Page 13 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

SOPHIE

T he players erupt into cheers when I walk into the locker room, their voices morphing into a single, joyful blob.

I hold my hands in the air, unable to keep the smile off my face. I don’t want to fall into the trap of over-celebrating, but the women in this room are looking at me like I hung the sun — looking at each other that way, too.

“I, uh—” I pause, clear my throat, nod to try and clear my head. “I don’t really know what to say. Except that what I saw out there was some exceptional goddam team work, and you guys deserved that win.”

They erupt in cheers again, and I laugh, gesturing with both hands for them to calm down. Once it’s quiet again, I speak.

“As you know, during the season, we have a strict one-drink rule,” I scan side to side, meeting the eyes of each player.

Then, I grin, “But, seeing as how we are in Miami, our next game isn’t for two weeks, and you all just played your hearts out, I think we can lift that rule for just one night, right? ”

This time, they stand, cheering and laughing, and I manage to wrangle them enough for us to put our hands in the middle and do a quick countdown before I duck out of the locker room and into the hallway, which is cool and quiet compared to the chaos in there.

“Can’t believe you’re going to let them go wild,” my assistant coach says, tucking some of her black hair behind her ear.

“Oh, don’t worry, Sanchez,” I laugh, bumping my shoulder into hers. “You’re cleared to go wild, too. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Pretty sure that takes going wild right off the table, Kendall.”

We part ways at the back of the building, and I pull my hood up, loop around, and make my way right back to our hotel. The players may be going out tonight, and it’s true that our next game might not be for two weeks — but I still want to get a jump on it.

I’d planned to watch the film for San Francisco on the plane, but Elliot did a good job of distracting me. Just thinking about it makes my cheeks warm — how dangerously close to flirting the whole thing felt.

I was not flirting with Elliot Altman , even if he did book us a private flight. Even if he did agree to work with me, instead of against me. I don’t trust him even half as far as I could throw him. Which, looking at the size of his legs, I don’t think is very far at all.

Mentally shaking my head, I erase the thought of his muscular legs and speed up, sweating until I hit the air-conditioned lobby. Luckily, our hotel is only a few blocks from the field.

The thing about Dallas is that, while it might be hot, it’s at least dry. Miami feels like a wet blanket on your head, and I can’t wait to get out of the damp air for a while.

“Sophie.”

My heart stutters when I turn into the elevator bay and realize someone is right behind me. When I turn, I see him. Elliot — hair mussed, looking a bit out of breath.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright, and I can see it clear as day. He’s happy about the win, looking just like my players. Full with the bubbling possibility of the victory. For some reason, seeing this, more than anything, makes my heart start to beat a little faster.

“Mr. Altman?”

He frowns, and takes a step closer to me, his eyes finding mine. “When did you leave the stadium? I didn’t even see you go.”

I laugh, cross my arms, cup my elbows. People flow around us, getting in and out of the elevators, but Elliot stands close enough that it feels like it’s just me and him here.

“I slipped out the back,” I admit. “I’d already done my post-game interview, and didn’t want to risk any other media picking me up. Really, I just wanted to come back here.”

He holds my gaze, then says, “Really? Aren’t you going to celebrate?”

“The team will.” Am I leaning toward him? “But I’m a little too old for that.”

“How old are you?”

“Did your prep school teach you anything about how to talk to a lady?”

“Touché,” he says, and I realize I love when he says that. A beat passes, and when I glance toward the elevators, he says, “I was planning on going up to the rooftop bar for a drink. As the owner of the team, I think you should celebrate. I think you should join me.”

“Oh. As the owner of the team?” I ask, taking a page from his book and raising an eyebrow at him. “I thought we were working together.”

“Working together on celebrating.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes at him and glancing at the glossy sign for the bar — the one that the concierge informed me earlier is usually booked out a year in advance.

“No offense, Elliot, but I’m not sure you’re going to be able to get a table up there.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Let’s bet on it. If I can’t, you spend the rest of the night in your room and I foot the bill for your room service, but if I get us the table, you come up for a drink with me.”

“You love your bets, don’t you?”

His smile broadens. “What do you say?”

