Page 24 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

CHAPTER 12

SOPHIE

The players erupt into cheers when I walk into the locker room, their voices morphing into a single, joyful blob.

I hold my hands in the air, unable to keep the smile off my face. I don’t want to fall into the trap of over-celebrating, but the women in this room are looking at me like I hung the sun — looking at each other that way, too.

“I, uh—” I pause, clear my throat, nod to try and clear my head. “I don’t really know what to say. Except that what I saw out there was some exceptionalgoddam team work, and you guys deserved that win.”

They erupt in cheers again, and I laugh, gesturing with both hands for them to calm down. Once it’s quiet again, I speak.

“As you know, during the season, we have a strict one-drink rule,” I scan side to side, meeting the eyes of each player. Then, I grin, “But, seeing as how we are in Miami, our next game isn’t for two weeks, and you all just played your hearts out, I think we can lift that rule for just one night, right?”

This time, they stand, cheering and laughing, and I manage to wrangle them enough for us to put our hands in the middle and do a quick countdown before I duck out of the locker room and into the hallway, which is cool and quiet compared to the chaos in there.

“Can’t believe you’re going to let them go wild,” my assistant coach says, tucking some of her black hair behind her ear.

“Oh, don’t worry, Sanchez,” I laugh, bumping my shoulder into hers. “You’re cleared to go wild, too. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Pretty sure that takesgoing wildright off the table, Kendall.”

We part ways at the back of the building, and I pull my hood up, loop around, and make my way right back to our hotel. The players may be going out tonight, and it’s true that our next game might not be for two weeks — but I still want to get a jump on it.

I’d planned to watch the film for San Francisco on the plane, but Elliot did a good job of distracting me. Just thinking about it makes my cheeks warm — how dangerously close to flirting the whole thing felt.

I was not flirting withElliot Altman, even if he did book us a private flight. Even if he did agree to work with me, instead of against me. I don’t trust him even half as far as I could throw him. Which, looking at the size of his legs, I don’t think is very far at all.

Mentally shaking my head, I erase the thought of his muscular legs and speed up, sweating until I hit the air-conditioned lobby. Luckily, our hotel is only a few blocks from the field.

The thing about Dallas is that, while it might be hot, it’s at least dry. Miami feels like a wet blanket on your head, and I can’t wait to get out of the damp air for a while.

“Sophie.”

My heart stutters when I turn into the elevator bay and realize someone is right behind me. When I turn, I see him. Elliot — hair mussed, looking a bit out of breath.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright, and I can see it clear as day. He’shappyabout the win, looking just like my players. Full with the bubbling possibility of the victory. For some reason, seeing this, more than anything, makes my heart start to beat a little faster.

“Mr. Altman?”

He frowns, and takes a step closer to me, his eyes finding mine. “When did you leave the stadium? I didn’t even see you go.”

I laugh, cross my arms, cup my elbows. People flow around us, getting in and out of the elevators, but Elliot stands close enough that it feels like it’s just me and him here.

“I slipped out the back,” I admit. “I’d already done my post-game interview, and didn’t want to risk any other media picking me up. Really, I just wanted to come back here.”

He holds my gaze, then says, “Really? Aren’t you going to celebrate?”

“The team will.” Am I leaning toward him? “But I’m a little too old for that.”

“How old are you?”

“Did your prep school teach you anything about how to talk to a lady?”

“Touché,” he says, and I realize I love when he says that. A beat passes, and when I glance toward the elevators, he says, “I was planning on going up to the rooftop bar for a drink. As the owner of the team, I think you should celebrate. I think you should join me.”

“Oh. As the owner of the team?” I ask, taking a page from his book and raising an eyebrow at him. “I thought we were working together.”

“Working together on celebrating.”