EPILOGUE
Sebastian
14 months later
THE SOFT OPENING OF MY RESTAURANT TOOK PLACE the following November. The trees were starting to shed their leaves, and a gust of late-fall air wafted through the door as my hand-selected group of guests arrived one by one or in groups.
“Darling, this place is gorgeous,” my mother said in French. She gave me a double air kiss and swept her gaze around the dining room. “I am so proud of you for opening the best restaurant in the city.”
“The restaurant technically isn’t open yet, Maman,” I said, amused.
“You haven’t even tasted the food.”
“Please.” She scoffed. “I’m your mother. I don’t need towait to know what I said is true. Isn’t that right, Michel?”
My father grunted. He took in his surroundings with a more critical eye, but his frown of concentration smoothed by the time his attention
returned to me.
“Papa.”
“Sebastian.” He accepted a welcome drink from the hostess and eyed a group of newcomers. They included the editor-in-chief of a major food trade magazine and Christian Harper and his wife Stella, who was a famous fashion designer in her own right. I hadn’t employed Christian’s services since he helped us take down Whitaker, but he deserved a dinner invite. I wouldn’t have this restaurant if it weren’t for him. “Good turnout.”
“I’m lucky to have a supportive network,” I said.
The past fourteen months had been some of the hardest of my life.
The food was only a fraction of what went into starting a restaurant. The rest was a nightmare of finances, permits, logistics, and arguments with
suppliers and contractors. There were days I wanted to bang my head against the wall or outright quit, but Maya and my friends had carried me through it. Xavier had been particularly helpful, given his experience opening the Vault.
Now, after thirteen months of blood, sweat, and tears, the restaurant was complete. Tonight was for friends, family, and close associates; tomorrow, it would open to the public.
Cold sweat slicked my skin. Opening a restaurant was like tearing off a piece of my soul and offering it to strangers for their consumption and judgment. They might love it, they might hate it, or they might forget all about it.
But it washere. I’d done it, and no matter how the grand opening or subsequent weeks and months went, I was damn proud of myself for not giving up.
“It looks good,” my father said after a pause. “I know pulling this off wasn’t easy. I’m… proud of you.”
I wasn’t chasing his approval anymore, but it still felt good to hear him say it. “Merci, Papa.”
My mother beamed. “See? You were both so moody for no reason.”
She patted my cheek. “We’ll let you go. I’m sure you have a lot to do. But I’ll see you and Maya for dinner next week, yes?”
“Of course.” I smiled as she dragged my father over to speak with Maya’s parents.
My mother’s emotional state had improved greatly over the past year.
She was still prone to the occasional bout of melancholy, but that was a normal expression of grief. Losing your sister wasn’t something anyone truly got over. Most importantly, she was going to therapy, and her drinking had never edged into worrisome territory.
I really had been projecting my own fears and insecurities onto her. In a way, I’d underestimated her the way my father had underestimated me. She was a lot stronger than I’d given her credit for.
I spent the next half hour mingling with the guests. All my closest friends and family were here, along with a handful of important investors and tastemakers. Xavier and Sloane were deep in conversation with Margaux while Dante and Vivian conversed quietly with Christian and Stella.
I spoke briefly with Killian. To my surprise, he’d shown up without a
date.
“How was Greece?” I asked.
“What?” He gave me a blank stare.
“Greece,” I repeated. “You were in Milos over the summer, right?”
“Right. It was fine. Beautiful.” He seemed oddly distracted, but he’d been acting weird for months.
His eyes flicked to the entrance. I followed his gaze to where a major real estate developer was checking his coat along with an unfamiliar redhead.
“I’m going to get another drink,” Killian said abruptly. “Talk later.” He skirted around a table toward the servers in the back, deliberately
avoiding the coat check station.
Weird.
Chandler, the real estate developer, approached me to offer his congratulations. He wasn’t a huge player in the business world—there were developers who were ten times more powerful, like Alex Volkov of the Archer Group—but his company owned the building the restaurant was in. It was smart business to invite him.
