Page 6 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

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 trymyway. 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.”

CHAPTER 3

ELLIOT

The 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 forgo 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?”