Page 40 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

“Of course I am right, Rachel,” I blurted impatiently. “Time to call my pilot instead of trying to prove a point, don’t you think?”

She inhales, in what seems like frustration and presses the phone to her ear after dialing a number. She talks with the pilot for some time, and as she ends the call, she springs to her feet and says, “I have to get some supplies for both of us. I will be back in like twenty minutes.”

“You better.”

Her heels clank against the tiles as she scurries out of the office, her hips shaking in her quick steps. She disappears, leaving me staring after her.

***

The last thing I expected to be involved in was a flight to Australia in the middle of a tiring afternoon. I had taken the time Rachel had gone to get supplies to freshen up and put on some clean clothes, but that did less than I expected it would.

The trip to Australia had gone completely under my radar, and I only found out about it because of the promotional video that involved the whole team—something about keeping the oceans clean or some shit. Great cause, of course, but it’s mostly an excuse to get the entire team in front of the cameras. Everyone loves seeing athletes in action, especially if it’s for something good.

If not for the coach who had reminded us after training, I wouldn’t have thought about it. I wouldn’t have been on my way to Australia now since it had also somehow flown under Rachel’s radar!

Rachel and I settled ourselves in the private jet. Soon, we are speeding down the runway into what I hope will be a smooth flight. I don’t even have time to think about anything else. I barely let anyone know where I am or where I am going, and honestly, I don’t care. I just want to get to Australia, do this shit—oh, I mean,shoot—and be done with it.

Rachel is sitting across from me, her face pale and drawn into a gloomy mask. She’s probably still trying to recover from her earlier mistake, I can tell. I am still angry at her, but I can’t bring myself to unleash on her again. She sits there, silent, calmly doing everything to fix it. It’s not enough to calm the silent anger raging in my mind, but I stay silent.

The jet surges into the air, and for the first time since I woke up today, I feel a strange calm wash over me. We are finally on track; everything is going to be okay.

About an hour later, in awkward silence, Rachel breaks it: “Would you like anything to eat or drink? There’s wine in the cabinet and some snacks if you’d like any.”

Sometimes, it takes just a statement from someone about food for one to realize they are hungry. That is the exact case with me. I made it a rule to only eat after training, and I only had a bottle of water down my throat from when I went to run the ad for the energy drink brand.

My stomach grumbles, and I say with a nod, “Sure.”

She stands up and heads to the cabinet. I watch her gingerly pour some wine into a glass, place some snack bars on a flat plate, and head back toward me.

I switch my gaze to the leather chair close to me. I won’t be caught staring.

I grab the glass of wine from the plate even before she sets it on the table and gulp it all down at a go.

Tastes good. Feels good.

I run the tip of my tongue along my lips in relish. It’s been a long time since I restocked the wine cabinet in my jet, as I don’t use it much. This wine right here could be up to two years old.

I know Rachel is staring at me, but I couldn’t care less. I grab a snack bar from the plate, pull the wraps down, and start munching. I returned her gaze this time. “You know what you could do instead of watching me eat? Get something for you to eat as well. We are in for a long flight.”

“Don’t worry, I am fine,” she says, clutching a small pillow to herself.

“I am not worrying. That’s an order. I want you to be maximally efficient. Now, go get something for yourself.”

She rolls her eyes and stands up. She had just taken a few steps toward the cabinet when the jet shook—not so violently, but enough to make Rachel collapse back on her sofa.

Then it stops.

The pilot bursts out of the cockpit, worry etched on his face.

“S-sir,” he stammers, “we lost an engine.”

I can’t help but see that my eyes widen in shock despite trying to remain calm. “What do you mean, ‘We lost an engine’?”

Rachel’s face is a mask of fear, her hazel eyes turning a dark green.

“The left engine isn’t responding,” the pilot explains quickly. “We are losing altitude fast, and we have to make an emergency landing.”

Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.

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