We chatted briefly before he introduced the woman next to him. “This is Tate.”
That was it. No last name or explanation of who she was to him. She looked half his age and was quite attractive in an understated way, but I didn’t get couple vibes from them. In fact, he seemed annoyed she was there.
She smiled at me. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and a lush mane of auburn hair spilled past her shoulders. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m excited to try your food. I’ve heard nothing but great things.”
“I hope it lives up to your expectations,” I said. She reminded me of a deer—a little skittish, but so gentle she automatically triggered my
protective instincts.
“I’m sure it will.”
I was about to ask how she knew Chandler, but she’d stopped paying attention. She was staring at the back of the restaurant, where Killian lounged against the wall, nursing his drink and looking uncharacteristically broody.
He glanced over, his gaze narrowing. Tate blushed before her mouth hardened into a thin line. She averted her eyes, but her blush remained.
Oh, boy. I was tempted to warn her away from him—she seemed like a nice girl, and Killian ate nice girls alive—but Chandler was still standing there, oblivious to his date(?)’s distraction.
In the end, I minded my own business and excused myself.
I had other people to see.
I slipped through the crowd and into the supply closet. Maya was waiting for me, her shoulder propped against a shelf of dry goods.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“I had to finish making the rounds. You know how it goes.” I gave her a soft kiss and breathed in the delicate scent of her perfume. “Everyone’s asking where you are. You excused yourself to use the restroom…” I
checked the clock. “Half an hour ago.”
“I’ll tell them I wastrying to wish my boyfriend good luck,” she teased, placing a hand on my chest. My heart thumped beneath her touch. “It’s here. You did it. Breathe.” Her words were soft.
“I am. I will.” I dragged in a lungful of air. “I should get back to the kitchen. Service starts soon.”
“I know.” Maya stood on tiptoes and kissed me again. “One kiss for good luck. One kiss to be collected after you knock it out of the park.”
“Are you withholding a kiss from me?”
“You needsomething to motivate you.”
I chuckled, my grin still in place as I left the supply closet and headed into the kitchen. Our interaction had been brief, but I’d needed it.
Without her—the beautiful, incredible, fucking brilliant woman who’d held me together through the lows and pushed me to highs I hadn’t thought I was capable of—I wouldn’t have survived the past thirteen months. Maya was my secret weapon. As long as I had her by my side, I could do anything.
My staff had the kitchen under control, but I still triple-checked everything myself. Everyone I loved was here tonight. If the food wasn’t perfect, and they got sick, I’d never forgive myself.
A familiar worm of anxiety scuttled through my chest before I quashed it. I forced a slow breath of air through my nose and exhaled. I didn’t think I’d ever truly shake the fear of hurting someone with my food, but the fear was no longer debilitating. That was the important part. It hovered at the back of my mind as a reminder, but it didn’t control me.
After another calming breath, I refocused on my inspection. I saved the most important dish for last: the scallops. The star of tonight’s menu.
I’d spent the past year tinkering with the recipe. I’d experimented with dozens of ingredients before Ifinally, almost by accident, stumbled upon the magic one.
I’d tested and retested the recipe so often I could whip it together in my sleep, but I had to taste it one last time. Just in case.
I picked up a scallop from the test plate, put it in my mouth, and chewed.
The bright pop of strawberry basil salsa paired beautifully with the
savory seared scallops.
Perfect.
In hindsight, it was so simple. Strawberries provided the same acidity as the lemon beurre blanc sauce in my previous recipe, but their sweetness made the dish fresher and more dynamic. I would’ve never thought to pair them with scallops if it weren’t for Maya’s obsession with strawberries. We had so many cartons of them in our fridge that I was constantly using them in different recipes, and I’d inadvertently struck
gold.
Thankfully, the diners seemed to agree. Service started soon after I finished my walkthrough. Judging by the exclamations and murmurs of appreciation throughout the night, the food was a huge hit.
