Page 18 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

Most other people with money like mine might have a driver — and usually, I do — but sometimes I like to drive myself. And, of course, I thought that, while in Dallas, I could handle my own transportation. Which means I’m dealing with theridiculoustraffic in this stupid city, trying to get back to the practice facility with enough time to salvage any part of the meeting.

But, of course, I don’t.

By the time I pull into the parking lot at the training facility, it’s completely empty and past seven. I get out of the car, glance up and see that the overhead lights are turned on, shining brightly down onto the field, which is blocked from my view by the risers.

Of course. Someone left the lights on. As if this team isn’t hemorrhaging money enough.

I find the key on my ring that unlocks the building, make my way back to the meeting room, grab my bag. On my way back out, I head to the field, figuring I can find the switch for the lights easily enough.

But when I get closer, I realize the lights aren’t on for no reason — there are two players out there, still practicing, feet moving quick.

No. Not two players — one player and Sophie.

Slowly, I creep along the side of the risers, looking out at them. It’s the player who was in jeans at the last game. Lena Athens. The star player, out with an injury, clearly angry that she’s not dressing out.

Lena dribbles the ball, handling it with ease, touching and tapping, and my eyes are lulled by the movement. I keep waiting for her to pass the ball over to Sophie, but she doesn’t, just keeps it to herself, then turns and kicks it into the net.

I realize, watching, that they’re having a conversation, and creep even closer, catching the tail end of something Sophie is sayingwhen I’m about fifteen yards away, but still hidden in the bleachers.

“…you’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling. It’s the way you act that you can manage.”

Based on the way Athens has been acting — the expression she wore during the game, the way she whipped her warm-up to the ground — I don’t expect her to laugh.

But she does, retrieving the ball and dribbling it back over to Sophie.

“I’m a basket case,” she says, sounding half-amused, half-depressed. “I know, and I’m sorry, Coach.”

“Less about me, more about the others,” Sophie says, her voice straddling the line between empathetic and authoritative. “You may be out, but they still look to you as a leader. I’m sure you realize that your attitude affected the game.”

A beat passes, then Athens lets out a breath. “I know. I’m letting everyone down.”

“Injuries aren’t just about the body,” Sophie says, turning, angling her body toward Athens, and once again, I expect the ball to come her way. For some reason, I want to see it — want to watch her dribble it, see how she moves when she’s doing the thing she loves.

But Athens keeps it, shoots again.

Sophie jogs over to get the ball, then, to my surprise, she picks it up and tosses it over to Athens, rather than just kicking it her way.

I tip my head, furrowing my brow. Sophie Kendall — former soccer prodigy — won’t even kick a soccer ball?

She goes on, “It’s more about what’s in your head. I know that sounds like a bunch of spiritual garbage, but it’s true. Poison the mind, poison the body, and all that.”

“Yeah.” Athens stops, foot atop the ball for a moment. “That’s what my gram has been saying.”

“She still coming to the games?”

“I tell her not to,” Athens laughs, voice sounding watery. “It’s so embarrassing, knowing she’s up there, and I’m not even on the field.”

“Your gram is a trooper,” Sophie says. “Maybe you should talk to her about it — she could show you how to take a page from her book.”

Athens laughs and mutters something I can’t hear, which makes Sophie laugh, too. The sound of it is light, full-bodied, and I realize I’ve only ever heard her laughing sarcastically.

Suddenly, I want to make her laugh for real. Say something that makes her laugh like thatfor me.

Without warning, Athens turns, dribbling the ball straight toward me, and I realize that if she sees me, I’m going to look like a total creep — standing under the bleachers, listening to everything they’re saying.

But she doesn’t see me, just turns and dribbles back toward Sophie before shooting — and scoring — again.

As quietly as I can, I go out the way I came in, mind racing.