Page 3 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

SOPHIE

L ena Athens, my star player, glares at me like I’ve just given her a prison sentence, her short brown hair trembling with rage as it hangs near her jaw.

“What are you talking about?” She waves the paper in her hand again, the soft crinkle of the paper fighting to be heard against the rumbles of the old air conditioner in my office. “They cleared me, Kendall!”

I sigh, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. Outside, it’s a beautiful day — sun shining, wind rustling lightly through the trees. Exactly the kind of day that should be spent out on the pitch.

Instead, I’m in here with Lena, arguing with her about who can and can’t clear her to play. It does not include the random clinic she sought out on the other side of the city. In fact, the paper she’s holding looks like it could be drawn up on a rudimentary computer program.

“I’ve never even heard of that clinic. Besides, you know Molly is the only one I trust to clear you?—”

Lena shakes her head, impatient, like I’m just not getting it. “If it’s up to her, I’ll be out for the rest of the season!”

As if responding to the idea, my hip twinges painfully, threatening to spread down my leg and make the entire thing go numb.

I ignore the pain and stand, planting my hands on the desk and leaning forward, relieved when my leg maintains feeling. “Rest of the season, or rest of your career, Lena?

She opens her mouth, ready to cut me off again, but I hold up my hand and give her a look. She squares her jaw, waits for me to go on, so I do.

“You know how important it is that you fully heal before hitting the field again. Besides just being bad for you and your body, you’re not going to be any good to the team if you only play for ten minutes before reinjuring yourself.

Or if you’re favoring your bad leg. Or if you’re testy because you’re still in pain. ”

“I’m not going to get hurt again,” she says, of course only listening to the first part of my argument. It doesn’t matter — she could probably have both sides of this discussion on her own at this point.

I’ve already tried telling her it’s out of her hands, already tried pointing out that last time she got hurt, it was because another player slid into her, taking her off her feet.

There was nothing she could do to stop it, and the last thing we need is for her to be out there, playing scared and focused on avoiding injury.

My mouth opens while my brain tries to form a thought, come up with something I can say that will keep her from arguing with me about this, but Lena growls, turns on her heel, and stomps out of my office.

She’ll be back — likely with a muttered apology — in time for her to walk through practice with us.

Lena isn’t a bad person, or even, really, that difficult a player to work with.

This injury has just hit her particularly hard, and she doesn’t know how to cope with losing the love of her life — soccer.

Lena leaves the door open, revealing a sliver of the hallway, and I catch a glimpse of a suit, the low murmur of a man’s voice.

Hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I’m out of my seat, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair and swinging it around my shoulders, sensing something is off about this situation.

“Excuse me?” I push through the door and right into the middle of the conversation taking place. The man to my left is familiar — one of the administrators from ownership.

But the man to the right is new. Tall, with tousled dark hair. A dusting of dark stubble over his chin and up to his jaw. His brow lowers when he looks at me, his dark brown eyes practically black as he takes me in.

Before he even opens his mouth, I know his type. From the ridiculously expensive watch on his wrist to the way his shoes gleam — he’s a rich asshole. And — this is just a wild guess — a rich asshole who knows nothing about soccer, and yet is standing in the hallway just outside my office.

Turning to the other guy, I say, “Mr. Williams, right?”

“Wilson,” he corrects, clearing his throat and glancing at the new guy quickly, embarrassed. “Ms. Kendall, I was just about to introduce you?—”

“Are you about to tell me that the team sold?” I try to keep the words from coming out rapid fire, but it’s hard.

The fury in my chest is building, billowing like a plume of smoke, compounding an itching kind of anger.

An itch rises inside of me to stomp my feet like a child, say Nobody ever tells me anything!

Instead, I bite my tongue and wait for Mr. Wilson to respond.

“Well…” Wilson clears his throat, running a hand over his balding head. “Yes. That was?—”

“When did this happen?” Inwardly, I curse myself for interrupting, but I can’t help it. Maybe that’s why I’m so quick to give Lena a pass.

“Last Friday, but?—”

“ Last Friday ?” I repeat, interrupting him again, completely shocked at his answer, though maybe I shouldn’t be.

