Page 21 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
SOPHIE
T his time, when I walk into the sponsor meeting, I know exactly who it is, and what we’re here to do. When I push through the door, Elliot stands, tugging on his suit jacket, and I glance away from him to keep my body from reacting in an embarrassing way.
When I got home from our little food tour last night, I was on the phone with Olivia for hours. Throughout the entire phone call, she repeated herself, doubling down with every detail I offered, “ Sophie. That man is down bad for you!”
I countered with the evidence — that he’d called that night a mistake. That it would probably be better for us to keep our distance. That he wants to be friendly colleagues .
That while technically not my boss, being seen with him could be complicated.
“Soph,” Olivia said, her voice low, serious for once as she stared into the camera toward me. “I have never seen you this happy. And I think that means something.”
Now, Elliot swings his arm toward me, grinning.
“Ms. Haworth,” he says to the older woman sitting at the table, her gray curls immaculate. “This is Sophie Kendall, our coach and the heart of the Dallas Bolts.”
At that, I flush, heat moving into my cheeks. “Oh, it’s not?—”
“Of course, I know who you are.” Ms. Haworth stands, offers her hand to me. I take it, and it’s soft, warm in mine. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Coach Kendall.”
“Please,” I say, “call me Sophie.”
We sit down at the table together, Elliot and I, his assistant Skylar, and a few people from Ms. Haworth’s team.
“Go ahead, Jen,” Ms. Haworth says, gesturing to a young woman in a blazer. She stands, her voice shaking slightly as she brings up a presentation.
“Good morning, everyone,” she says. “We’re here today to discuss a potential partnership between the Dallas Bolts and the Haworth Institute.
In exchange for our sponsorship of the team,” — she clicks over to a slide with mock-up jerseys, signs on the outside of the stadium, and several advertisements featuring both Dallas players and the Haworth Institute logo — “the Haworth Institute would like a significant presence in the branding and appearance of the Dallas Bolts.”
Clicking to the next slide, she says, “As you may know, the Haworth Institute is a certified B-Corp organization that focuses on helping women move forward. Functioning as a sort of booster club, our members are alumni of the program who provide mentoring to the younger woman just started their careers or entrepreneurial endeavors. We strive to help bright young women find the resources they need to be successful.”
Already, my chest is soaring at the idea of partnering with them. This feels like the kind of sponsorship that the players will feel good about.
I glance at Elliot and realize he’s already looking at me, something like satisfaction clear in his expression. When our gazes catch, he holds mine, and I’m the first to look away, heart pounding.
The look on his face was like he was happy to have made me happy.
And that’s a dangerous thing for me to be thinking, no matter what Olivia said.
The meeting goes on, with numbers and charts taking over the screen. One of Elliot’s lawyers asks to clarify the language in one part of the contact, but other than that, the meeting goes by quickly, and when we’re done, Ms. Haworth catches me at the side of the room, shaking my hand again.
“I have to say,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder.
She smells like roses and patchouli, a rich, comforting scent.
“I admire your story, Sophie. The resilience you’ve found is astounding, and you’re clearly a beacon of this community.
If you’re ever interested, we’d love to have you mentor one of our women, to join the organization. ”
My throat swells, and I smile at her, nodding and finding it difficult to find my words.
In some ways, I still feel like that girl from years ago. The one who’s freshly injured, crying every day, pushing herself too hard. Grieving the loss of the championship game, grieving the loss of playing in the Olympics. Ignoring the doctors and trying to get back on the field no matter what.
And I realize that, in my own way, I am mentoring. With Lena, pushing her to take her healing seriously, even when she hates me for it.
“Thank you,” I finally manage to say. “Your work is inspiring. I think this partnership is going to be a success.”
Ms. Haworth smiles. “Me, too.”
Ava McNabb and Eliza Armstrong are our goalkeepers, and I need to figure out which one of them I’m going to start tomorrow against San Francisco.
It’s a tight one, but if we win this game, we have a chance of going to the playoffs.
Every detail is important, and I’ve spent the week preparing.
Practices have run longer than normal, and besides my little food adventure with Elliot and the sponsorship meeting yesterday, I’ve spent all my time working on strategy.
We’re playing the San Francisco Fahrenheit, one of the best teams in the league.
