Page 2 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

“You don’t sound happy.”

“What do you want me to do? Throw a party because you are marrying your second husband since my father died?”

“Ray, you can’t keep blaming me for the death of your father. I’m sorry I moved on. He loved you as a daughter, but I have needs, too.” Her voice cracked as she spoke.

“Too bad. I had needs too when you left me and Father for months with a failing heart to go have fun!”

“Christ! What would you have had me do? We were divorced. Did you expect me to leave my husband and come running? You have no idea what your father did to me! No idea! You were just a kid!”

“I don’t care. I couldn’t care. It’s not going to change the fact that he died, and you seem pretty fine with that.”

“You can’t keep pushing me away because my marriage with your father did not work. You can’t keep doing that! It is as much his fault as it is mine.”

“Well, you’re not dead, Mom! Happy?”

“Ray, listen to me—”

“I’m going to be late for work. What do you need from me, Mom? Is there anything I can help you with?”

There is a brief pause with a lot of heavy breathing in the background. I am making lines on the mahogany table with my fingernail, a heavy weight on my chest making it difficult for me to breathe.

“Will you come? I want you to,” she says in a flurry.

“Why? Why would I come to your wedding? Why put myself through that level of hurt?”

“Ray . . .”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Don’t you—”

The phone line clicks dead. I drop my phone on the dresser and take two deep breaths. My heart threatens to give out, and a tear slips from my eye. Suddenly, I feel a soft thud beside me. I look down, and there is Archie, watching me with his big, green eyes. Without a word, he pads over and climbs into my lap, kneading my legs gently before curling up against me. I can feel the warmth of his body through my clothes, and as he begins to purr, the steady, soothing vibration feels like it’s unraveling some of the tightness in my chest.

“Hey, Archie. Thank you,” I whisper, running my fingers through his soft fur. He presses his head into my hand in response, his purrs growing louder. I can’t help but smile just a little as he curls tighter against me. Somehow, he knows. He always knows when I need him most.

Between my mother’s call and Archie’s little cuddle session, I managed to get to the office an hour late. As I sit in the traffic leading to the last turn before getting to the office, I contemplate exiting the car and just walking down to the office. Two missed calls from Vaughn mean I have to put my phone in airplane mode.

His breakfast sits on the passenger seat next to me. My eyes glance at the clock on the dashboard—9:15 a.m. There is a sea of red brake lights stretching ahead of me. I sigh and rest my head on the steering wheel. I am going to have quite a horrible day. Vaughn will kill me for messing up his breakfast schedule by over half an hour and fourteen minutes.

He has a thing with time where anything later than thirty minutes is enough to incur his wrath. Even his managers knownot to interrupt his schedule ever, and here I am, a sitting duck with no hope in sight, the universe playing some kind of cruel joke. I curse my mother under my breath for messing up my emotional and mental state.

I flick on the radio, trying to drown out the noise of honking horns and my own rising tension. The soft hum of a pop song fills the car, but it does little to ease the knot in my stomach. My mind is already at the office—meetings, emails, and the stack of paperwork I left unfinished the night before all racing through my thoughts.

The car in front of me crawls forward again, and I press the gas, moving another few feet before slamming on the brakes once more. I glance out the window at the chaos of downtown: pedestrians darting between cars, delivery trucks clogging side streets, and cyclists weaving dangerously close to bumpers. It feels like the entire city is stuck in this endless, infuriating gridlock.

The light ahead finally turns green, and the cars begin to move more steadily this time. I say a silent prayer as I switch lanes, hoping it doesn’t end soon.

I finally arrive and race through the parking lot, juggling Vaughn’s coffee, breakfast, and my bag in one hand while holding a stack of documents in the other.

“Miss Rachel!” the receptionist calls my name as I walk through the door.

“Hey, Carmen. Is Mr. Vaughn around?” I signal with my head.

“Asking that kind of stupid question”—I jump around to see Vaughn behind me with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face—“knowing very well that I told you I would be here every day for the next two weeks while my injury heals is just as annoying as handing me a cold breakfast which I assume very well that you are about to do.”

I open my mouth but cannot find the words. His jaw clenches, his nostrils flare, and his eyes are dark blue.

“Do you have an explanation as to why you are just coming now?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the noise like a whip. I wince internally before looking up at him. He is still wearing his sportswear after his usual rigorous training just before breakfast. Typically, he would have changed into a more formal outfit just after his meal but seeing that he is still in his sportswear means he is waiting for his breakfast.

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