Page 31 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

That would be awkward. I haven’t booked an appointment and today isn’t usually the day we meet. I still need to process some things on my own before even thinking of calling Dr. Craig.

“Are you okay?” the person sitting beside me asks. Her hair catches a beam of sunlight that reflects from a platform we have just passed.

I’m not sure if the look was born out of worry or a feeling of awkwardness. Still, one thing I am sure of is I don’t need Rachel sticking—or potentially sticking—her nose in my family business.

“Don’t I look okay to you?” I say dismissively,too dismissively.

Well, shit, I am anything but okay at this point, and it frustrates me that Rachel just witnessed all that had transpired back in the dining room—my outburst, my lack of control. That’s not a reaction I would like to show to anyone, not even her.

So what do I do? I direct my frustration at her. Maybe she should have shut the fuck up and minded her business in the first place.

I turn into a street and say to her, “I think I should be the one asking if you’re okay. You didn’t come to work the other day until I called, and you didn’t bring me my breakfast for three days straight. You hardly even do your job well, and the meal youprepared today tasted like horse crap! So tell me, are you okay, Rachel? You don’t have to move like a sloth. If you want a break, you can just say before deciding not to come to work.”

That was harsh, but what was worse was that I didn’t feel the slightest hint of remorse after spewing all that. And yeah, I lied about her meal tasting like crap. It was the best I have had in ages, even though my family was there to ruin it all for me.

She falls silent and doesn’t say another word, which only makes the air in the car more tense. Moments later, as if finally snapping from her thoughts, she mumbles something.

“I am sorry I didn’t catch that. What did you just say?”

It better not be what I think I heard.

I feel a frown forming on my forehead as I angle my head toward her, my eyes still on the road.

She turns and looks at me, making me take my eyes off the road for a moment. “I asked if you have to be so mean to everyone around you. I used to think that I was the only one you behaved that way toward. Seeing what you did back there, I guess I should be relieved that I wasn’t special. Instead, I feel ashamed and sad for you.”

Her face was surprisingly calm, but her hazel eyes appeared darker, bearing a whole lot of judgment in them. Then I saw something else—defiance.

It was much like what I had seen in her eyes at the time of her outburst in my study.

The memory of that night caused something to stir in my briefs, and I am sure I would have become enraged and yelled at her if it hadn’t been so awkward.

Instead, I just calmly switched my attention back to the road. I have had enough for one day, and it’s barely 4 p.m. yet. I doubt her stupid ass would get it if I attempted to explain why I acted the way I did back in the dining room. Not that I would ever discuss my family issues with her. But still, I am just assuming.

She wouldn’t understand how it was to have been my sole supporter since the time I used to play college soccer. Growing up in a modest household in the Bronx area of New York was challenging for me during my teenage years. The people who were supposed to support my dreams did everything they could to talk me out of it, going as far as telling the coach of the school’s soccer team to kick me off the team. There was this time she almost got into an accident when we were driving to the beach. She jokingly said, “The only thing that would have come out of the accident would be that you wouldn’t have to play soccer anymore.”

That’s even beside the point. My dad is long dead, so I can forgive him for not knowing any better. But my mom? She takes it a step further now, always questioning what I do with my life like I am Michelle’s age mate or some young adult who’s trying to navigate through life. But I wouldn’t even be surprised if she doesn’t know my actual age.

Then there’s the constant complaint that I don’t spend enough time with her. I am as busy as one man can get. I do everything I can for her financially and otherwise, even though, truthfully, I owe her none of that because she never supported my dreams in the first place.

I don’t really hate her or resent her in any way. Still, when she guilt-trips me about focusing on my career—an aspect of my life she never really paid much attention to—I can’t just control my anger. Why does she feel like she can dictate what I can and can’t do with my life?

Shit, telling me I need to find a replacement for Jessica as if I don’t have enough on my plate—like the upcoming season or the big game in a month. Hell, I don’t even need a replacement for Jessica, even if I am not busy. That bitch betrayed me, and I couldn’t care less if she has “changed,” as my bratty little sister Michelle put it. She might as well transform into an angel withlong wings and a halo hovering above her head; I couldn’t care less. Once bitten, twice shy.

So yeah, I’d rather keep my mouth shut. I am not about to tell my secretary all these things.

The traffic is heavy, and driving takes longer than it should. The traffic light flashes red, and we stop. Rachel is silent and is playing with her black hair as she stares out the window, almost absentmindedly.

When the car finally moves, I drive for some minutes before turning into the street that leads to her apartment. We are just a few yards away from her apartment when I ask a question that makes me almost stop my car in the middle of the road.

She shifts her gaze from staring out the window to my face and says it so casually, like that’s the most normal thing in the world to say: “I was thinking you would apologize, but again, you didn’t disappoint. Just like you refused to apologize the other day in your study and proceeded to make love to me instead. You are a real jerk, Vaughn.”

The fuck. Did she just say, “Make love?”

That’s the most ridiculous thing I have heard all week! It made me want to laugh and feel uncomfortable at the same time.

And was I surprised! I was surprised that she would even bring it up when, for the past week, we’ve been trying hard to prove to ourselves that it’s better left undiscussed. But it seems “undiscussed” doesn’t translate to “resolved,” and the encounter is still fresh in our minds like it was yesterday. I feel my chest tighten with unease, much like how I felt when she was mimicking my mannerisms a week ago at the training ground.

Chapter thirteen

---