Ava is more flexible, has a higher probability of hitting those amazing saves, but she’s overall less reliable. Eliza is steadier, more consistent in her saving, less flashy, but if she’s going up against a really talented forward, she’s less likely to make the save, to take a risk that pays off.
I flip over to the San Francisco roster, then change to a video of their lead forward, tapping through to all her scores from last year, the way she rounds the field, hands in the air after each one.
I’d like to see that as little as possible during our next game, so I tap back to our goalies, watch their saves, one finger against my lips as I think through the various scenarios, try to determine which starter will grant us the best chance at the game.
They’ll switch in and out, of course, but who starts matters. It can set the tone for the rest of the game.
I’m so engrossed in my task, in thinking about the goalkeepers and which might be best for our game, that I only notice the storm the moment the power goes out, the lights in my office blinking off around me. The air conditioner groans and gives out, and the room instantly feels slightly muggy.
It’s too quiet in here without it.
Sitting up, I blink, turning off my tablet screen and waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness around me. It takes almost a full minute, and when they finally do, I make out the silhouette of a man in the doorway.
Screaming, I grab the first thing I can — my tablet — and hurl it at his head.
“Sophie!” the man shouts, ducking so my tablet hits the wall behind him and shatters into a million pieces. “What are you doing ?”
I’m breathing hard, mind still racing through the ways I can protect myself, when I realize it’s Elliot in the doorway.
“What am I doing?” I gasp, throwing my hands up. “What are you doing? You scared the shit out of me?—”
“Why are you still here?” he asks, stepping into the room with the guts of my tablet in his hands. Gently, he sets it on my desk and turns to me, crossing his arms. “It’s storming out there. They’re saying there could be a tornado?”
I shrug, “They always say that.”
“Sophie, you can’t just?—”
“If the storm is so dangerous,” I say, taking a step toward him and jabbing my finger into his chest, “then what are you doing here?”
“I was making sure—” His words cut off, like he’s stopped himself, and his eyes dart down to mine. My mind fills in the rest of the sentence.
I was making sure you were okay .
That couldn’t possibly be what he was going to say. Elliot Altman, here, risking his life to check on me?
Olivia’s voice is in the back of my head, chanting like a middle schooler, He likes you !
It doesn’t make any sense.
“Sophie,” Elliot says, his voice rasping, his gaze still locked on mine. The room is black around us, and his eyes are inky in the dark.
I shouldn’t. We’re supposed to be friendly colleagues. But, in this moment, staring into his eyes, it feels like we’re the only two people on this planet. Like trying to fight this thing between us is just a losing game.
Slowly, I raise up onto my toes. Elliot swallows, watching, not moving away.
When I wrap my arms around his neck, he winds an arm around the small of my back. It’s like we’re each giving the other person endless opportunities to step back, to stop this — but neither of us does.
Elliot finally breaks through the slow motion, hauling me up against him with a breathy moan. He’s hard, and the pressure of it sends a zing through me, the memory of that night, of what he feels like, coursing down to every one of my fingers.
In one smooth movement, the combination of two strong bodies, Elliot is lifting me up and I’m wrapping my legs around his waist. He carries me over to the desk.
Lightning flashes outside the window, illuminating the space, showing the shadow of the plants outside my window over the inside of the room.
“The door,” I breathe. Even though I’m fairly certain he and I are the only ones here this late, and in the middle of a storm, the last thing I want is for a custodian to come walking through.
Elliot pulls away from me hesitantly, then turns and locks the door.
The clicking sound echoes through the room, like an acknowledgment from the two of us that we know what we’re doing. That we are not friendly colleagues.
He steps back between my legs, his palm on the tops of my thigh, his fingers splaying out over the bare skin. I’m wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top today, and with his other hand, he draws the strap of my tank down my shoulder, the scrape of the fabric far too sensual.
“Sophie,” Elliot starts, his voice sounding pained. “About what I said?—”
I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want him to write this off before it even happens. So, instead, I rise up and kiss him again, shaking my head and reaching for his belt buckle.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, my lips brushing against his when I speak. I flick my gaze up, meet his eyes, hope I look as nonchalant as I want. “Let’s just… have fun.”
He swallows, and I track the movement with my eyes. My fingers are still working, and when I get his pants loose, I push them down his hips, a breath rushing out of me when I palm him, already hard.
“Okay,” he chokes, hooking his fingers in the waistband of my shorts and shimmying them down my legs. “Okay.”