Page 10 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

ELLIOT

I ’m halfway back to my hotel when I get a call from Skylar, coming over the screen of the SUV and startling me out of my angry thoughts.

She’s back in New York, managing some things.

I’ve been in Dallas longer than I thought, and I’ll likely be here for at least another month, so I’ll need someone to pick up the mail, water the plants, and Skylar is setting that up before flying back to Texas.

I realize, as I answer her call, that I didn’t have music or a podcast playing — just the silence of the car as I pictured Sophie in her office, the way she’d looked at me, pointed at me, the way her chest rose and fell, the flush in her cheeks.

Skylar’s voice rings through the car, far too loud, and I reach over to turn it down.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Skylar. What’s up?”

When I speak, I hear how tense I sound, the way my voice is wound up. The fight with Sophie made my entire body feel tight, my shoulders up near my ears, my fingers gripped far too tightly around my steering wheel, so the leather groans in protest.

I try to relax as Skylar starts, tell myself that it’s probably just a question about the house — what I want done with this or that. Something easier to confirm over the phone, rather than in text. Something quick.

But the moment she speaks, I know it’s not going to be something easy.

“I’m so sorry, I should have reminded you, but Blake just contacted me about your five o’ clock with his international team, and?—”

“ Fuck ,” I slam on the breaks — not the smartest move on the busy Dallas freeway — and jerk onto the exit. Angry honks stretch out on either side of me, but I don’t care. How did I forget about the meeting with Blake?

I know how. I was far too busy thinking about Coach Sophie Kendall to remember my one other obligation today.

“I’m so sorry, sir?—”

“Not your fault, Skylar. I’m going to let you go so I can drive.”

I get to the end of the exit and turn left to circle around, get back on the highway going the other way.

To top it off, my laptop is in my bag, which is sitting in the meeting room.

Where I left it before I stormed after Sophie, and where I left it when I stormed out of her office and directly to the parking lot.

Most other people with money like mine might have a driver — and usually, I do — but sometimes I like to drive myself.

And, of course, I thought that, while in Dallas, I could handle my own transportation.

Which means I’m dealing with the ridiculous traffic in this stupid city, trying to get back to the practice facility with enough time to salvage any part of the meeting.

But, of course, I don’t.

By the time I pull into the parking lot at the training facility, it’s completely empty and past seven. I get out of the car, glance up and see that the overhead lights are turned on, shining brightly down onto the field, which is blocked from my view by the risers.

Of course. Someone left the lights on. As if this team isn’t hemorrhaging money enough.

I find the key on my ring that unlocks the building, make my way back to the meeting room, grab my bag. On my way back out, I head to the field, figuring I can find the switch for the lights easily enough.

But when I get closer, I realize the lights aren’t on for no reason — there are two players out there, still practicing, feet moving quick.

No. Not two players — one player and Sophie.

Slowly, I creep along the side of the risers, looking out at them. It’s the player who was in jeans at the last game. Lena Athens. The star player, out with an injury, clearly angry that she’s not dressing out.

Lena dribbles the ball, handling it with ease, touching and tapping, and my eyes are lulled by the movement. I keep waiting for her to pass the ball over to Sophie, but she doesn’t, just keeps it to herself, then turns and kicks it into the net.

I realize, watching, that they’re having a conversation, and creep even closer, catching the tail end of something Sophie is saying when I’m about fifteen yards away, but still hidden in the bleachers.

“…you’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. It’s the way you act that you can manage.”

Based on the way Athens has been acting — the expression she wore during the game, the way she whipped her warm-up to the ground — I don’t expect her to laugh.

But she does, retrieving the ball and dribbling it back over to Sophie.

“I’m a basket case,” she says, sounding half-amused, half-depressed. “I know, and I’m sorry, Coach.”

“Less about me, more about the others,” Sophie says, her voice straddling the line between empathetic and authoritative. “You may be out, but they still look to you as a leader. I’m sure you realize that your attitude affected the game.”

A beat passes, then Athens lets out a breath. “I know. I’m letting everyone down.”

“Injuries aren’t just about the body,” Sophie says, turning, angling her body toward Athens, and once again, I expect the ball to come her way. For some reason, I want to see it — want to watch her dribble it, see how she moves when she’s doing the thing she loves.