I’d known the team was up for sale — the current owner retired; after twenty-six years of excellent ownership, her husband finally convinced her to sell it and move to South Carolina for their retirement.

Letting out a sharp, incredulous laugh, I ask, “And you know about it, Mr. Wilson? When did you find out? And why does it seem like I’m the last person to hear about this? Do you know what this is going to do to my players? And just before the start of the season?”

“If you’ll allow me to interrupt, Ms. Kendall.”

I turn, still breathing hard, and come face-to-face with the dark-haired man. He’s too tall, enough that he has to tip his chin down to look at me, and I hate it. I’m not even close to being a short woman, but he’s got at least four inches on me.

What bothers me even more about him — more than the height, more than the startling symmetry of his face, more than the suit and the watch — is the weird, emanating sense of calm coming from him. It’s the complete antithesis to my energy, and it almost takes the edge off of my anger.

“I—”

“Elliot Altman,” he says, sticking his hand out for me to shake. I stare at it, heart suddenly relocating to my throat. Why is my body telling me to turn around and run? Adrenaline courses through me like his hand is a live wire, and touching it might cause me real physical harm.

“Sophie Kendall,” I manage, Southern manners kicking in as I reach forward and slide my hand into his. A shiver streaks the length of my forearm, from my wrist to my elbow. The result of touching a stranger, surely. Gathering my voice, I start, “Mr. Altman?—”

“Please, call me Elliot,” he says dipping his head to look at me. “And first, I need to apologize for the poor communication, Sophie. Can I call you Sophie?”

I hesitate, then nod, and he brings his hand to his jaw.

I hate how it makes him look like a model.

His voice is perfect, precise, each word and vowel carefully formed, and without meaning to, I imagine how much his schools must have cost when he was a kid.

That voice is not the product of public school.

“I’m the new owner of the team, and now that I’m here, you can trust that operations will improve significantly . ”

That makes me bristle instantly, thinking of the owner we had before. She was passionate, if she wasn’t totally flush with cash. “There’s nothing wrong with operations. I just… should have been informed sooner.”

“Nothing wrong with operations?” he laughs, raising his eyebrows and gesturing to the whole of the hallway, like the fluorescent lights indicate a much larger problem with our club.

“I have plenty of experience with this kind of thing. We’ll start on construction Monday — we’re looking at a complete redesign of the facilities.

Think state-of-the-art training rooms, hyperbaric chambers, in-house nutrition?—”

“No,” I’m shaking my head, holding my hands up, stomach already flipping at the idea of changing a single thing about this place. “Absolutely not. You can’t be doing construction while we’re trying to practice and train!”

“You won’t even notice it,” Elliot says, holding his hands up. And to my absolute shock, he winks at me. “We’ll do one project at a time, make our way through, do the work at night. Just go about your business like normal — like I said, you won’t notice a thing.”

“You’re right,” I challenge, stepping closer to him, tipping my face up and locking onto his gaze.

Somehow, with most of my brain telling me to run from this man, I’m still stepping further into his orbit, catching a hint of his spicy cologne as I do.

“Because you’re not going to do construction at least until the end of the season. ”

He raises an eyebrow, but I catch something like — what? Is it approval that flashes over his features? Surprise, sure, but something dangerously close to pleasure, too.

I shake away the thrill of pleasure that rolls up my spine at that look — why in the world would I care about this stranger’s opinion of me?

Not only is he a stranger, he’s a rich stranger. The kind of man who thinks he can do whatever he wants because he has some money to throw around. I can practically hear my grandmother over my shoulder, warning me away from him.

“Never go for a man who doesn’t know the value of hard work .”

Growing up, I thought her constant advice about men was annoying, but I’d give anything to have her here now. I imagine her bangles clanging loudly as she points right at him, saying something like, “See? This is exactly what I was talking about.”

“All right,” Elliot says, and I realize we’ve been standing quietly in a staredown, Mr. Wilson awkwardly off to the side, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Elliot raises his hand, palm out, like he’s surrendering to me.