“Do me a favor.” I handed my maître d’hôtel a folded note halfway through the night. “Give this to table eight.” That was Maya’s table.
She immediately understood. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”
I sank back into the rhythm of the kitchen. The controlled chaos felt familiar and almost comforting. The noise, the activity, the medley of smells—they were the marks of a kitchen that wasalive. When service was in full swing, it was no longer tethered to reality. It was its own world, one where time compressed into tiny pockets of action and reaction. The sous-chef calling out orders. The sizzle of meat in a pan. The ping of a timer going off. Adrenaline and muscle memory took over, making the hours fly by at warp speed.
One minute, I was checking the scallops. Then I blinked, and service was over. My friends and family congratulated me and trickled out of the restaurant. Soon, Maya was the only person left seated in the dining room.
Her eyes sparkled as I sank into the chair opposite hers.
“Open your own restaurant, check. Blow everyone’s minds at the soft opening, check. Next on the list, a Michelin star,” she said. She paused.
“Sorry. I meantthree Michelin stars.”
I smiled, my body exhausted but my heart full. “You liked the food, then.”
“Is that a real question? Of course I did.” Her face shimmered with pride. “It was incredible. Congratulations, Seb. I know how hard you’ve worked for this, and I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said. “Thank you for waiting. I know how much you love your dessert.”
My note had asked her to hold off on eating dessert so we could enjoy it together.
“Don’t thank me too much. I stole a piece of Neha’s pie when she wasn’t looking,” she said, making me laugh.
“You earned it. Consider that part of your reward for winning Gastronomic Event of the Year,” I said.
To Maya’s surprise and delight, our second launch received the prestigious honor at the most recent World Marketing Awards. She hadn’t thought we’d win since the event had been so simple, but we’d earned extra points for pulling it off in such a short period of time. Plus, we’d received special consideration for Whitaker’s sabotage of our first event.
“We earned it,” she corrected me.
“It was more you than me. I was only in charge of the food.”
“Right. Because that’s not important or anything.”
Another laugh escaped me.
We conversed lightly for a while, catching each other up on our nights before I motioned for the server to bring out our dessert.
My smile faded beneath a churn of nerves, but I tried not to let my anxiety show.
The restaurant wasn’t the only thing I’d spent the past year preparing.
I’d agonized over how to do it and when, but after scrapping dozens of ideas, I’d opted for the simplest one. It was the one that meant the most.
Hopefully, Maya agreed.
The server came out with the final course.
Instead of serving Maya the same deconstructed tarte tatin that everyone else got, I’d personally prepared a special surprise for her.
I watched, heart in my throat, as she took in the spread. Her gaze latched on to the final item, and I heard a sharp intake of breath. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
I’d waited long enough for this moment. It was time, and I couldn’t imagine a better setting than this table in this restaurant—the heart of the thing I loved second most after her. A small, tasteful arrangement of flowers perfumed the air, and candlelight flickered beneath a delicate oak beam carved with my restaurant’s name: Nouvelle Époque. New Era.
I kept my eyes fixed on Maya’s face as she stared at the item cradled in her palm. Her eyes were bright, and her chin wobbled like she was holding back tears.
My heart crashed against my ribcage. The silence was painful, the waiting even more so. Restlessness surged through me, urging me to look away so I wouldn’t have to endure any more torture.
But I couldn’t, and I didn’t have to look at the table to remember what I’d prepared for this course—or what, exactly, I’d included that had her looking so shell-shocked.
One slice of chocolate cake topped with strawberries imported from Korea.
One chocolate milkshake, thick enough to pass for ice cream.
And in her hand, one note with four simple words written on it:
Will you marry me?
Maya
I should’ve known Sebastian would plan the perfect proposal with the perfect ring—a breathtaking marquise-cut diamond that’d been passed down through the generations on his mother’s side of the family. He had, somewhat ironically and perhaps purposefully, proposed to me exactly two years after my family’s now-defunct engagement deadline.