But Athens keeps it, shoots again.

Sophie jogs over to get the ball, then, to my surprise, she picks it up and tosses it over to Athens, rather than just kicking it her way.

I tip my head, furrowing my brow. Sophie Kendall — former soccer prodigy — won’t even kick a soccer ball?

She goes on, “It’s more about what’s in your head. I know that sounds like a bunch of spiritual garbage, but it’s true. Poison the mind, poison the body, and all that.”

“Yeah.” Athens stops, foot atop the ball for a moment. “That’s what my gram has been saying.”

“She still coming to the games?”

“I tell her not to,” Athens laughs, voice sounding watery. “It’s so embarrassing, knowing she’s up there, and I’m not even on the field.”

“Your gram is a trooper,” Sophie says. “Maybe you should talk to her about it — she could show you how to take a page from her book.”

Athens laughs and mutters something I can’t hear, which makes Sophie laugh, too. The sound of it is light, full-bodied, and I realize I’ve only ever heard her laughing sarcastically.

Suddenly, I want to make her laugh for real. Say something that makes her laugh like that for me .

Without warning, Athens turns, dribbling the ball straight toward me, and I realize that if she sees me, I’m going to look like a total creep — standing under the bleachers, listening to everything they’re saying.

But she doesn’t see me, just turns and dribbles back toward Sophie before shooting — and scoring — again.

As quietly as I can, I go out the way I came in, mind racing.

I thought Sophie and Athens were at each other’s throats, but here Sophie is, staying after hours with her. Talking through the injury. Spending her time mentoring Athens — who respects her, even though she’s mad. Even with her behavior.

Sophie is endlessly gentle, forgiving — with everyone except me, apparently — even Athens.

As I climb into my SUV, throwing my bag on the passenger seat, I reconsider what I know about her. Dallas native. Soccer star, won’t kick the ball. Here late with that player.

Maybe all that defensiveness, the stubborn attitude I’d assumed was about her being unwilling to move forward, is actually loyalty to those players. She sees it as me against her — me against her and the team.

I start the SUV, pull out, find the highway again, which is practically empty now that rush hour has passed. The sun has long set, and bugs flit around the lights I drive under.

When my phone rings out through the system again, I think it’s Skylar and answer on the first ring.

“Elliot.”

Biting my tongue, I glance over at the screen, which reads, Dad .

Fuck. I mouth the word, but don’t say it out loud. He’s the last person I want to talk right now. And I know why he’s calling.

“Dad.”

“When were you going to tell me that you went out and wasted millions of dollars?”

I bite back the response I want to throw his way — I didn’t get the memo about you being my new accountant — and instead go with a shrugging, “It’s just a fun investment, Dad.”

“Fun?” he asks, like I’ve just told him I’m going to get a root canal without numbing cream. “Your mother tells me you’ve been in Dallas for nearly two weeks now. How is that fun ?”

I miss my exit and bite back the profanity in my throat. If he hears how much I hate the traffic here, he’s just going to feel even more vindicated.

For a moment, I search for the words to explain this to him. At first, this was all about Clark — going against him. Getting the team and beating his, just to shut him up for once.

But now, after seeing Sophie and Athens out there on the field together, it’s starting to feel different. I try to think of a way to explain that to him, to detail what it felt like in the stands, to see Sophie coach and sense that gentle leeching of her enthusiasm under your skin.

Except the words aren’t there, and my father is already filling the silence, as though we’re radio hosts and can’t possibly leave any dead air between us.

“You know, Clark is right about a lot of things, but he’s not right about this. Men or women’s, I don’t care, sports are a gamble. An expensive toy thinly veiled as a business endeavor. And I really thought you were above that, Elliot.”

“The team was cheap, Dad.” Comparatively, of course. “It’s just a little… project of mine.”

Even as I say the words, I know it’s not true. A little project would not have me missing meetings, spending all my time away from New York.

To push the feeling away, I keep talking, “And, you know what, Dad? It would be great to have you and Mom down for a game. It’s just like Wimbledon.”

That, at least, makes him laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, and I can picture him shaking his head as his words drip with sarcasm. “I’m sure it is.”