Page 8 of The Defender

“Normal fans don’t break into your house,” Asher said. “You have a stalker, or at least someone obsessive enough to do something like this. Scarlett’s right. You need to go to the police.”

“An intruder is not the same as a stalker, and absolutely not. I don’t want the press catching wind of this and making it a big thing. We have Champions League matches coming up. I can’t afford to be distracted.”

I doubted the police would even care. Yeah, breaking and entering was a crime, but nothing got stolen and I hadn’t received any threats. What were they supposed to do?

“Itisa big thing,” Scarlett argued. “You weren’t home this time, but what happens if they come back while you’re there? You could get hurt.”

“Someone’s coming by tomorrow to upgrade the security system. Whoever did this”—I held up the doll—“isn’t getting in again.”

“Did you see anything on the cameras?” Asher asked.

“Uh.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Cameras were on the fritz last week, and I haven’t gotten the chance to fix them yet.”

“Jesus.” He groaned.

Asher was way more security-minded than I was, but he also had more, uh,enthusiasticfans than me. The man was usually hounded by paparazzi everywhere he went.

Don’t get me wrong. I had my issues with the paps too, as well as piles of fan mail every week. But my fanbase felt more restrained compared to his, and I’d never had a reason to worry about them stepping out of line—until now.

“Do you think it’s the same person who left you the note on your car?” Scarlett asked.

A few weeks ago, I’d left training to find a note tucked under the windscreen wiper of my car. It congratulated me on renewing my sports drink sponsorship. Pretty standard stuff except for one thing—the words were cut out from magazines, making it look like a ransom letter from some nineties movie.

I’d chalked it up to a prank, but Scarlett’s question had me viewing it from a whole other angle.

“I have no idea.” I’d tossed the note immediately after getting it.

“You shouldn’t go home until we figure out who this person is and what they want,” Asher said. “Doesn’t matter if youupgrade your security. They could be dangerous. Remember what happened to Tyler Conley?”

I grimaced. Tyler Conley was a famous pop singer who got hospitalized months ago after an obsessed fan followed him home and stabbed him three times before a neighbor heard his screams and called the police. Thankfully, he’d pulled through and his attacker was currently in prison, awaiting trial, but he’d since become the poster boy for the dangers of fame.

I had no desire to be another Tyler Conley.

“Go to the police,” Scarlett repeated. “Even if you think it’s not a big deal, it should be on record.”

I hated to admit it, but she was right. “I’ll go later tonight.”

“Forget the hotel. Move in with us until they catch the creep,” she said. “Our security is unbeatable, thanks to Asher’s paranoia”—Asher shrugged in agreement—“and our address isn’t publicly available. Yours is.”

“I can’t do that. A hotel isfine.”

“Yes, you can, and no, it isn’t. A hotel is too open to the public. You’re my brother. As annoying as you are, I’m not letting you die on my watch.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Yet warmth trickled through my veins at her words. I hated making my sister worry, but it was nice to know I wasn’t in this alone.

Although we weren’t biological siblings, Scarlett and I had always been close. Our parents adopted us when we were babies, and we looked nothing alike, which was why people were often surprised to find out we were related. She was pale and petite, with black hair and gray eyes; I was tall and muscled, with brown eyes and light brown skin that spoke to my biracial background.

We lived together as young kids, but we were separated after our parents divorced. She grew up in England with our mum; I moved to Paris with our dad, where I went to aninternational school. But we’d always spent the summers and holidays together with one parent or the other, and we’d gotten even closer after I moved to London a few years ago to play for Blackcastle.

“As long as you don’t mind the construction, we have plenty of room here,” Asher said.

Arguing was useless. Scarlett and Asher were both stubborn as fuck.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll move in. Just don’t do any weird couple shit while I’m here, okay?”

CHAPTER 4