Page 23 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

Of course, I still ask myself this despite the answer being that I just fucked my boss and perhaps because the call from my mother had triggered some memories.

But the question whose answer I really need to figure out is, what will happen to my work relationship with Vaughn after I yelled at him, smashed his vase, and also smashed him?

Chapter ten

Chapter Ten

Vaughn

Afresh football season is due in about a month, and what other way is there to prepare for it other than to train, train, and train as Vaughn Graham has always done?

Trust me when I say forget what all these sports doctors say about injured players needing rest to get back on their feet. There’s no better therapy for an injury than further exertion. It makes you numb to the pain, and eventually, it’s no longer there!

“Why should I trust Vaughn?” you may ask. Well, I am literally just shooting the ball into the net, sending the goalkeeper flying in the opposite direction. Damn! I can’t wait to start training fully with my team by next week!

For a July summer morning, it is unusually cold, and I shouldn’t be sweating as much as I am. My jersey clings to my sweaty body as I turn to address my fellow players.

“Got to take a break, guys.”

My agent, Raphael, and a couple of guys stand on the sidelines, seemingly engrossed in conversation. I walk in their direction, panting heavily. I’m not really tired; I just need a quick water break.

Coach McLauren, whose arrival at my personal training ground has surprised me, smiles warmly at me as he tosses me a bottle of water.

“You are fit as a horse, Vaughn. You seem to have gotten even better than you were before the injury.”

I catch the bottle midair and smile sheepishly as I unscrew the cap. “Thanks for the compliment, Coach, but that’s only because I am not playing in a match yet.”

I might be a confident man, but I don’t make the mistake of being overconfident, and that’s a character trait that has gotten me this far as this soccer player. Even at thirty years old, I am still in my prime years, and it just keeps getting better.

“Are you saying you aren’t ready for a match, Vaughn?” Coach McLauren asks, his jowls falling to an even lower level.

I chuckle. “Of course not, Coach. What have I been training for all these past weeks? Next season, of course!”

“That’s the spirit, my boy!” He punches the air, and his oversized bomber jacket with “Soccer Samurai”written boldly on it moves gently with the wind. Coach McLauren stands at an amazing height of five-foot-five, but do not let his height deceive you; the old man knows damn well how to do his job. The team owes him a lot for his victories and accolades, and I have the utmost respect for him.

We sit on a bench, and he continues talking. This time, his voice is almost conspiratorial: “I don’t know if you know this yet, but the team’s manager had sold off Mathew.”

I don’t try to mask the shock on my face. “What? You mean the team’s substitute number 7?”

He nods. “So, you’re the only player in the team with the number 7 position, and this is likely to be the case until when the season starts. Although he told me he has plans for new recruits, anything can happen. We can’t just buy any player!”

I nod in understanding. My eyes shift from his face to the ball, flying midair and landing inside the goalpost.

I wear the number 7 jersey, but I couldn’t play in the finals last season due to my injury. However, I went to watch the finals, and sadly, we didn’t win the cup. This circumstance almost makes me shed tears because of how hard we have trained throughout the league. I speculate that is the reason they sold Mathew, but I decided not to ask Coach McLauren about it.

“I will put in my best, coach,” I assure him.

“Not only that—you have got to promise not to get injured again. The team needs you.”

“I will try not to, sir.”

He exhales and shakes his head; then he slaps his hat on his head, a contented twinkle in his eyes. “Okay, Vaughn. I have to get going now. Got to go prepare the rest of the boys and stuff. See you on the field next week for the preseason.”

With that and a smile, he walks to his car, waves, and pauses just as Raphael begins running in his direction.

What’s the deal with Raphael?

I shift my attention from Raphael and look to the ground, studying the patterns on the green grass. I am too exhausted to care at that point. It’s Raphael, by the way; he is always up to some shenanigans.

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