Page 4 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
ELLIOT
T he VIP area for the Dallas Bolts is pitiful.
It’s yet another thing that goes on the endless list of much-needed improvements. This viewing area is nothing more than a slightly higher section in the stands, somewhat closer to the restrooms and food.
There are plenty of other stadiums in Dallas, and it seems to me the team would be much better off somewhere nicer, where fans might actually have a good time attending. Before making my way to my seat, I pull out my phone and text Skylar.
Good morning. Please research stadiums in Dallas for me. Provide a report with contact information and which might be willing to accommodate the team.
Even though the seating is abysmal, I have to admit that it’s a gorgeous day.
Sure, the sun is beating down — we are in Texas, after all — but there’s a cool breeze that drifts through every now and then.
The smell of barbecue and burgers drifts through the air, and squeals erupt from children in soccer jerseys, racing along the walkways and through the stands.
Down on the field, the sprinklers spray high into the air, catching the sun and spreading an array of colors above the field.
The sprinklers wet the grass in sections, and the smell of it carries through the air, mingling with the food and sunscreen scents.
It’s a unique scent — so unlike the other sports I’ve attended that I assume it must be somewhat iconic.
I make my way through the crowd, frowning when someone nearly lurches forward and spills their beer on my suit. The man grabs me by the shoulder, grins sloppily, and says in a drawling Texas accent, “Y’all good, brother?”
Nodding, I push away from him and finish the climb through the stands, realizing I’m the only person out here not wearing the blue and orange colors of the team.
All around me, it’s a sea of writhing fans, clad in jerseys and T-shirts, hats and tank tops that show off the Dallas Bolts logo.
There are even a few people covered in body paint.
I’m already sweating. I’d expected my seat to be air-conditioned, at the very least. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I glance at my watch to see that Skylar has replied.
Will work on it ASAP.
I reach the VIP section and start picking my way to my seat, eyes wandering down to the field, where the players are warming up.
Without meaning to, my eyes lock on Coach Kendall, her blond hair pulled up into a ponytail and swinging behind her back as she talks to a player.
The player is flat on her back, her legs in the air as she stretches, and she laughs at something Sophie says.
“Hey there. First time?”
I jump and turn to my right, seeing two older men staring up at me, their hands help up to shield their eyes from the sun. VIP seats, and not even a sunshade.
“That’s right,” I say, sitting down and holding my hand out to them. “Elliot Altman.”
The first one — with a short, gray beard — shakes it, then the second — taller and thinner — gives my hand a good pump, before returning his attention to the field. If I was expecting some recognition of my name from the sale of the team, I’m not going to get it. These two have no idea who I am.
This might be the perfect opportunity to get some information.
“So,” I hedge, watching as the closest man turns back to me, his brown eyes glinting in the sun.
He holds up a hand, reaches into his bag, and pulls out a ridiculous Dallas Bolts official cowboy hat, nestling it on his head and giving me a grin and the hand signal for go on .
Clearing my throat and glancing past the first man, I say, “The two of you are big Bolts fans?”
“Oh, yeah,” the first man says. “I’m Steven, and this is Rhett. Been watching women’s soccer here since the team first started up. When was that, Rhett?”
“Seventies,” Rhett offers, his gaze still focused on the field.
“And what made you choose women’s soccer?”
“That’s an odd question, don’t you think?” Steven laughs, popping the tab on a beer. The tight fizzle of it makes me instantly thirsty, and I look around for someone walking the stands, selling cans, but there are none to be found.
“Is it?” I retort, mood souring further when I realize I’ll have to go fetch my own beer. If only Skylar was here, I could ask her to grab one for me.
“Well, sure,” Steven says, shifting his body so he’s fully facing me.
“Way I see it, I never ask any of my buddies why they chose men’s sports.
Besides, my guess is that, at least over here, our boys are too busy with American football to spend much time on soccer.
I think that means the girls focus on it more, and they get better, you know? ”
I’ve done cursory research on American women’s soccer. Maybe I should have done more.
“That makes sense,” I allow, but my words are swallowed by a sudden, raucous cheer. Down on the field, the team is running out, waving up at the fans. Finally, Sophie takes the field, shakes hands with the other coach, and the cheer around me is deafening.
My eyes widen when Sophie turns and raises her hands up, the cheer growing louder in response. They are cheering for her .
“Wow,” I say, when the sound has died down enough for me to be heard. Down on the field, the refs are checking cleats. “They’re cheering for her? Coach Kendall?”
“Of course we’re cheering for her,” Steven laughs, glancing over at me with a slightly muddled look, like he’s not sure what’s confusing about it to me. “That’s Sophie Kendall!”
I went online and searched up her name, of course. Soccer player, soccer coach. Somewhat average record for wins during her coaching tenure at Dallas. I didn’t spend that much time looking into her history, though, and this amount of enthusiasm over her is surprising to me.
The men beside me must catch this, because Rhett leans forward, raising his eyebrows.
“Sophie Kendall. One of our own, right here from the city. Real soccer fans knew about her in high school — took her class to the varsity state championships, won two. Stayed local for college, too. Then she played for Dallas, took them to the national cup.” He pauses, shaking his head sadly.