When I’d recovered from my shock and looked up again, he’d already
dropped to one knee, ring in hand.
It’d been the easiest yes of my life.
I told my family the next day, and I swore people in India could’ve heard my mother’s scream of joy. She was so ecstatic about my engagement that she only threw two fits after Priya eloped, just like my Meera Aunty predicted she would. She couldn’t take the wedding planning pressure anymore. However, she’d agreed to let my mother host a big reception for her in New York, which was the best compromise they could agree on.
That meant my mother poured all her energy into my wedding. I’d thought I would chafe at her micromanaging, but I discovered that Iliked getting into the weeds of wedding planning. It was basically a giant to-do list, and I took great satisfaction in checking off every item.
Fifteen months later, Sebastian and I got married in two separate ceremonies. The first was a traditional church wedding followed by a reception at his family’s château in France. The second was a week of Indian festivities in Udaipur. Like Jaipur, where my cousin got married three years ago, Udaipur was located in the state of Rajasthan. However, its tranquil, picturesque beauty was a far cry from Jaipur’s lively hustle and bustle.
My father, determined to outdo Radhika’s wedding, had spared no expense in making the wedding the event of the century. Based on the guests’ impressed exclamations throughout the week, he’d succeeded.
Honestly, I only cared about celebrating with my friends and family, but the spectacle made my parents happy, so I rolled with it.
Besides the food (which included my favorite gulab jamun) and actually marrying Sebastian, I’d been most excited about my wedding attire. I’d spent months working with the designer Vian, who’d custom- made an exquisite red and orange bridal lehenga for me. It was draped with two dupattas—one opulent and traditional, the other gauzier and more graceful—and it featured the most beautiful embroidery I’d ever seen. My grandmother had gifted me a gold-and-diamond heirloom necklace and earrings set, which I’d paired with my own haathphool and my mother’s elaborate maang tikka. My hands were etched with henna from the pre-wedding Mehndi ceremony, and I couldn’t stop staring at
them.
This was it. I wasmarried.
The reality of it took my breath away.
“I can’t believe all of my girls are married,” my mother said, her eyes misting over. “I never thought the day would come.”
“Please, Shilpa, you’ve been planning for this day since they were born.” My grandmother snorted. “Perhaps now you can stop moaning about your daughters’ marriage prospects and focus on tending to that garden of yours. It’s looking a little sad. If you’re not careful, Aisha will usurp your throne at the next International—oh, there she is. Let’s say hi.” She winked at me as she guided my mother toward her frenemy, who was hovering by the dessert bar with a grumpy expression.
I shot my grandmother a grateful smile. I loved my mother, but she’d go on all night if I let her.
We were nearing the end of the reception. We’d already finished all the toasts and official performances, so I could relax a bit and find Sebastian, whose friends had whisked him off for God knew what an hour ago.
My own friends were dancing near one of the main stages. Ayana beckoned for me to join them, but I smiled and shook my head.
I searched the crowd, my gaze skimming over my sisters, my cousins, and Meera Aunty, who was talking to a distinguished-looking older gentleman with a beard. I could’ve sworn she was blushing.
I spotted almost everyone in my extended family, but I didn’t see— “Looking for someone,mon ange?” A smooth drawl came from behind me. It was laced with amusement.
I spun around, my insides unspooling when I saw Sebastian smiling down at me. For once, he’d tamed his hair into a relatively neat coif, though a thick lock had escaped sometime during the night. It flopped over his forehead, framing his sculpted cheekbones and warm amber eyes. He wore a custom cream sherwani that complemented the rich gold and orange of my bridal lehenga perfectly, and he looked so devastating that it took my breath away.
“Yes, actually. My husband seems to have disappeared. Any chance you know where he is?” I asked innocently.
My husband. I was getting used to the new term, but I liked it. A lot.
