Page 17 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

“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 bequiet.

“Here’s whatIthink, 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 hateme, Sophie — you hate the idea ofthis 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 bemuchworse — 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 — Idohate 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 getout.”

CHAPTER 9

ELLIOT

I’m halfway back to my hotel when I get a call from Skylar, coming over the screen of the SUV and startling me out of my angry thoughts. She’s back in New York, managing some things. I’ve been in Dallas longer than I thought, and I’ll likely be here for at least another month, so I’ll need someone to pick up the mail, water the plants, and Skylar is setting that up before flying back to Texas.

I realize, as I answer her call, that I didn’t have music or a podcast playing — just the silence of the car as I pictured Sophie in her office, the way she’d looked at me, pointed at me, the way her chest rose and fell, the flush in her cheeks.

Skylar’s voice rings through the car, far too loud, and I reach over to turn it down.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Skylar. What’s up?”

When I speak, I hear how tense I sound, the way my voice is wound up. The fight with Sophie made my entire body feel tight,my shoulders up near my ears, my fingers gripped far too tightly around my steering wheel, so the leather groans in protest.

I try to relax as Skylar starts, tell myself that it’s probably just a question about the house — what I want done with this or that. Something easier to confirm over the phone, rather than in text. Something quick.

But the moment she speaks, I know it’s not going to be something easy.

“I’m so sorry, I should have reminded you, but Blake just contacted me about your five o’ clock with his international team, and?—”

“Fuck,” I slam on the breaks — not the smartest move on the busy Dallas freeway — and jerk onto the exit. Angry honks stretch out on either side of me, but I don’t care. How did I forget about the meeting with Blake?

I know how. I was far too busy thinking about Coach Sophie Kendall to remember my one other obligation today.

“I’m so sorry, sir?—”

“Not your fault, Skylar. I’m going to let you go so I can drive.”

I get to the end of the exit and turn left to circle around, get back on the highway going the other way. To top it off, my laptop is in my bag, which is sitting in the meeting room. Where I left it before I stormed after Sophie, and where I left it when I stormed out of her office and directly to the parking lot.