Page 11 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

SOPHIE

I ’ve always hated airports.

Away games are a big part of being an athlete, but I’m partial to the bus.

Taking the bus feels like keeping my feet on the ground, and I like that it’s just the team and the driver.

Flying is more chaotic, harder to keep track of everyone.

Even the team manager prefers hiring a bus to figuring out the tickets and booking everyone through an airline.

The team sits around me at our gate, talking, laughing, as I stew in my seat. They don’t care about flying — in fact, most of them would prefer it — but I can’t stop the itch of frustration under my throat.

I’m clearly not a part of the decision-making process anymore. Yesterday, when I emailed the team manager to ask for times to pass along to the players, she told me the chartered bus had been canceled — Elliot Altman wanted his team to fly.

As though just thinking his name can summon him, he appears on the outskirts of the seats, and I stand right away, grabbing my duffel and trying to slip out before he sees me.

But, of course, I’m just not fast enough.

“Sophie.”

Stopping, I turn and level him with a glare that I hope holds the full weight of my feelings toward him. He stops, raises one infuriating eyebrow, and waits for me to speak.

“What?” I ask, and cross my arms, but when I do, my duffel bounces against my hip, which makes pain streak down my leg. I bite my tongue to keep from wincing, but Elliot’s eyes still flash to my hip, telling me I’m not hiding it as well as I think.

I wish he wasn’t so goddam perceptive.

Pushing forward, I say, “The advertising thing wasn’t bad enough? You had to mess with the travel plans, too?”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” he says, tilting his head. “Less time traveling, more time to prep for the game.”

“We can prep for the game on the bus.” I frown at him. “Which you would know, if you bothered to consult me on this. It’s exactly what happened with the Uniquest people?—”

When Elliot interrupts me, I think I might lose it, but then he does something unexpected — holding his hands up, palms out, like he’s surrendering to me.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs.

“Okay?” I blink at him, confused. I’m already prepared for this argument, have my points saved up in my head to recite to him — all the reasons why air travel is horrible.

Not enough room for the players to stretch out, for one.

Screaming kids, the disorganization, the pressure of having our documents ready, worrying about the luggage, the gear.

The list goes on, and I’m prepared to tick each item off on my fingers, but the look on Elliot’s face tells me he’s not fighting.

He’s… agreeing with me?

“You’re right,” he says, laughing again, covering the bottom part of his face with his hand. He laughs into his palm, then drags his hand down his chin.

I track the movement, wonder what it would be like to feel that scruff against my own skin, imagine the scrape of it.

Stop, I admonish myself. What the hell is wrong with me? Five minutes just being near him and I can’t stop staring at him? Straightening up, I remind myself that I’m angry with him — not staring at his mouth as he forms words.

“I’m right?” I ask, squinting at him, trying to find the trick here. “So… what does that mean?”

“It means…” He frowns, looks around at the seats and luggage, then finds my eyes.

The early morning sun filters in through the large airport windows, washing him in oozing gilded light.

It plays over his face, highlighting his bone structure.

For a devastating moment, I’m held captive by his stare, his brown eyes glinting gold in the sunlight.

Finally, he finishes, “It means I’m sorry, Sophie. And I think it would be beneficial if we worked together from now on. Finding sponsors, and everything else. I didn’t realize you’d care about the travel plans so much, but we can work together on that too. Does that sound like a good compromise?”

My arms are still crossed, but the scowl has dropped right off my face.

I’d had an entire speech built up in my head — starting with the change to flying, and ending with how a makeup sponsor might have been offensive to the players.

How it’s not focusing on the sport. Every reason, piled up inside me, all the arguments, rushing out like I’m a deflating balloon.

Elliot has apologized. Looking slightly uncomfortable, sure, but he did. It makes me feel instantly off-balance, unsure what to expect next. A single glance at him makes you think he’s not the kind of man to apologize, and yet, here he is. Having said he was sorry. To me.

“Sophie?” he prompts, a quirk to the side of his mouth telling me he knows exactly the mental path I’m running right now. I blink, try to gather myself, to remember what came out of his mouth after I’m sorry.

“Work together on finding sponsors,” I say, repeating him, trying to give myself time to catch up. Elliot smirks at me like this is what he’s used to — people fumbling with their words around him.

“And travel plans. And everything else. That’s right,” he says, putting out a hand and leaning casually on the handle of his suitcase. He looks so good doing it that I force myself to look away.

If it was up to me, I’d say that we don’t need bigger, flashier sponsors. That I want things to stay exactly the same way they are now. That we can bus to the games like we also do.

