Page 53 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

Kicking through the grass, I search for rocks, divots, anything I can focus myself on. That’s what I’m doing when I come across a ball, left out in the taller grass, abandoned and slightly flat.

The side of my foot connects firmly with it, sending it rolling out of the taller grass and into the practice field, where it waits like a bomb, calling to me.

My hands shake.

I’ve just kicked a soccer ball for the first time in years. I wait for the pain in my hip, for the world to come crumbling down around me. For the memories of the championship game — my injury happening in the very first minute — to flood in, overwhelm me, send me right into a panic attack.

For years, I’ve avoided kicking a ball, getting too close, thinking that’s something that could never belong to my again. My career was over — what reason did I have to be kicking a ball?

Plus, the last time I kicked a ball, I landed myself in the hospital.

Without thinking, I feel my legs carry me the few steps away, over to the ball. I stare down at it in the dark for long enough that little spots appear in my vision, darting around the ball, swimming.

Then, I lift my leg, swing, and connect solidly with it. It soars across the field, bouncing once, then coming to a stop.

Heart hammering in my chest, I stalk toward it, scoop it up, carry it over to the equipment shed. I find a needle, pump the ball up, test the fill, drop it down, bounce it off my foot, my knee.

It’s like the moment you slide into bed after a long day. Like the first drink of water on a hot summer afternoon. Finally finding the thing you’ve been looking for.

Relief.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m out on the pitch, in front of the goal, dribbling the ball, breathing hard, heart lifting with the rhythm of it, the gentletap, tap, tapof the soccer ball against my skin, my ankle, my foot. Even squeezing it between my palms feels right, my mind flashing with every time I’ve thrown the ball in.

Taking me back to the little girl in the too-big jersey, cheeks flushed and hot, realizing she’s found the thing that’s going to fill her life with joy. Who, a few years later, chose soccer over ballet.

The teenager who beamed with pride when she took home the all-star ribbon for the state. Who, three weeks later, signed a deal to play with a full-ride in college.

Tears stream down my face, and I realize I’m laughing, the sound mixed between joy and sobbing. A second later, I return to the equipment shed, bring out a bag of balls, and line them up in front of the goal, kicking one after another, thepopof each connection reverberating to my core.

Each of the kicks goes wide, tall, too far. It doesn’t matter — I know I’m out of practice.

It feels like everything I’ve been holding up inside of me for the past five years comes flooding out, released each time I hit the ball. Soccer was never just about my career — it was about the love of the sport. And I’ve been depriving myself of it, bottling everything up.

I lose track of time, out on the field, and eventually run to turn on the lights, my body exhausted but my mind feeling, for the first time in a long time, free.

CHAPTER 25

ELLIOT

There are three different cameras pointed at the table where Andrea Williams and I sit, papers laid out in front of us, pens already uncapped and ready to be used.

I’ve seen other major signing events televised, but never one for women’s sports. I should be nervous, but I’m not. Selling the team feels like the right thing to do — if I can get Sophie to talk to me again, we can clear the air. I can tell her that I want to be with her, that selling the team will remove the friction between us, the roadblocks to our relationship.

“Even done something like this before?” Andrea asks, leaning back in her chair and looking at the papers on the table.

“Signed a deal?” I ask, laughing. “Sure, hundreds of times. Never on TV before.”

“Should be exciting.”

I open my mouth to answer her, but I’m interrupted by my phone ringing in my pocket. One of the executives behind the cameras glares at me, and I grimace, raising a hand to show that I’ll be putting it on silent.

SeeingDadflash across the caller ID, I hesitate for a moment, then pick up. Even after my conversation with Brandon the other day, and the experience at the restaurant, I still have the instinct to answer him, an aversion against sending his call to voicemail.

“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m kind of busy right now, but I can call you back?—”

“About to do the signing, right?”

I pause, brow wrinkling as I try to recall if he and I talked about when I’d be finishing up the deal to sell the team. Most of the other affairs are all settled, but we do need this one final signature.