Page 7 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

“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 chosemen’ssports. 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 forher.

“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, andrelaxes 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 — butthisis 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 agive it herekind 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.