“He left you alone at your own reception?” He shook his head. “What an asshole.”
I bit back a laugh. “You said it. Not me.”
“If he was stupid enough to let you out of his sight for one second, he doesn’t deserve you—even if his friends threatened to toss him in the lake if he didn’t drink with them.”
“Is that what you were up to?” I teased, dropping our act.
“Unfortunately. I indulged them for one round, and then I came to find you. You’re better company. Much smarter and prettier, too. Not a lot of
people can claim to be a Hall of Famer.”
I flushed with pleasure. I’d recently been inducted into the World Marketing Association’s Hall of Fame for my “extraordinary contributions to the field” over the years. Only active professionals who’d won awards in at least two of their categories (like the Gastronomic Event of the Year and International Marketing Excellence Award) were eligible. There were a host of other considerations, and I’d secretly hoped but never dared dream I’d get the distinction. As it stood, I was the youngest Hall of Fame inductee in their sixty-year history.
I didn’t crave external validation anymore. That said, it felt damn good to receive recognition for years’ worth of work and not just a specific win.
It meant my accomplishments weren’t a fluke.
“A smooth talkerand a smart man.” A thrill ran through me when Sebastian took my hand and guided me to the nearby dance floor. “I was getting a little lonely, but I guess you can make it up to me during our honeymoon in…” I trailed off expectantly.
A humoring smile pulled on his lips. “Nice try, Sal, but you’re the one who wanted it to be a surprise. You’re not getting a single spoiler out of
me.”
I pouted, but he had a point.
I’d given Sebastian full permission to plan our honeymoon as he saw fit. I was usually the one who organized our trips because it was fun, and I was picky about certain things (like the thread count on the sheets and the brand of hair dryer in the hotel bathroom), but I’d been so swamped with the wedding that he’d offered to take over honeymoon planning duties.
It was so liberating not having to worry about the details that I’d asked him to keep the entire trip a surprise. He’d taken my wish and run with it, only sharing important details like the dates and what I should pack.
I had no idea where we were going. I just knew we’d be visiting five destinations over the course of a month, and that all five would involve a lot of food and sex. It sounded like heaven.
Sebastian didn’t say it, but I suspected the extravagant trip was also his way of thanking me for solving the letter mystery, once and for all. I’d respected his wishes and stayed away from Christian, but I’d tracked down Neville myself using our school’s alumni network. He was happily married now, and I’d told him he couldremain happily married if he admitted the truth. Otherwise, I’d tell his wife about his creepy, stalkerish past.
He’d caved faster than a wet cardboard box. Long story short, he’d volunteered in the school’s administrative office and secretly gotten access to the master code for all student lockers. He’d been incredibly jealous of Sebastian, who was everything he wasn’t—popular, good-
looking, a hit with the girls—and when he saw him leaving the letter in my locker, he’d intercepted it before I saw it. He’d read it on the spot, as I’d predicted, but when he saw me coming down the hall, he’d panicked and shoved it blindly back into the locker.
The forged response was his way of knocking Sebastian down a peg.
He’d traced over my signature using my school documents from the admin office, and he’d pulled Sebastian away when he’d tried to talk to me before graduation because he’d been afraid Sebastian would ask me about the letter. He hadn’t wanted us to figure out what he’d done while we were still at school.
It was a stupid scheme carried out by a stupid teenager. I would’ve been more upset had things not turned out so well for Sebastian and me.
As it stood, I chalked his actions up to the dumb recklessness of youth and moved on…after I called our school’s head of alumni relations. Most schools would’ve laughed at such a seemingly small, decades-old transgression, but ours took their reputation seriously—and the generous donations from both my family and the Laurents even more seriously. The alumni relations head had been so appalled that they’d blacklisted Neville from the school’s powerful alumni network.
When I told Sebastian, he said he’d make some calls of his own. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask, but when I checked on Neville again, he was no longer the president of his company.
“Do you think Bobby can handle the pressure while you’re gone?” I asked now.