“You know what? It makes sense, Coach. We’ll wait until the off-season to make most of the major changes. ”

My brow furrows. “Most of the major changes? What other changes are you thinking of making?”

“Well, we need to get all new training staff in here for you. I checked your current staff — you’ve only got one trainer on. And she’s nearing retirement age anyway, so we can just bring someone else in — someone a little more fresh.”

I blink at him. “ Molly ? Molly is not near retirement. And she has plenty of experience! She’s been here for over ten years.”

His eyes skip over my face, and I imagine how he sees me — cheeks flushed, hair coming free from my braids, eyes surely a little glassy from the anger. How has this man so easily gotten under my skin?

I think of Lena’s temper and realize, not for the first time, that she and I are a lot more alike than she thinks.

Something like amusement rolls over Elliot’s face. “Okay. Molly goes nowhere. But we should hire more trainers, and get an on-site nutritionist?—”

I cross my arms. “Do you even play soccer? Watch women’s soccer? What do you even know about the sport?”

“Coach Kendall, please—” Mr. Wilson starts, but Elliot holds his hand up, shaking his head.

“No, no, it’s okay.” He turns his dark eyes to me again, and they hit me full force.

“She’s right. I don’t know that much about soccer — but what I do know is business.

And I know a failing one when I see it. This—” he gestures to the building, the training grounds as a whole, “—is a crumbling venture. Stained ceiling tiles, subpar equipment, spotty staffing — not to mention the patchy grass out there?—”

I bite my lip to keep from mentioning how we had to fire the turf specialist. That would, unfortunately, only prove his point.

“—so maybe I’m not a soccer expert. But I know how to turn a business around. And that’s what I intend to do here. Take your team from winning three games last season to doing a hell of a lot better than that in the coming months.”

“So, what, you think a soccer team is like real estate?” I say. “You’re just going to— to flip us, and sell for a profit? That’s not how teams work. Sports aren’t businesses .”

“And how is that?”

Despite the impatience winding its way around my bones, I find myself actually considering the question.

“Morale — but more than morale. Players need to feel the passion for what they’re doing.

Every time they go out on the field together, they need to know that someone has their back.

Each other, the coaching staff, the club itself. And especially the fans.”

Fans are the one thing Dallas is managing to do right, and a sour taste rises in my mouth when I think about how they might react to the information that the club has been pretty unceremoniously dumped into the lap of some rich boy.

“We don’t need more trainers, or fancy stuff.” I wave my hand around to indicate the fancy stuff I’m against. “We need more time to practice. No guys in suits clogging up the hallways. And actually — higher salaries for the players.”

That last one slips in before I know what I’m saying, but the words are already out of my mouth. If I know anything about rich guys like Elliot, it’s that they shrivel at the idea of raising salaries.

“Okay,” Elliot says, biting his lower lip and glancing around. When he finally meets my eyes again, he tilts his head and gives me an appraising look as he leans forward, so our noses are nearly touching. “I’ll tell you what, Coach Kendall — winning talks.”

I take a step back, catch my breath, uncross and recross my arms.

“Winning talks,” he repeats. “So, win the next three games, and I’ll consider your ideas.”

My heart skips a few times. I’ve already spent hours poring over the next few games on our schedule, trying to figure out which strategies will give us the advantage over other, well-supported clubs.

“And if I don’t win?” I ask, not realizing I’ve spoken until he nods, like that’s exactly what he thought I was going to say.

“If you don’t win,” his voice is soft, but his eyes are locked firmly onto mine. “Then we try my way. Even if you don’t like it.”

A beat passes. I realize, with a start, that Mr. Wilson is gone — when did he go? How long have we been alone in the hallway together?

I stick my hand out, something pricking at the back of my mind, telling me I’m being way too confident. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Altman.”

“All right,” he says, sliding his hand into mine again.

My hands are always too hot, but his are cool, smooth, and the slide of our skin together makes the skin on my chest prickle.

I start to pull back, but he tightens his grip for just a moment, pulling me a millimeter closer, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine. “And you can call me Elliot, Coach.”