Page 9 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
SOPHIE
E lliot catches up to me just as I’m slipping into my office.
He steps in after me, and I force myself to act normal, to move to my desk, stand behind it. Put an object between the two of us, though I can smell his spicy cologne, already filling my office and banishing the damp smell of the old air conditioner.
“What the hell was that ?” he asks, voice low, eyes narrowed on me. I probably should be intimidated — Elliot Altman looks like the kind of man who can normally wear someone down with a single look. But I’m still too pissed off from that meeting to let him get to me.
“That’s a great question,” I fire back, still shaking with surprise and anger from what that man — Randall — said to me.
I pin Elliot with a glare and try to give him a taste of exactly what it’s like to be one of my players, on the field, under my command.
“I suggest you ask yourself that question.”
“What are you talking about?” Elliot throws his hands up, considers, then turns and starts stalking back and forth across my office.
“I’m not sure if you realize this, Coach, but your facility isn’t just outdated — it’s in a state of disrepair.
Are you aware that the landscaper has been battling gophers on the practice field? ”
Yes, and I believe him to be a capable general in that war.
I open my mouth to respond, but Elliot is on a roll now, and he’s not going to let up. He continues to pace, ticking the problems off on his fingers.
“Mold in the showers,” he says, turning on his heel and turning around. “The ice baths have been broken for months .”
Nobody wanted to use them anyway — it was always like pulling teeth to get the players in. Broken ice baths is just one less thing for Molly to argue with them about.
As though reading my thoughts, Elliot says, “And again, only one trainer for an entire team of girls.”
“Women,” I correct, then add, “What’s the point in telling me all this?”
I cross my arms over my chest, thankful my desk is between us when he turns and looks at me incredulously.
“What’s the point?” He laughs, gesturing to the door. “The point is that you’re in no position to be turning down sponsorships for this team! The last new sponsor is from 2006, Sophie. And they?—”
“Howard’s Landscaping,” I fire back, scowling. “They contribute a thousand dollars every year.”
Elliot’s eyes practically bug out of his head.
It would be funny if it wasn’t frustrating — the fact that he can look gorgeous, even when spitting mad.
“Exactly. That’s why I’m confused about that entire meeting.
Why you practically chased Randall out of there, when they were this close—” he raises his hand, pinching his fingers together to show a tiny distance, “to giving us a sponsorship deal.”
Now it’s my turn to blink back at him. “We are not doing a deal with a beauty brand like that. I don’t get how you don’t get what a mess that would be. To go through with it, period, let alone to try and talk the players into wearing it during games?—”
Elliot shakes his head, looking genuinely confused. “Half the girls?—”
“ Women ,” I insist. Maybe it’s a silly correction — I think of them and call them girls all the time, but right now, it seems important to say it.
I expect, for a second, for Elliot to huff, say I’m ridiculous, march out of the room.
But to my surprise, he just takes a deep breath and holds his hands up to me, palms out.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” he says. “Half of the women on your team wear makeup for the games anyway. So why?—”
“You’re right,” I say, leg shaking with impatience. “Some of them choose to. For some of them, it varies game to game. But it’s their choice, and making a deal like that might get in their heads.”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay, so let’s say a player usually wears makeup, says she’ll do it for the next six games, for this sponsorship.
But morning of, she just doesn’t want to.
Doesn’t have the extra time for it. Would be much better for her — and the team — to focus on getting herself in the right mental space.
But because there’s money involved like this, because we signed a contract about it, she has to go through with it. ”
“You’re saying, a sponsorship like this could lose us games?”
“Something like that.” The idea of losing games does not sound good to him. That, at least, is something we can agree on. “But also, just think about it for a second. Put yourself in our shoes. Imagine if a men’s soccer team should be sponsored by… by… an ED drug?”
The moment the phrase slips out of my mouth, I realize I’m alone with Elliot in my office, and it’s suddenly very hot. I work to keep my mind from straying too far, thinking about erectile dysfunction.
Mentally shaking myself, I refocus on him and — unless I’m imagining it — realize there’s a slight blush over his cheeks too. Rather than sit in this discomfort, I find myself rolling forward, listing more ridiculous sponsors for a men’s soccer team.
“Or hair plugs?” I bring my hands up, circling them, like I’m trying to pull another idea from the air, snatch it up to move us along. “Or, I don’t know, the doctors that do prostate exams? Or?—”
“You’ve made your point,” Elliot says, glowering at me. If only he didn’t look so good doing it. “But mine still stands. This place needs cash, needs more sponsors.”