Bobby was Sebastian’s protégé. After learning so much under Margaux’s mentorship, Sebastian wanted to pay it forward, so he’d taken the twenty-five-year-old chef under his wing. Bobby was a little intense, but he was also enormously talented and dedicated to Nouvelle Époque.
He worshiped Sebastian, who’d put him in charge of the restaurant while we were on our honeymoon.
“I’m sure he can. If not, Margaux will be there to guide him—though he’ll wish she wasn’t. She’s tougher than me,” Sebastian said. “Things should be fine, as long as… you know.”
Neither of us verbalized what we were secretly dreading—that a Michelin inspector would show up during his absence.
Despite Sebastian’s initial fears, Nouvelle Époque was a massive success. I’d always known it would be, but it was gratifying to see the critics and regular diners alike agree.
He’d earned his first Michelin star late last year, but now he had to keep that star and, hopefully, earn the remaining two. It was a never- ending cycle of stress and anticipation, and I didn’t take his willingness to step away from work for a full month so we could have a proper honeymoon for granted.
I’d told him a month was too long and that we could cut it down to a week, but he’d insisted.
“I didn’t wait this long to marry you only to skimp on the honeymoon,” was all he’d said when I brought it up.
“Don’t worry,” Sebastian said now as my brow creased. “I’ll get the full stars, one way or another. If not this year, then the next.”
“Three stars,” I mused. “You like to make it hard for yourself, don’t you?”
“What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.” He kissed me, his breath warm and soft against my lips. “And for you.”
I melted into his embrace. The rest of the world dissolved until there was only us, dancing and kissing beneath the swirling lights.
I wasn’t thinking about work or how early we had to wake up tomorrow. My mind wasn’t spinning theories about our honeymoon destinations or conjuring worst-case scenarios for what could happen at any point in the future.
I was fully present, right here in this moment. Our story had been a lifetime in the making, and for once, I let myself enjoy the ride instead of worrying about the ending.
The Ultimate Thing, that feeling of complete fulfillment that I’d been chasing?
This was it. And I’d never been happier.
He vowed to never fall in love… but some vows are meant to be broken.
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CHAPTER 1
ASHER
I DIDN’T GET PERFORMANCE ANXIETY, BUT THERE WAS nothing like seventy thousand people watching you get fucked that really put a guy on edge.
Sweat dripped into my eyes as I received the ball from the left-winger. The crowd’s cheers reached a fever pitch, and a tiny prickle of trepidation snaked through my gut.
Usually, the fans’ enthusiasm revved me up. After all, I’d dreamed of moments like this growing up. Playing on a professional pitch, hearing thousands chant my name, being the one who took my team to glory.
Moments like this meant I’d made it and proved my critics wrong—which I had, many times over.
After all, I was Asher Fucking Donovan.
But today, in the last minute of the Premier League season final, I felt like just Asher, the newest and most controversial transfer to Blackcastle.
It was my first season with the team, the match was tied,
and we were second on the league table behind Holchester United.
Weneeded a win to take home the championship, but so far, the match had been a clusterfuck of disasters.
An intercepted ball here, a missed penalty there. We were all over the place, and I could practically see the championship slipping through my fingers.
Frustration mounted as I tried to maneuver past the swarm of Holchester defenders. Bocci, Lyle, Kanu—I knew their tricks well, but they also knew mine.
That was the problem with playing against your old team; there was nowhere to hide.
With no way out, I passed the ball to another forward and tried to ignore the numbers ticking down on the clock.
Forty seconds.
Thirty-nine.
Thirty-eight.
The ball bounced between players until, through a stroke of equally good and bad luck, Vincent gained possession through a counterattack.
The cheers dulled to a low roar beneath the weight of my
anticipation.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
Fifteen.
I was in the perfect position to receive the ball. I had a clear shot at the goal, but I could see Vincent’s eyes searching the pitch for someone,anyone else to pass it to.
