Page 1 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

Chapter one

Chapter One

Rachel

Meow!

With the speed of light and the lurking feeling of failure hovering over me in my bed, I throw the covers off my body and sit up straight with swollen, pulsing eyes and hair that birds would rather die than nest in.

“I’m up! I’m up! I’m up!”

Leaning over to the large pillow by my side, I plant a heavy kiss on the head of my roommate and best friend, Archie.

Meow.

The chubby orange thing never fails me when it comes to getting me ready for the dreary days of my life. I blink the sleep out of my eyes and jump out of bed to stumble into the bathroom.

I don’t think about either the comfort of my bed or the comfort of homemade coffee as I pick up my toothbrush and, later, hop under a hot shower.

As the water pours through my scalp and down my body, I shake my head slowly and wonder about the last time I’ve had a proper bath—with candles, a good historical romance novel, and wine on a cool evening with no worries or responsibilities the next day.

My life seems to be breezing right past me, and even now, I can picture Vaughn, my six-foot-four boss with his sleeve tattoos, kicking me around a field, a horn on either side of his head, and a wicked smile stretching his cheek.

Vaughn is a pain in my ass, but maybe I’m just the only one who sees him that way. Every time he pulls up to Vaughn Charity Center—which seems to be every day now, since his injury—he has a wide, welcoming smile for everyone except me. It’s almost like once he sets his eyes on me, his face turns sour, and suddenly, he tugs at his collar like my presence is suffocating. It’s something I don’t seem to understand.

Everyone admires him, from the janitor who willingly offers to park his car properly to the receptionist who always has a cup of coffee ready. Most people call him an angel without a doubt, and boy, does he look angelic!

His face is in such perfect symmetry that it is almost otherworldly, sculpted with delicate lines that hold both strength and gentleness. He has high cheekbones and a jawline that speaks of his strength. Two large, soulful brown eyes stare at you when he speaks, conveying every flicker of thought and feeling without a word. When he is elated, they widen even more and have a lighter shade. When he is angry, you can see them turn dark amber.

I heard the faint ringing of my phone coming from the bedroom, pulling me from my thoughts. Quickly, I rinse thelather off my head and grab my towel. There are only two people in the world who call me so early in the morning: Vaughn and my mother. I enter the room and find Archie hissing at my phone, the hair on his back rising.

It’s with great luck that he hasn’t thought of knocking the phone off the bed yet. Sometimes, I wonder why the orange cat thinks he has more rights to my bed than my phone. Before now, I used to keep my phone on the dresser, only to wake up and find it knocked to the ground, making me miss my alarms. Archie loves his sleep very much, and anything that dares to wake him from that slumber will have to deal with the consequences.

I see him raising his paw to strike at my phone.

“Don’t, Archie!” I yell at him. He looks up at me and cocks his head. “Go away,” I say, waving him off the bed with one hand while I hold on to my towel with the other.

I read the number displayed on the screen, the last four digits jumping at me and causing my heart to flutter. Somehow, I have convinced myself that not saving my mother’s number will do much good for me as I will no longer feel that anxiety creep up on me every time my phone starts buzzing. However, I can still recognize her number without even having it saved.

“Hello,” I say, pressing the warm device against my ear.

“Hey, Ray!”

I hate whenever she calls me that, like I’m still eight years old, standing in front of the bathroom mirror while she whispers sweet nonsense to me. I can imagine what conversation that girl would be having with my twenty-seven-year-old self now when she realizes that the mother we used to love so much has become our second biggest problem—after Vaughn, of course.

“Mother,” I reply in a flat voice.

“Didn’t expect you to be up this early.”

“Why did you call then? To interrupt my sleep?”

“No, can we just not fight right now?”

“I’m not fighting you or anyone. You are the one who is calling my phone, and how can I help?” I raise a brow, drumming my fingers on the dresser impatiently as the cold begins to seep into my bones.

“Leo and I are getting married this weekend.”

“Good for you,” I blurt, my eyes stinging, the news hitting me like a bucket of ice blocks thrown on my face.

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