Page 32 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

Chapter Thirteen

Rachel

“Who the hell is that guy? What a perfect corner kick. Just . . . look at that!” Raphael exclaims and turns to the cameraman. “I hope you captured that kick. It’s too perfect not to have been captured.”

The videographer nods with an absent-minded, forced smile as he focuses on his work. I bet he’s had enough of the seemingly unending noises from Raphael—the graduate of the University of Yappahonics—himself.

I hardly blame him, though. Even if he almost never keeps his mouth shut, I, too—who barely have any knowledge of the technicalities of soccer despite having worked for Vaughn for two years—am engrossed.

“He must be a new player,” I offer. “His face doesn’t ring any bells.”

“I figured so.” Raphael walks toward me with quick steps and sits beside me on the bench. “With players like this, the Amaris Cup is as good as ours. Two more players like this, and it is definitely ours,” he adds in a whisper.

I scoff. “I thought they say the more exceptionally good players there are in a team, the less likely they are to get to the finals.”

He gives me a look that says,That’s the most ridiculous thing I have heard all week.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I thought so, too. But I guess it has something to do with all the great players thinking they are the best . . . I guess?”

I’m unsure where I heard that, probably from one of Vaughn’s interviews or perhaps on TV.

“That sort of makes sense. But the club has always prided itself on its great team spirit. I am sure that wouldn’t be a problem when it comes to NYFC.”

I shrug and stifle a yawn. I should have no business being at the New York Football Club’s headquarters at three in the afternoon. If anything, I should be in my tiny little apartment watching a Netflix series while gently petting Archie. But what else would one expect working for Vaughn Graham, the most demanding, arrogant, and entitled man on earth?

For me, it’s just another day in my life of being underappreciated at my job—normal.

“Aaaaaaand cut!” I hear the head of the videography crew yell just in time to see the players walking toward the sidelines, all sweaty and out of breath.

“I guess it’s time for a break,” Raphael says as he laboriously gets back to his feet to review the footage of what has been captured by the crew. He is taking this newfound task of his way too seriously, and it’s obvious he wants something out of it.

Raphael would have done better as a politician than a footballer’s agent because he seems more interested in thepolitics of it all rather than focusing on his job. I mean, he tries, but I am 100 percent sure Vaughn would do just fine without him. We are supposed to meet with the representative of Mobilix Solutions over dinner tomorrow with Vaughn’s lawyer, and he hasn’t brought up the talk with me, even though he plays a good role as Vaughn’s agent.

“No, I think they are done for the day,” I say, a warmth of gratefulness spreading over my chest. It ended sooner than I expected.

I turned my head to look at Raphael, only to see a mask of shock and disbelief on his face. I follow his gaze, and then I see it: reporters, about twenty of them, bearing microphones and broadcasting equipment, flock into the stadium. The expression on my face must mimick the one I see on Raphael’s as I stare in awe at what just happened.

“Who the hell let them in?” Raphael asks no one in particular. “It’s not even the season yet.”

But what really gets me is how composed each and every player is. It’s almost like they are expecting this to happen. Although some of them manage to get away, most of them stay and professionally answer the questions thrown at them by the news-hungry reporters, even though they are obviously exhausted.

Everyone except for Vaughn.

He appears visibly stressed, his palms on his hips and his eyes darting aimlessly around the pitch as he answers questions. I take that as my cue to go meet him.

I nudge Raphael, and we both stand up from our seats and rush toward Vaughn. Just as we get to him, the stamping of multiple feet follows, and a heavy, sweaty body is thrust onto me.

I gasp for breath.What was that?

The next thing I see answers my questions. About a hundred soccer fans flock into the stadium, and that’s when I also realize their chatter and noise have increased—a change that went below my radar because I thought they were reporters. Amid the tugging and pulling, I panic and look around for any sign of Raphael or Vaughn. Still, all I see are the multiple heads of soccer fans, who are starting to behave like zombies at this point.

I hear a voice in the distance barking, “Security! Security!”

At this point, I am in the middle of a crowd that has formed so quickly that all I can do is stare. Worse, more of them keep gushing through the entrance.

Shit. They must have been waiting all day for the perfect opportunity to come rushing in like a herd of cattle. And where the hell is security when you need them? Don’t soccer players have bodyguards or something?

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