Page 9 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

“Good effort,” I finally say, catching their eyes. “The most important thing is that I could tell you were giving this your all until the end.”

I can see it reflected back in their eyes —yeah, and that’s what almost makes it worse. If they hadn’t been giving it their all, that might be something we could point to. A lack of effort might be much easier to fix than a lack of skill, the loss of a vital player.

Or that other thing that’s hovering just under the mesh of the team. An intangible element that needs fixed. Something about the way they work together, how they come together on the field.

Lena is at the fringe of the huddle now, and when I meet her eyes, I can see that she’s still upset about not making it into this game. That she blames me — and herself — for this loss.

Sighing, I finish up the short speech with, “We’ll watch film tomorrow, as always. Rest up tonight, take care of yourselves. Let’s start fresh in the morning.”

They disperse, each of them walking out, and I find myself thankful, at least, that it’s a home game. If we were away right now, we’d have to clamor back onto the bus, smashed inside, all the high emotions from the loss bouncing around together untilone player would inevitably snap at another, and I’d have to untangle the argument.

I’m at the bench, grabbing my jacket, hoping the journalists down here don’t corner me for an interview, when a figure appears at my side.

“Sophie.”

I straighten up at the sound of his voice, that smooth tenor, and meet his eyes, wishing my cheeks weren’t hot. Hopefully, he’ll chalk it up to the excitement of the game, and not the sight ofhim.

He’s in a suit, as always, but there’s something different about him — something a little undone. Right now, he’s not the same, totally composed man I met in the hallway before. His hair is tousled, and there’s the lightest smudge of?—

“Mr. Altman,” I return, as formally as I can, trying to hide my embarrassment under the straight set of my mouth. “Is that paint on your cheek?”

He raises his eyebrows, brings his hand to his cheek, and wipes the swipe of blue away, staring at his palm with a strange expression. “Seems like it is,” he says, cracking a smile and raising his eyes to mine. When he does, there’s something sparkling there. Likely, the joy of seeing us lose the game. “And you can call me Elliot.”

Why does he have paint on his cheek? I glance up at the stands, which are quickly emptying, but which I know held our devout fans just ten minutes ago. Was he up there rubbing shoulders with them?

When I say nothing, just turn and head for the locker rooms, he clears his throat and falls into step beside me, where I catch the swing of his long legs from the corner of my eye. Frustration flashes in me at how easy it is for him to keep my pace.

“Well,” he says, finally. “It looks like our bet has come to a quick close.”

I work hard not to grit the words out through my teeth. “Looks like it has.”

Right now, I can’t even look at him. If I do, I might start to dissect his appearance even more, trying to figure it out. Because right now, he looks like a man who just watched a soccer match.

And one that enjoyed it, at that — his collar loosened, his jacket shrugged off and folded over one arm, his hair wild and windswept. Part of me wants to piece him all back together. Another part of me — one that I shove far, far to the back of my mind — wants to take him apart more, see how much further he can unravel.

“It’s too bad,” he says, which surprises me. I resist the urge to look at him as I pass the cleanup crew, waving at them as they drive by with water jugs and netted bags of soccer balls.

“Is it? Not for you, it seems?”

“They were doing so good at the start of the game,” he remarks, and I finally look at him again, raising an eyebrow. I’m confused. Obviously he was rooting for us to lose, so he would win his little wager and get to do things his way.

But now he’s trying to talk to me about the game like we’re footie buddies. Like he wanted us to win.

Sighing, I look down at my feet as we continue walking. Above us, bugs flutter around the field lights. Fans stream out of the stadium, a sea of disappointed faces in blue and orange. The crew is working quickly, disassembling the game just as fast as the tide turned and we headed into losing territory.

That’s how soccer is — sometimes moving slowly, then fast enough that the game slips away without you having time to process it, to stop it. I’d adjusted the defense in the first half, but it wasn’t enough. All I want to do is mull over it, think about how I could have better prepared the players for this game, but I can’t do that with Elliot Altman walking beside me.

“Are you waiting for my explanation?” I finally ask, knowing there’s an obstinate tone in my voice and not doing anything to correct that. Lena gets to act out to me, maybe I get to act out to Altman. Maybe that’s the circle of life.

“Why did you lose?” he asks, and to my surprise, he sounds genuinely curious, not goading. He continues, “Was the other team just better? It didn’t seem that way to me.”

He’s right — Washington wasn’t better than us. Not technically, skill-wise, or even without Lena suiting up for us. In fact, without Lena, we were pretty evenly matched. And yet, they pulled ahead near the middle of the game anyway.

“I think… we ran out of energy,” I say, the words coming out on a single breath. Tomorrow, I’ll examine the game footage and take note of every mistake. Understand where I could have better prepared, and pinpoint the moments for each player where they could have made a different decision.

But now that I’ve said it out loud, I know without watching it that my first inclination is right. The crux of the loss was all about our energy.

“So, more conditioning?” Elliot stops when I finally reach my SUV, parked all the way at the back of the parking lot. I have my key in my hand, but I’m not unlocking it. Where is his car? Maybe there’s a limo about to come around the corner for him.