As if it can hear what I’m thinking, the strap on my duffel bag finally gives out, ripping clean through. I catch it, suck in a breath of air, and look up to find Elliot looking at me with a raised eyebrow, as if saying the state of my bag is proof enough that we need more money.

I hold my bag, and hold his gaze.

Gophers on the practice field. Mold in the showers. Broken ice baths. Molly, running herself ragged trying to care for all the players at once. Maybe she deserves a bigger team of trainers — maybe that’s something I can concede, even if I don’t want anything to change.

I bite my tongue against the swell of fear that forms in my chest, suck in a breath, and say, “Fine. Yes, Elliot.”

“Yes, what?” he asks, and I know he knows what I’m saying, but I grit it out through my teeth anyway, having the terrible, sinking feeling that I’m going to regret this.

“Yes, we can work together.”

“Great,” he says, smirking, holding out his hand to me, fingers splayed just like that first day. Again, the thought of touching him is intimidating, but I thrust my free hand into his, ignoring the electric shock that pulses up to my elbow when our skin touches.

“Great,” I repeat, realizing too late that even though our shake is done, we’re still clutching hands, gazes locked together.

“Uh, Coach?” Lena asks, and I yank my hand out of his, turning to her with a flustered rush. She smirks, too, eyes flashing to Elliot, then says, “We’re boarding now.”

I discover the massaging feature on my seat as we’re boarding the plane, and turn to Molly to show her. “Okay,” I say, holding up the remote, “I have to admit — this is cool.”

But it’s not Molly standing there, getting ready to sit in the seat next to me. It’s Elliot, and he raises an eyebrow at me, smirking at the remote in my hand.

“Is that so?”

I feel how hot my cheeks are as I drop the remote back into its holder, shaking my head and looking around him to the aisle.

“Where’s Molly?”

“She asked me to switch,” Elliot says, folding himself into the seat, his spicy cologne floating over to me as he does. “Said she wanted to be closer to the bathroom.”

Curse that woman and her small bladder.

“Okay.” I bite my lip, then sit back down in my seat, carefully tucking my elbows in so I don’t brush against him. I’d expected Elliot Altman to be the manspreading type, but instead he stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle.

I have to snap my eyes away, keep them from running the length of his body, realizing how athletic he is, despite how sleek his suits look on him.

“Are you going to admit it, then?” Elliot asks, a smirk on his face, his eyes closed. Flushing again, I realize that when I looked away from his legs, I only resettled on his face, which is much worse.

Huffing, I reach into my bag and pull out my tablet, intending to watch some film. “Admit what?”

“That flying is better than bussing?”

There’s no way in hell I’m admitting that to Elliot Altman, even if we made up in the airport. Even if we agreed to work together from now on.

I’m not admitting that I had no idea planes could even have massaging seats — likely because I’ve never been on a plane like this before.

Not public. Chartered. Just for us. Enough room for the players to spread out, relax.

A separate section in the front, where Elliot and I sit, along with a few other admin people, then Molly and Skylar few rows back.

“Come on,” Elliot says, leaning over, his breath warm against my ear. “Admit it, Coach. You like the plane.”

Without warning, I remember what he said to me in my office: You’re afraid of change. You’ve been sitting here, treading water for years, and now that I’m here, trying to make some progress, you feel threatened.

Maybe he was right. Maybe those things are true. But if Elliot wants to psychoanalyze? I can return the favor.

Twisting in my seat, I plant an elbow on the armrest and face him, watching surprise register over his expression when we come face-to-face.

“Why does it matter to you so much that I like the plane, Elliot?” I ask, batting my eyes a few times for good measure.

His eyes widen, “What?”

“You keep bothering me about admitting flying is a good idea, but why do you care if I like it?” My voice is low, and the whispering back and forth feels intimate, even though the tone is still adversarial.

“Maybe it’s because you’ve realized I’m an essential part of the team, and without me, you won’t make any money? So now you’re trying to suck up to me?”

Elliot stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that my smile starts to slip off my face, and I get the strangest feeling like I’m missing something.

So quickly that I almost miss it, his eyes dart down to my lips, and the fact of it — either that it happened, or that I imagined it — makes the heat compound on my cheeks.

Mercifully, Elliot ends the eye contact, letting out a laugh, shaking his head, and dropping his head back against the seat. In a blasé tone that completely betrays the gaze we just held, he says, “Touché, Coach.”

Five minutes later, when he falls asleep, I’m still trying to calm my rapidly beating heart.