“Not sponsors like that.”
“Without cash, everything around here is going to crumble. It’s a house of cards as it is. You’re honestly lucky I bought the team when I did.”
“Oh, please,” I scoff, waving my hand at him. “We were fine before you got here, and we’ll be fine long after you’re gone.”
Pleasure coils through me at the sight of the surprise on his face.
Then, he laughs, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh, you think I’m going? If it’s you or me, Kendall, it might do you some good to remember who the decision-maker is here. I own this team.”
That makes me laugh.
Elliot Altman really thinks he can waltz in here and take over. And he thinks getting rid of me is even something on the table. He watches me as I giggle and shake my head, fist to my mouth.
“Oh,” I chuckle, running a finger under my eye — mostly for the dramatics. Also for the way it makes his left eye twitch. “Are you trying to threaten my job right now, Altman?”
He says nothing, just stares, crossing his arms. Trying to be intimidating.
It might have worked on someone else, but not me. I’ve stood my ground enough in my life to know there’s not a chance in hell I’m about to back down now.
He’s a tall man, muscular, but doesn’t seem to understand that he’s fighting a battle he’s not going to win. I meet his eyes, hold the gaze, even as it makes my pulse flutter at my wrist like a trapped bird.
“I thought you were smarter than that,” I say, tilting my head, letting a smile curl over my lips. “You’re not getting rid of me, Altman. Not if you want to make any money.”
His confidence slips a little, though he does a good job of covering it up, rolling his eyes a bit as he says, “What are you talking about?”
“ You may be the owner,” I gesture at him, then tap my own chest with my pointer finger, “but I’m the heart.”
Swinging my arm and pointing out the message, I go on, “And the fans? The people up there in the stands, buying the tickets? They will riot if you even think of getting rid of me. I’m one of the best coaches in this league, for one.
But more importantly, I belong in Dallas.
They know it, and I know it. And if you try to fire me, you’ll find out mighty quick. ”
“One of the best coaches in the league, huh?” he says, rubbing his chin. “Then why is it that you’re having such a hard time winning games?”
I bite my tongue, rendered speechless for a moment, trying to school my features so he can’t tell I’m fully panicking.
He takes full advantage of it, and I get an idea of what he’s like in a boardroom — towering, commanding. The smallest, smallest part of me reacts giddily to the look on his face, the delight he has in his control, and I push it down, tell it to be quiet .
“Here’s what I think, Coach Kendall,” he says, eyes narrowing in on me as he takes another step in my direction, his thighs practically pressing against the front of my desk.
I swallow, forcing my eyes to stay stuck on his.
“I think you’re afraid of change. Something happened to you, and now you’re afraid of moving forward.
You’ve been sitting here, treading water for years, and now that I’m here, trying to make some progress, you feel threatened.
You don’t hate me , Sophie — you hate the idea of this team moving forward without you.
And you need to get over it, if you really care about the team as much as you say you do. ”
Something horrible happens the second the last word is out of his mouth — the terrifying, awful knowledge that he’s right. That he’s read me like a book, pulled me open so all my raw, gentle insides are on full display in front of him.
And that flushes through me, hot and sticky, clogging my throat and pushing at the back of my eyes. The tears are coming, whether I want them to or not.
Elliot blinks, drawing his head back, then clears his throat, looking almost like he might apologize. “Sophie, I?—”
But I can’t have him apologizing — that would be much worse — so I shake my head, hold my hand up, stop him from going on.
He may have read me easily, seen so quickly something that I haven’t even put into words myself, but he’s wrong about one thing — I do hate him.
Without meaning to, I think of that moment outside my car in the parking lot, right after losing that game. The way he had looked at me, the way he had talked about the team. As though he actually cared about whether or not we won or lost — but not as an owner.
As a new fan.
That was all bullshit. Just Elliot Altman, putting on a show for me. Trying to win me over, and it had started to work on me. When I saw him wipe that paint off, when I saw that little half-smile, I actually thought he cared. That he might not be as bad as I’d first assumed.
Now, I swallow down my emotions, holding back the tears long enough to speak.
“You may own the team, but this is my office,” I say through gritted teeth. I should never have let my guard down around this man, and I won’t be making that mistake again. “So get out .”