Page 25 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
SOPHIE
I t’s late when Lena Athens slams through the door to my office, a smile splashed over her face, a paper in her hand, flapping through the air as she swings it up and slaps it down on my desk.
“There!” she says, breathless and windswept, looking like she ran halfway across the facilities to get here.
“There…?” I ask, scooting forward in my seat and picking up the paper, sending her a confused glance. “What is this?”
“It’s a sign-off from Molly,” Lena says, her body barely contained, shaking. “She’s cleared me to play.”
Something heavy and uncertain drops in my stomach.
It’s been a week since I burst into that conference room. A week since I realized it was true, that he decided to sell the team. A full seven days since I blocked his number, made it clear to everyone here that if he showed up, I didn’t want to see him under any circumstances.
Everything is falling apart. I’ve already started preparing, trying to figure out what a new owner might mean for the team. Trying to make sure that when it changes hands, I can protect as many of the people here as possible.
I told Elliot that he would be a fool to fire me, that I’m the heart of this team, and that’s true — but it doesn’t mean that another owner might not care about that. Plenty of rich assholes don’t give a fuck about heart, if it affects their bottom line.
Which means I’m not even sure if I’m still going to have a job at the end of the season
“Coach?” Lena prompts, her smile slipping a bit, the look on her face wavering between joy and worry. All the players have been shooting me concerned glances lately, and I know why. I’ve been moody, snappy, quick to anger.
All because of a man.
I feel stupid, naive for letting him in like that. For falling so fast, even though I got a solid read on him straightaway. If my grandmother was alive, she’d be singing her I told you so.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, focus on the paper, find Molly’s looping signature at the bottom of the page. It takes me another moment to process it. Molly has cleared Lena to play.
“Isn’t it great?” Lena says, bouncing from foot to foot. “I can play on Friday! We’ll definitely beat New York if I play.”
I’m shaking my head before I realize it’s what I’m doing, and the shift of expression on Lena’s face is murderous.
“Don’t you have tryouts for the Olympic team?” I ask, shifting my eyes to hers. “In just a few weeks?”
“Coach, are you hearing yourself?” She lets out a quick, incredulous breath, sticks her hand on her hip. “Yeah, I do! And I’m healthy . So I can play in the playoffs, then do the tryouts. In fact, I’ll need the time to prep, to get fully back into the flow of things, get that competitive edge?—”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Lena.”
She goes quiet, and I can tell she’s doing her best to compose herself. Her ability to control her emotions has come a long way since the beginning of the season.
Finally, she says, “I want to play. I’m healthy. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
“Molly cleared you, but what if you push it?” I stand up from my desk, shaking my head and thrust a hand into my hair.
Normally, I would have braided it, but I didn’t have the energy this morning, so it’s a wild, unkempt mess from my hands constantly going through it.
“What if you go too hard, and reinjure yourself?—”
“So what if I do?” Lena throws her hands up in the air, her voice raising. “Soccer is everything to me. I want to play. And I just don’t get why you won’t let me!”
“Because!” I throw the paper down on the table, take a step toward her. “You are more than just a soccer player, and you’re more than just a player here for Dallas. Of course we want to have you, but at the risk of your entire future career? It’s just not worth it, Lena?—”
“You want to know what I think?” Lena shakes her head, steps away from me, and crosses her arms over her chest. “I think that you’re, like, projecting onto me! So you got hurt, and it ruined your career, and I’m really sorry that happened to you, but I am not you , okay?”
“ Lena —”
The fury, confusion, and frustration all tangle up inside me until it’s impossible to get my words out. Lena turns and goes, pushing her way out of my office much like she did all those months ago. When Elliot was waiting in the hallway just beyond the door.
Thrusting my hands into my hair, I pace back and forth in my office, staring at the pattern in the carpet and sweating furiously.
Ever since the storm, my air conditioner has been out, unable to turn back on even once the power returned to the building, and it’s stifling in here quick, even with the gentle breeze through the window.
When I emerge into the parking lot, my car is the only one left. The other players left a while ago, and Lena must have come straight over after her appointment with Molly. She’s long gone now.
It’s for the best. I still don’t know how to explain it to her — that I ignored my coach, too. Pushed myself too hard. Ended my career before it could ever really start.
I make my way out to the pitch, hoping there’s something I can pick up. Like stacking cones or tidying loose balls might help me to organize my thoughts.
But the field is immaculate, not a single thing out of place. It’s also dark — the lights off, nothing but the moon above and the glow of the city to illuminate the night.
Kicking through the grass, I search for rocks, divots, anything I can focus myself on. That’s what I’m doing when I come across a ball, left out in the taller grass, abandoned and slightly flat.
The side of my foot connects firmly with it, sending it rolling out of the taller grass and into the practice field, where it waits like a bomb, calling to me.
My hands shake.
I’ve just kicked a soccer ball for the first time in years. I wait for the pain in my hip, for the world to come crumbling down around me. For the memories of the championship game — my injury happening in the very first minute — to flood in, overwhelm me, send me right into a panic attack.
For years, I’ve avoided kicking a ball, getting too close, thinking that’s something that could never belong to my again. My career was over — what reason did I have to be kicking a ball?
Plus, the last time I kicked a ball, I landed myself in the hospital.
Without thinking, I feel my legs carry me the few steps away, over to the ball. I stare down at it in the dark for long enough that little spots appear in my vision, darting around the ball, swimming.
Then, I lift my leg, swing, and connect solidly with it. It soars across the field, bouncing once, then coming to a stop.
Heart hammering in my chest, I stalk toward it, scoop it up, carry it over to the equipment shed. I find a needle, pump the ball up, test the fill, drop it down, bounce it off my foot, my knee.
It’s like the moment you slide into bed after a long day. Like the first drink of water on a hot summer afternoon. Finally finding the thing you’ve been looking for.
Relief.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out on the pitch, in front of the goal, dribbling the ball, breathing hard, heart lifting with the rhythm of it, the gentle tap, tap, tap of the soccer ball against my skin, my ankle, my foot.
Even squeezing it between my palms feels right, my mind flashing with every time I’ve thrown the ball in.
Taking me back to the little girl in the too-big jersey, cheeks flushed and hot, realizing she’s found the thing that’s going to fill her life with joy. Who, a few years later, chose soccer over ballet.
The teenager who beamed with pride when she took home the all-star ribbon for the state. Who, three weeks later, signed a deal to play with a full-ride in college.
Tears stream down my face, and I realize I’m laughing, the sound mixed between joy and sobbing. A second later, I return to the equipment shed, bring out a bag of balls, and line them up in front of the goal, kicking one after another, the pop of each connection reverberating to my core.
Each of the kicks goes wide, tall, too far. It doesn’t matter — I know I’m out of practice.
It feels like everything I’ve been holding up inside of me for the past five years comes flooding out, released each time I hit the ball. Soccer was never just about my career — it was about the love of the sport. And I’ve been depriving myself of it, bottling everything up.
I lose track of time, out on the field, and eventually run to turn on the lights, my body exhausted but my mind feeling, for the first time in a long time, free.