Page 6 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
ELLIOT
W hen my alarm goes off at five, I’m already awake.
As though anticipating the alarm, my body wakes me up exactly one minute before the trilling starts. I reach over and silence the alarm, getting my feet on the floor, my body standing before I can succumb to the ever-present exhaustion weighing on my shoulders and fall back into bed.
I haven’t done that in over ten years, but if you want to keep a routine, you have to stay vigilant.
Sleep didn’t come quickly last night. I tossed and turned, thinking about Sophie, something strange and sour anchoring in my stomach when I imagined the look on her face again.
That subtle frown at the corners of her mouth, the snappy movements, the deep, intense feelings of disappointment emanating from her.
Obviously, she hated losing that game.
I step into the bathroom, find my toothbrush, squeeze on the toothpaste. Closing my eyes while I brush, my thoughts drift back to her.
Of course, I’ve never met anyone who loves losing, but there was something else there. Something more than competitive nature.
I think about her eyes on me, the pressure of that stare as I walked back through the parking lot. Sophie Kendall wants to hate me, but I get the sense that hating isn’t her strong point.
After washing my face, I grab my running shorts and pull them on.
Sophie may want to hate me, but I’m doing what’s right for this soccer team. The allure of sports is the tension, the drama, the loyalty from the fans and the incredible feats of athleticism, but the simple truth is that a sports team is a business.
And a business can’t be successful if it’s not generating enough revenue to satisfy the shareholders, if it’s not sustaining consistent growth.
I sit and tug my sneakers on, one foot at a time, brushing my hand along the inside of the shoe to make sure it’s situated correctly. There’s nothing worse than starting a run and realizing the tongue of your shoe is folded slightly, rubbing against your foot.
The Bolts are not sustaining consistent growth.
In fact, they’re barely sustaining a number in the black.
There are two things that need to happen — first, they need to win more games to sell more tickets, and second, we need sponsors.
Brand names on the jerseys, money coming in through mutually beneficial relationships.
If I was at home, I’d run my normal route through Central Park. But I don’t know Dallas well, and there don’t seem to be many parks near me, so instead I head to the hotel gym, raising a hand to the attendant who checks me in.
I hit the treadmill first, turning up the incline.
For the first ten minutes, I check on the stock market.
Clark’s private equity firm, Fitz & Eddings, is trending up.
His team — the San Francisco Fahrenheit — won their game last night.
The image that fills the screen is of a group of women, laughing and smiling, jumping together in a tight huddle.
Tapping the screen, I return it to a blank trail.
Today, we’re making changes.
Infusing this team with money. I’ve already started funneling my own money into the team, but we need outside cash. More VIP tickets, more amenities at the games. In fact, just a better stadium with more seats.
At the end of the season, we need to see a considerable profit. This is like any other operation — take your profits, invest some back, then take the rest for yourself and your shareholders.
The woman who owned the team before me was terrible at generating a profit.
The documents in her office were barely organized, but just by looking at them it was obvious that she was making mistake after mistake.
Giving away whole ticket blocks to local groups and schools. Waiving fees for VIP ticket holders.
And even when she could have charged more, she didn’t. The pricing strategy for this team doesn’t look like it’s been touched for decades.
It’s pretty obvious to me that the person running things either didn’t care about the profits, or had no interest in reinvesting.
But there’s no point in focusing on the past — right now, my people are drawing up plans.
We’ll upgrade the facilities, look at a nicer stadium so we can double the cost of the VIP tickets.
And then, eventually, when I have Sophie on my good side, we’ll start looking at the roster and see which players we’d like to buy, luring them away from their teams and into Dallas instead.
Obviously I’m no expert, but I know inefficiency when I see it.
And I saw it last night, in Lena Athens, who not only was standing on the side of the field, not playing, but having a bad attitude while at it.
Several of the women’s soccer publications I subscribed to included a shot of her, mentioned her obvious displeasure at still being on the sidelines.
Setting my phone in the holder, I pull up one of the articles, rereading the line that helped to keep me up last night.
Coach Kendall might be a local legend and a buoy to the team’s morale, but she’s clearly letting Athens walk all over her. Any good coach can tell you that a good athlete isn’t all about talent — they’re all about attitude. Lena Athens has plenty of that — just not the good kind.
Heaving in a breath, I turn the phone off and jack up the speed on the treadmill, loving the burn in my lungs, the rhythmic way my feet bounce off the machine.
I don’t care how good Lena Athens is — it can’t be worth it to keep her around if she’s not useful. Especially not if she’s disrespecting Sophie.
My feet slam against the belt of the treadmill, and I realize I’ve kept increasing the speed, making my muscles shake with exhaustion. I jam my thumb into the STOP button, lifting up and straddling the belt while I breathe.
Without meaning to, I spent an entire hour on the treadmill, throwing off my morning routine. I adjust my weightlifting set to make up for the lost time, and forty-five minutes later, I’m back in my hotel room, stepping into the shower.
When I step out exactly fifteen minutes later, clean, hair styled, and wearing one of my favorite suits, Skylar is waiting in the sitting area, tapping away on her tablet.
“Good morning, sir,” she says, standing and handing me my green smoothie. I hate the stuff — it takes like goopy, sweet grass — but it’s quick, easy, and nutritious.
“Good morning, Skylar.”
I pace the hotel room while she reads to me from her notes, relaying messages and laying out our schedule for the day, for the next.
“Meeting with the Uniquest team first thing tomorrow, then the five o’ clock with Blake’s international team.”
“Did you let Coach Kendall know about the meeting with Uniquest?”
Skylar grimaces, still looking down at her notes. “Yes. But, just so you know, she didn’t seem too happy about it.”
“Noted. What else?”
She rattles off a long list of people who’d like to talk to me, get a meeting with me. Updates from my other ventures, as well as new dates for meetings I’ve had to reschedule because of the time I’ve been spending here, working on the team.
“And, there’s one more thing, sir.”
I glance up from the pattern on the carpet and meet her eyes. “What’s that.”
She shifts uncomfortably, and before she says it, I know what it is. Skylar clears her throat, glances back down at her tablet, and says, “It’s your brother. He’s been trying to get in contact with you…”
Immediately, I picture that specific look my father gets when thinking about Brandon. It’s not worth facing my father’s wrath to have a chat with Brandon. He’ll come around eventually, give in to Dad’s pressure.
“Block the number.” Waving my hand nonchalantly, I say, “In fact, you can block any of his attempts to get in touch with me.”
Skylar looks unsure, but nods and says, “Okay. Will do, sir.”
As we go through the rest of her notes, my mind keeps going back to Brandon, the pang in my chest at the idea of ignoring him. The knowledge that dealing with my father will be much worse.