Page 42 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

The image sharpens into focus.

This isn’t my dad. This is Vaughn.

“Rachel, wake up, Rachel! Are you okay?” His voice is hoarse and desperate. His blue eyes remind me of the sea. But unlike the sea, with its raging tides and crashing waves, his eyes are calming, reassuring—no, it’s more like the clear, blue majestic sky above me than the sea.

“Rachel, come on. Breathe!”

As soon as he says to breathe, I become aware of the tightening in my chest, and I inhale sharply. Instead of exhaling air, I cough violently, sputtering seawater from my mouth and nose. I try again, and this time, I inhale laboriously. For a second, I think everything is some sort of dream, especially since I can’t recollect what had just happened.

But then, the memories start to come back: Vaughn’s anger about me messing up his schedules, my surprise at how I managed to mess up the schedules, the unexpected announcement of an urgent trip to Australia, the pilot’s warning for guilt, and then finally—crash!

It all takes shape in my mind now. I open my mouth to say something, but all that comes out is another violent cough, so forceful that I clutch at something close by—Vaughn’s arms. For the first time since I regained consciousness, I realize I am cradled in his arms, lying on wet sand.

His hands caress my cheeks while he looks at me endearingly.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, his worried voice giving way to relief. He pulls me closer, bringing his forehead to rest on mine for just a second before pulling away as if he just realizedsomething. I can’t help but be taken aback, even in my fragile state.

“Wh-what happened?” I ask, my voice raspy and barely audible even to my own ears.

“You almost drowned,” he replies softly in a voice I have never heard from him before. “You weren’t breathing when I got to you. I thought . . .” His voice trails off.

Yeah, I don’t even have the slightest shred of doubt about this now. I am definitely dreaming because there’s no way this is Vaughn.

Or maybe we all drowned and died, and this is an alternate universe where Vaughn is a nice, caring, and kind fisherman instead of a rude, arrogant, successful soccer player.

But did we die, though?

I draw in a rich lungful of fresh, salty sea air and hold it for a while, savoring it to its fullest.

I would have said I was in heaven, but I also don’t think people in heaven wake up with pain in their chests. The air is clean, but I still feel pain. So I guess I am alive—barely,but alive, still.

Vaughn saved me, although that is not what I might have imagined him doing. I am sure he doesn’t hate me enough to let me drown if he had the chance to save me. What surprises and terrifies me at the same time is his reaction—his softness, his tenderness, and his genuine concern!

I find it almost unbelievable—no, I find it utterly unbelievable. My frontal lobe would have exploded if I had tried to imagine this version of Vaughn before the plane crash or probably popped out of my head and given me the thumb-in-ear gesture. At the same time, it laughs at me, but here it is happening in real life, and my brain is finding it difficult to process.

It’s refreshing to see this side of Vaughn—caring, human feeling.

I guess all it takes is one life-and-death situation to realize you care about someone.

“You scared me, Rachel. I thought you were dead,” he says, his voice raw with honesty, his eyes locked on mine. Despite my condition, I feel warmth spreading over my chest and those things people call butterflies in my stomach.

That statement I made earlier about being in an alternate universe with fisherman Vaughn was meant as a joke. Still, I am starting to believe that’s what actually happened, honestly.

It’s my turn to reassure him now: “I am fine, Vaughn. I am fine. See?” I slip away from his arms into a sitting position to show him that I can at least sit on my own. And then, for the first time since I regained consciousness, I looked around and saw things aside from the sky and Vaughn’s face.

Something seems totally off. We are the only people on this vast island, but we are not the only ones aboard the jet—two people are missing.

A wave of panic courses through me as I ask Vaughn, “Where’s the pilot and his assistant? What happened to them?”

Vaughn’s face drops, and a water drop trickles down from his hair. “I’d be lying if I said I know. We are the only people who washed up here. We can only hope they got washed up on another island and are fine.”

He doesn’t sound very confident in his last statement, even though he tries to. A series of scenarios plays through my mind—drowning, bodies washed ashore, eaten by some hungry shark or whale. I chastise myself for having these thoughts. If Vaughn and I are alive, why can’t I hope that they are alive as well? Not with us, obviously, but somewhere. I promise to remain optimistic that everyone on board is safe.

Vaughn appears to have sensed my doubts. “Hey, all we can do is hope they are out there somewhere. We aren’t going to live here forever. For now, let’s keep up high hopes.”

I nod and say okay.

There is a long silence as both of us come to terms with our situation. We may be alive for now, but how long will we be able to hold up here without rescue? All our belongings, including my cell phone, are locked up in the bag. Vaughn doesn’t care much about a phone. I handle about 98 percent of his calls. He definitely doesn’t have his phone with him, so there’s no use asking.

---