasons for not participating were none of my business (even though I hadn’t bought the “I’m too busy” excuse she gave me when I’d first asked her about it. Everyone at RAB was busy). The aftermath of her accident was a rightfully sensitive subject; if I were in her shoes, I’d be livid at me for prying.

Nevertheless, the longing in her eyes when I’d mentioned dancing again had imprinted itself on my consciousness, and I couldn’t let it go.

I’m perfectly happy locking my fears in the closet and pretending they don’t exist.

“What are you afraid of, Scarlett?” The question slipped out, quiet yet filled with certainty.

Her physical limitations weren’t her biggest obstacles; her fears were.

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