My pulse hammered in rhythm with the ticking clock.
Come on, you bastard.
Therewas no one else. I was the only player on our team who could feasibly score at this point. Vincent must’ve come to the same conclusion because, with a noticeable clench of his jaw, he finally kicked the ball to me.
The crowd’s excitement pitched high, but it was too late.
Vincent’s precious few seconds of hesitation gave
Holchester an opening, and they stole the ball before I could connect with it.
A collective groan rippled over the pitch.
I blinked away the sweat and tried to focus, but my old team’s taunting stares and the blaze of bright lights disoriented me in a way I hadn’t felt sincethat match many
moons ago.
Five.
An attempt to steal the ball back failed.
Four.
Flashes of news headlines and TV snippets blared in my head.Traitor. Judas. Sellout. Was I worth the record 250- million-pound transfer, or was I the most expensive mistake
in Premier League history?
Three.
By some miracle, I got the ball on the second attempt.
Two.
No time to think.
One.
I kicked.
The ball went wide to the shrill of the final whistle, and the stadium fell so silent I could hear the rush of blood in my ears.
All around me, my team stood, stunned, while the Holchester players jumped and whooped in celebration.
It was over.
We’d lost.
My first season with Blackcastle—the one where everyone expected me to bring home a championship—was over, and we’dlost.
My surroundings blurred into a muffled stream of noise and movement, and I barely felt the soreness of my muscles or a teammate’s consoling slap on my back.
I barely felt anything at all.
No one spoke during our walk to the changing room, but the dread was palpable.
The only thing worse than losing a match was facing Coach afterward, and he barely gave us a chance to sit before he went off.
Frank Armstrong was a legend in the football world. As a player, he was famous for his string of hat tricks in the nineties; as a manager, he was famous for his innovative approach to leadership and his hair-trigger temper, the latter of which was on full display as he laid into us.
“Are those the standards you play with?” he demanded.
“Are those the fucking standards? Because I’ll tell you, they’re nowherenear championship level. They are fucking shit!”
Lack of focus, terrible teamwork, no cohesion—he touched on all the issues that had plagued us since I transferred in mid-season, and it didn’t take a genius to know why.
Even as Coach berated us, heads swiveled between me and Vincent, who sat on the opposite side of the room.
Team dynamics had been fucked since I joined. Part of that was the natural consequence of incorporating a new member into a tight-knit club; a larger part boiled down to the fact that I, the league’s top scorer, and Vincent, the club’s star defender and captain, despised each other.
We played different positions, but our rivalry was infamous. He was the only true competition I had for press, status, and sponsorships—important things in our world— but the biggest source of our contention was what
happened at the last World Cup.
The dive. The fight. The red card.
I tried not to think about it. If I did, I might punch him in
the face, and I doubted Coach would appreciate me doing that in the middle of his rant about teamwork.
“DuBois! Donovan!”
My head snapped up at the sound of my name, and Vincent’s did the same.
Coach had apparently ended his speech because the rest of the team was shuffling off to change while he glared at
us.
“My office.Now.”
We obeyed without argument. We weren’t stupid.
“Do you want to take a guess as to why I called the two of you, specifically, in here?” Coach didn’t wait for the door to fully close before launching into part two of his rant.
Vincent and I remained silent.
“I asked you a question.”
“Because we lost,” I said. My stomach tightened at the wordlost.
Everyone hated losing, but today’s loss stung particularly hard for me when I knew there were people actively rooting for me to fuck up at Blackcastle—namely, Holchester United fans who hated me for transferring to their biggest rival.
I’d had plenty of naysayers growing up—teachers who thought I’d never amount to anything, football fans who thought I was a flash in the pan, press who dug for dirt in every aspect of my life—and I couldn’t stand proving my critics right.
“No. It’s not because we lost,” Coach snapped. “It’s because you two are the ones the rest of the team looks up to the most, but you’ve let your stupid rivalry affect your game. Worst of all, it’s affecting morale.”