This doesn’t feel real. When did we go from hating each other to getting drinks? And why do I like the way his eyes are locked on mine, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist?

I think of the concierge, the haughty way he shook his head when I asked about getting the team up on the roof. Even sports teams have to book, he said.

Holding my hand out to Elliot, I grin at him, already thinking about all the room service I’m going to enjoy on his dime. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Altman.”

Not only do we get a table on the rooftop, but our server assures us it’s the nicest view in the city, and brings us a bottle of champagne on the house.

“Okay,” I say, closing my eyes when I take a sip of the champagne. When I open them and see Elliot seated across from me, I have to remember to be mad. “This is not fair.”

This time, he raises both eyebrows, glancing out at the city. “You mean, for everyone else? That they can’t all have this view?”

“I mean,” I say, leaning forward and giggling — wait, after a single sip of champagne, I’m already giggling? — and setting my glass on the table, “if you had told me that you own this hotel, I wouldn’t have made the bet with you.”

He shrugs, holding his champagne glass so casually it looks like it might slip right out of his hands. “I don’t own it, I’m just a pretty significant shareholder.”

“See, and you’d almost convinced me you’re human.”

He laughs, sets his glass down, and leans forward.

“Do you know my favorite part of the game earlier? That header goal from Krueger.”

“Okay, I’m impressed that you know what that is.”

“Of course I know what it is,” he says, shooting me a smug look. “I am the owner of a soccer team, after all.”

“I’d almost forgotten — you hadn’t mentioned that in a few seconds.”

“So champagne makes you snarky,” he hums. “I like it.”

“I am normally like this,” I bite back, taking another sip of my champagne.

It’s the best I’ve ever had — even better than the stuff my mom ordered the day I found out I’d be going to the Olympics.

This champagne tastes like someone unearthed it from a cellar in France after centuries, chilled it to perfection, and put it on its own first-class flight straight to this table.

“All right,” Elliot says, pulling his phone out. He taps on it a few times, then places it on the table and turns it toward me, tipping his head down and looking up at me through his lashes. “What do you think?”

Stupidly, I say, “What?”

He gestures at his phone, “For a sponsor.”

Oh .

Something silly, something unbelievably naive deflates inside me. He asked me up here so he could talk to me about sponsors . Of course. He’s the owner, and I’m the coach, and he owns this place. He’s probably used to talking business over a bottle of champagne, even if this feels special to me.

I hate the feeling. Even more, I hate that I’ve allowed myself to think any differently, that I wanted it to be different.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Right,” and pull the phone toward me.

Then, my surprise overshadows my disappointment, and I look back up at him with wide eyes, my mouth dropped open. “Nelson Financial?”

“Yep.” Elliot sits back, champagne in hand, looking appropriately pleased with himself.

“And I’m thinking that, with the money from this sponsorship, we can tackle a lot of the projects I’m looking at.

Bump the prices for the seats, but more importantly, get your team playing somewhere with at least twice the capacity.

You’re sold out for every game — that means it’s time to expand. ”

I look back down at the logo, mind racing.

“In fact,” Elliot says, “I’m thinking we charter flights from now on. The team seemed to like it, right?”

“Right.” My lips are moving, and I know I’m speaking, but my brain is still fixed on his phone, on this reality. Nelson Financial wants to sponsor our team.

Nelson Financial — the largest bank in the world.

Other women’s teams have big sponsors, sure, but Nelson hasn’t shown any sign that it’s interested in sponsoring athletics at all, let alone for women’s sports.

That’s not me being pessimistic — it’s just realistic thinking, after more than a decade as a female athlete.

And not only are they offering to sponsor a women’s sports team, but they’re offering to sponsor us ? After five years without setting foot near the championship game?

“How did you…?” But when I meet his eyes again, the corners are crinkled, like he’s desperately trying to keep himself from laughing. “No,” I say, shaking my head and pushing the phone back toward him. “Don’t tell me this is another company you ‘don’t really own’?”

Elliot shrugs. “Let’s just say, I have some pull over there.” He leans in so our faces are half a foot apart. “And you wouldn’t realize this, Sophie, but I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

“Trust me,” I say, swallow. I swear, his eyes track the movement. “I know.”