Page 4 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

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’mnotgoing 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 knowsnothingabout 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, compoundingan itching kind of anger. An itch rises inside of me to stomp my feet like a child, sayNobody 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, “Andyouknow 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 suitand 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?”