We slunk lower in our seats beneath his glare.
“I knew there would be a transition period, but I thought you would get over it and work things out because you’re adults. However, it seems like I’m dealing with children because here we are, postseason, and we have nothing to show for it except a host of mistakes that could’ve been
easily avoided if you’d learned how tobloody work together!” Coach’s voice rose with each word until it was loud enough to seep through the walls.
The muted chatter from the locker room noticeably died down, and a flush of shame crawled across my face.
Coach’s disappointment was almost as unbearable as losing the championship. I’d idolized him growing up, and the opportunity to work with him had been a major factor behind me handing in my transfer request.
This hadnot been how I’d envisioned ending our first
season together.
Vincent shifted beside me. “Coach, I—”
“Don’t get me started with you.” Coach cut him off.
“What the hell was that in the last twenty seconds? Donovan wasright there. You should’ve passed him the bloody ball when you had the chance. See opening, pass ball. It’s football 101!”
Vincent’s mouth tightened. He couldn’t say what we all knew: he hadn’t passed the ball immediately because he hadn’t wanted me to score the winning goal. The press would’ve replayed that kick over and over, and I would’ve received all the glory that came with it. Vincent wouldn’t have been able to stand it.
Selfish prick. I didn’t dwell on whether I would’ve done the same had I been in his place.
Coach’s stare sharpened. He’d been a club manager long enough to figure out Vincent’s motivations without him verbalizing it.
“Since you want to act like children, I’ll treat you like children,” he said. “Normally, I leave offseason training up to the individual players, but not this summer. This summer, you’re both cross-training at the Royal Academy of Ballet.
Together.”
“What?”
Vincent and I exploded at the same time.
My sense of self-preservation couldn’t override my shock
at Coach’s edict. Clubs almostnever dictated the specifics of how we spent our offseason. Players hailed from all over the world, which meant summer was their chance to go home, see their families, and train as they saw fit.
“I already spoke with RAB’s director. She’s on board,”
Coach said. “I didn’t say anything before because I wanted to see if you two could pull it together by the last match and fucking win. You couldn’t, so you’ll be taking private lessons with thesame instructor for the summer. She’s one of their best, and she has an intimate knowledge of football. You’ll be in good hands.”
I didn’t want to be in any fucking hands except my own. I had nothing against ballet. Though I’d never cross-trained using its techniques, I knew players who had, and they sang its praises for improving their strength, flexibility, and footwork techniques.
However, I’d already created my training plan. I didn’t need a stranger jumping in and telling me what to do.
Vincent straightened, his face taking on a ghostly pallor.
“Don’t tell me she’s…”
“Your instructor will be Scarlett DuBois.” Coach offered a
mirthless smile. “You’re welcome.”
DuBois? As in… “Vincent’s sister?” I sputtered. “You’re joking. That’s a conflict of interest!”
I’d never seen or met Vincent’s sister, though I’d heard him talk about her. The two were close, which was just my luck. I didn’t need the DuBois siblings conspiring against me together.
“I don’t want to train with my sister,” Vincent said.
“That’s not…no.”
“It’s a good thing neither of you has a say in the matter.”
The volume of Coach’s voice dropped back to normal levels, though it was no less cutting. “The director assured me she’s the right person for the job and that she won’t let personal ties affect her work. I believe her. That means you
twowill train with Scarlett and youwill take it seriously. And gentlemen?” He pinned us with a warning glare. “When you return, you’d better convince me you’re goddamn capable of working together instead of against each other, or you’ll be riding the bench. I don’t give a shit if you’re the captain or the top scorer on the team. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” we muttered.
Coach’s mind was made up. There was nothing we could do or say to get out of it, which meant I was stuck with the DuBois siblings for an entire fucking summer.
My jaw tightened.
I didn’t know much about Scarlett DuBois, but given she was related to Vincent, I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to
like her.
At all.