“That girl was on the path to go down as one of the best Goddamn soccer players in history.”
“What happened?” I ask, but once again, the crowd drowns me out as the players line up down below us. The opposing team jerseys are bright pink, standing out against the green of the grass, and Dallas is in white jerseys, blue and orange accents along their shirts.
The women down on the field bounce on their toes, keeping their muscles warm. Music plays loudly. Beside me, Rhett and Steven are stomping their feet, clapping their hands, cheering, their faces jolly.
“Stand up!” Rhett says, looking over me, hand in the air as he waves a towel.
Shocking myself, I stand, my hands coming together as I clap with them. The whistle sounds, nearly inaudible under the sound of the chants and cheering, and the ball starts to move, whizzing over the field, player to player.
Dallas gets control of it and launches, but it rolls out of bounds. Washington scoops it up, tossing it back in and continuing the play.
They fight for control, moving the ball up and down the field. Our goalie runs ahead, foot connecting with the ball and moving it away. My chest tightens while the ball is near our goal, and relaxes into excitement when Dallas gets the ball and move it toward Washington’s goal.
“Oh, come on!” Steven calls, raising his hand in the air. “That’s a handball! Open your eyes!”
His enthusiasm is surprising to me, and I watch as the ball goes to the corner and the team throws it in again. Players grab the hem of their jerseys, swiping them over their foreheads, breathing hard, their eyes shifting over the field as they ready for the ball to come back in.
“What happened?” I ask, leaning over to ask Steven.
“They called a foul,” Steven shouts to be heard over the booing. “But Washington clearly touched the ball.”
As I look out to the field, I get drawn into the game again. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but the basics are clear — two teams fighting for control of the ball, kicking it between the defenders, trying to rocket it into the opposing team’s goal.
And when Dallas does, scoring the first goal of the game, I somehow find myself on my feet, cheering for them. The excitement is intoxicating.
I’ve been to my fair share of sporting events — not to mention played plenty of tennis — but this is something else. The players on the field, piling on top of one another, laughing and high-fiving, infuse the stadium with a feeling like bubbles rising from the bottom of a soda.
My gaze skips automatically down to Sophie, who’s stalking down the sideline with a clipboard in her hand, her fist raised in the air, her ponytail swinging confidently behind her.
“All right!” Rhett calls, turning and embracing Steven. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
When halftime comes, play stops and the players group up around Sophie.
I watch, fascinated, as her other coaches stand behind her, their hands clasped behind their backs.
Every player looks to her, even as they breathe hard and guzzle water.
Even from here, it’s easy to see that they’re listening intently, nodding and flashing her thumb-ups.
One kneels forward and points to something on her clipboard, asking a question.
Even the woman on the outskirts of the group, wearing jeans, clearly not dressing out for this game, is listening to Sophie as she talks, her arms stretching out, pointing to different players. The player in the jeans stands with her arms cross, her body language starkly unhappy.
A moment later, the team returns to the field, and they launch back into it. Whistles blow and I turn to Steven each time, asking for clarification — what happened? What did they do wrong?
Finally, he laughs and holds his hands out to me in a give it here kind of gesture. For a wild second, I think he might be asking for compensation, charging me for all the questions. It’s baffling and impressive, all at once.
“What?” I ask, brow furrowing.
“Let me see your phone,” he says. “You need some help, Elliot.”
Hesitantly, I hand my phone over to him, watching as he goes to the app store and downloads a radio app. A moment later, he turns it to a local station and hands it back to me.
“You got earbuds?”
I nod, digging in my pocket, then I have an earbud in, the announcer’s voice in my head, narrating the game as it happens. Words fly past me, terms I don’t understand: offside trap, tiki-taka, false nine, rabona, bicycle kick.
The announcer is a woman, her voice low and quick, the syllables snapping out. I wonder if she was a coach or player before moving to announcing.
“…this team really has a lot of belief in themselves as they come into the game, but we have to wonder if that belief is enough. Dallas is missing Athens, that strong central presence in their lineup. As we can see, Kendall has adjusted to the loss, but there’s only so much strategy can do.”
A different announcer, voice a bit higher, answers, “Dallas needs to get more comfortable playing around and over the Washington press — they need more attacking production here.”
As the game goes on and Washington pulls ahead, I listen intently.
I’ve invested in many industries over the years. There are a lot of investors that might leave their trust to the experts, show up with the money and not care what else happens.
Most sports owners have nothing to do with their teams, but that won’t be me. The reason I’ve been so successful is my attention to detail, my intimate understanding of where my money is going and how I can double it.
Chanting and singing ring up around me, the entire stadium sounding like the inside of a drum, booing and cheering alternating from our side of the stands.
I’m not going to be another clueless money man. I jot down notes, marking the things I don’t understand, determined to know everything I can.
As I do, I tell myself that it has everything to do with the money, and nothing to do with the energy, the cheering and chanting, the intoxicating sense of loyalty and freedom that sings through this stadium.