Page 14 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

The car drives over a bump and comes to a jolty stop.

“Welcome home, boss,” Nicholas says, breaking me out of my thoughts, his shadowy face half turned in my direction.

Finally.

Nicholas turns off the ignition, hastily hops out of the car, steps around it, and opens the door for me. I descend and place my hands on my waist as I gaze at my mansion with pride.

My home. My abode. My haven.

I watch as the now-setting sun casts its warm rays on the zinc roofs and glass windows, a smile crossing my face. It’s such a mundane and natural thing, but after the hell I have been through during my time away in the UK, just a photo of my house would trigger positive emotions.

Nicholas appears from behind me with two bags in hand.

He walks ahead of me, and I follow closely behind. I specifically told Nicholas to park the car just outside the mansion on our way home. I want to walk through those gates myself. Despite feeling like all my joints will dislocate if I exert myself too much, I know I have to work out as soon as I get in. Walking through the gates to the entrance door is my way of warming up for what is to come.

I murmur replies to the greetings of the security men at the gate and walk straight to the entrance, where Elena, my maid, is waiting to greet me with a smile.

“Welcome home, Mr. Vaughn. Would you like to—”

“Not now, Elena,” I wave her off.

The soft thud of my cane on the tiled floor annoys me for some reason, and I send it flying across the living room, barely missing the LCD TV by an inch.

I turn to Elena, and her expression strikes a balance between being puzzled and being terrified.

“What is there to look at, Elena? Set me an ice bath!” I bark.

She scurries past me and straight to the bathroom. I limp to my gym and stare at the treadmill longingly, cursing my leginjury. I need some dumbbell lifting, some bench presses, and some leg presses, and then I’ll be done for the day.

Some people may think it’s crazy that I have to do all this despite an injury, but what most don’t understand is that’s what makes Vaughn Graham the greatest soccer player in the United States. Being the best doesn’t fully cut it for me; I want to be the best for many years to come and carve my name in gold in the Soccer Hall of Fame.

I feel a stinging pain in my thigh as I push at the footplate despite setting it to medium intensity. My whole body is already drenched in hot, sticky sweat after going through my dumbbell and bench press workout. I blink away a drop of salty sweat from my eye, and in that instant, I sit up straight, frustrated, my chest heaving.

Now, I feel like I have earned myself an ice bath.

Feeling content, I head to my bedroom to wrap a towel around my waist before heading to the bathroom. Medium-sized chunks of ice bubble afloat in the tub. I can almost feel their coldness on my skin before I sink in.

I settle into the tub, partially submerging myself in the water. With closed eyes, I exhale deeply, savoring the chill of the water against my skin. I let my thoughts drift freely, and they take me through all the activities of the day and my stay in the UK. It’s been a hellish three days, and the feel of the cold water against my skin is all I need to deal with the aftermath.

Perfect.

The feeling is perfect, but not for long. My reality isn’t; my life isn’t.

Isn’t it strange and unbecoming that, despite having a successful career that has spanned over seven years and is still very active, I still struggle to deal with all that comes with my career? The paparazzi, the cameras, the lack of privacy, the lack of peace and quiet, and the expectations weighing heavily on meare all things I should have gotten used to by now. But no—it seems like my aversion to them keeps getting worse and worse.

I realize that my thoughts are taking me in a completely different direction than I intended. I just want to enjoy a nice ice bath and possibly take a nap.

My eyes snap open, and all of a sudden, the ice doesn’t feel so good against my skin anymore. Frustrated, I step out of the tub, grab a clean towel from the rack, and wrap it around my waist. I make my way to the bedroom and stand in front of my bed, contemplating calling Rachel to book an appointment with my therapist.

Cold water drips from my body, forming a small puddle at my feet, but I couldn’t care less.

I sink into the lush comfort of my bed and exhale in resignation. I pick up my phone and dial Rachel’s number.

In the blink of an eye, it connects, and I literally exhale in relief. Rachel and I parted ways shortly after my interaction with the fans at the airport. Now, I’m worried she might have drifted off to a nap, judging from how sunken her eyes had appeared just before we parted ways.

“Hello, Vaughn?”

“Hey, listen. I want you to schedule a meeting with Craig ASAP.”

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